SOMEWHERE about 1650 there lived on his estate, between Compiègne and
Pierrefonds, a wealthy noble, by name Bernard de Montragoux, whose
ancestors had held the most important posts in the kingdom. But he dwelt
far from the Court, in that peaceful obscurity which then veiled
all save that on which the king bestowed his glance. His castle of
Guillettes abounded in valuable furniture, gold and silver ware,
tapestry and embroideries, which he kept in coffers; not that he hid
his treasures for fear of damaging them by use; he was, on the contrary,
generous and magnificent. But in those days, in the country, the nobles
willingly led a very simple life, feeding their people at their own
table, and dancing on Sundays with the girls of the village.
On certain occasions, however, they gave splendid entertainments, which
contrasted with the dullness of everyday life. So it was necessary
that they should hold a good deal of handsome furniture and beautiful
tapestries in reserve. This was the case with Monsieur de Montragoux.
His castle, built in the Gothic period, had all its rudeness. From
without it looked wild and gloomy enough, with the stumps of its
great towers, which had been thrown down at the time of the monarchy’s
troubles, in the reign of the late King Louis. Within it offered a much
pleasanter prospect. The rooms were decorated in the Italian taste,
as was the great gallery on the ground floor, loaded with embossed
decorations in high relief, pictures and gilding.
At one end of this gallery there was a closet usually known as “the
little cabinet.” This is the only name by which Charles Perrault refers
to it. It is as well to note that it was also called the “Cabinet of the
Unfortunate Princesses,” because a Florentine painter had portrayed on
the walls the tragic stories of Dirce, daughter of the Sun, bound by the
sons of Antiope to the horns of a bull, Niobe weeping on Mount Sipylus
for her children, pierced by the divine arrows, and Procris inviting
to her bosom the javelin of Cephalus. These figures had a look of life
about them, and the porphyry tiles with which the floor was covered
seemed dyed in the blood of these unhappy women. One of the doors of the
Cabinet gave upon the moat, which had no water in it.
The stables formed a sumptuous building, situated at some distance from
the castle. They contained stalls for sixty horses, and coach-houses
for twelve gilded coaches. But what made Guillettes so bewitching a
residence were the woods and canals surrounding it, in which one could
devote oneself to the pleasures of angling and the chase.
Many of the dwellers in that country-side knew Monsieur de Montragoux
only by the name of Bluebeard, for this was the only name that the
common people gave him. And in truth his beard was blue, but it was blue
only because it was black, and it was because it was so black that it
was blue. Monsieur de Montragoux must not be imagined as having the
monstrous aspect of the threefold Typhon whom one sees in Athens,
laughing in his triple indigo-blue beard. We shall get much nearer the
reality by comparing the _seigneur_ of Guillettes to those actors or
priests whose freshly shaven cheeks have a bluish gloss.
Monsieur de Montragouz did not wear a pointed beard like his grandfather
at the Court of King Henry II; nor did he wear it like a fan, as did
his great-grandfather who was killed at the battle of Marignan. Like
Monsieur de Turenne, he had only a slight moustache, and a chin-tuft;
his cheeks had a bluish look; but whatever may have been said of him,
this good gentleman was by no means disfigured thereby, nor did he
inspire any fear on that account. He only looked the more virile, and
if it made him look a little fierce, it had not the effect of making
the women dislike him. Bernard de Montragoux was a very fine man, tall,
broad across the shoulders, moderately stout, and well favoured; albeit
of a rustic habit, smacking of the woods rather than of drawing-rooms
and assemblies. Still, it is true that he did not please the ladies
as much as he should have pleased them, built as he was, and wealthy.
Shyness was the reason; shyness, not his beard. Women exercised an
invincible attraction for him, and at the same time inspired him with an
insuperable fear. He feared them as much as he loved them. This was the
origin and initial cause of all his misfortunes. Seeing a lady for the
first time, he would have died rather than speak to her, and however
much attracted he may have been, he stood before her in gloomy silence.
His feelings revealed themselves only through his eyes, which he
rolled in a terrible manner. This timidity exposed him to every kind
of misfortune, and, above all, it prevented his forming a becoming
connection with modest and reserved women; and betrayed him,
defenceless, to the attempts of the most impudent and audacious. This
was his life’s misfortune.
Left an orphan from his early youth, and having rejected, owing to this
sort of bashfulness and fear, which he was unable to overcome, the very
advantageous and honourable alliances which had presented themselves, he
married a Mademoiselle Colette Passage, who had recently settled down in
that part of the country, after amassing a little money by making a bear
dance through the towns and villages of the kingdom. He loved her with
all his soul. And to do her justice, there was something pleasing about
her, though she was what she was a fine woman with an ample bosom, and a
complexion that was still sufficiently fresh, although a little sunburnt
by the open air. Great were her joy and surprise on first becoming
a lady of quality. Her heart, which was not bad, was touched by the
kindness of a husband in such a high position, and with such a stout,
powerful body, who was to her the most obedient of servants and devoted
of lovers. But after a few months she grew weary because she could no
longer go to and fro on the face of the earth. In the midst of wealth,
overwhelmed with love and care, she could find no greater pleasure than
that of going to see the companion of her wandering life, in the cellar
where he languished with a chain round his neck and a ring through his
nose, and kissing him on the eyes and weeping. Seeing her full of care,
Monsieur de Montragouz himself became careworn, and this only added to
his companion’s melancholy. The consideration and forethought which
he lavished on her turned the poor woman’s head. One morning, when he
awoke, Monsieur de Montragoux found Colette no longer at his side. In
vain he searched for her throughout the castle.
The door of the Cabinet of the Unfortunate Princesses was open. It was
through this door that she had gone to reach the open country with her
bear. The sorrow of Bluebeard was painful to behold. In spite of the
innumerable messengers sent forth in search of her, no news was ever
received of Colette Passage.
Monsieur de Montragoux was still mourning her when he happened to dance,
at the fair of Guillettes, with Jeanne de La Cloche, daughter of the
Police Lieutenant of Compiègne, who inspired him with love. He asked her
in marriage, and obtained her forthwith. She loved wine, and drank it
to excess. So much did this taste increase that after a few months she
looked like a leather bottle with a round red face atop of it. The worst
of it was that this leather bottle would run mad, incessantly rolling
about the reception-rooms and the staircases, crying, swearing, and
hiccoughing; vomiting wine and insults at everything that got in her
way. Monsieur de Montragoux was dazed with disgust and horror. But he
quite suddenly recovered his courage, and set himself, with as much
firmness as patience, to cure his wife of so disgusting a vice, Prayers,
remonstrances, supplications, and threats: he employed every possible
means. All was useless. He forbade her wine from his cellar: she got it
from outside, and was more abominably drunk than ever.
To deprive her of her taste for a beverage that she loved too well, he
put valerian in the bottles. She thought he was trying to poison her,
sprang upon him, and drove three inches of kitchen knife into his belly.
He expected to die of it, but he did not abandon his habitual kindness.
“She is more to be pitied than blamed,” he said.
One day, when he had forgotten to close the door of the Cabinet of the
Unfortunate Princesses, Jeanne de La Cloche entered by it, quite out of
her mind, as usual, and seeing the figures on the walls in postures
of affliction, ready to give up the ghost, she mistook them for living
women, and fled terror-stricken into the country, screaming murder.
Hearing Bluebeard calling her and running after her, she threw herself,
mad with terror, into a pond, and was there drowned. It is difficult to
believe, yet certain, that her husband, so compassionate was his soul,
was much afflicted by her death.
Six weeks after the accident he quietly married Gigonne, the daughter of
his steward, Traignel. She wore wooden shoes, and smelt of onions. She
was a fine-looking girl enough, except that she squinted with one eye,
and limped with one foot. As soon as she was married, this goose-girl,
bitten by foolish ambition, dreamed of nothing but further greatness
and splendour. She was not satisfied that her brocade dresses were rich
enough, her pearl necklaces beautiful enough, her rubies big enough, her
coaches sufficiently gilded, her lakes, woods, and lands sufficiently
vast. Bluebeard, who had never had any leaning toward ambition, trembled
at the haughty humour of his spouse. Unaware, in his straightforward
simplicity, whether the mistake lay in thinking magnificently like his
wife, or modestly as he himself did, he accused himself of a mediocrity
of mind which was thwarting the noble desires of his consort, and, full
of uncertainty, he would sometimes exhort her to taste with moderation
the good things of this world, while at others he roused himself to
pursue fortune along the verge of precipitous heights. He was prudent,
but conjugal affection bore him beyond the reach of prudence. Gigonne
thought of nothing but cutting a figure in the world, being received at
Court, and becoming the King’s mistress. Unable to gain her point, she
pined away with vexation, contracting a jaundice, of which she died.
Bluebeard, full of lamentation, built her a magnificent tomb.
This worthy _seigneur_ overwhelmed by constant domestic adversity, would
not perhaps have chosen another wife: but he was himself chosen for a
husband by Mademoiselle Blanche de Gibeaumex, the daughter of a cavalry
officer, who had but one ear; he used to relate that he had lost the
other in the King’s service. She was full of intelligence, which she
employed in deceiving her husband. She betrayed him with every man of
quality in the neighbourhood. She was so dexterous that she deceived him
in his own castle, almost under his very eyes, without his perceiving
it. Poor Bluebeard assuredly suspected something, but he could not say
what. Unfortunately for her, while she gave her whole mind to tricking
her husband, she was not sufficiently careful in deceiving her lovers;
by which I mean that she betrayed them, one for another. One day she was
surprised in the Cabinet of the Unfortunate Princesses, in the company
of a gentleman whom she loved, by a gentleman whom she had loved, and
the latter, in a transport of jealousy, ran her through with his sword.
A few hours later the unfortunate lady was there found dead by one of
the castle servants, and the fear inspired by the room increased.
Poor Bluebeard, learning at one blow of his ample dishonour, and
the tragic death of his wife, did not console himself for the latter
misfortune by any consideration of the former. He had loved Blanche de
Gibeaumez with a strange ardour, more dearly than he had loved Jeanne de
La Cloche, Gigonne Traignel, or even Colette Passage. On learning that
she had consistently betrayed him, and that now she would never betray
him again, he experienced a grief and a mental perturbation which, far
from being appeased, daily increased in violence. So intolerable were
his sufferings that he contracted a malady which caused his life to be
despaired of.
The physicians, having employed various medicines without effect,
advised him that the only remedy proper to his complaint was to take a
young wife. He then thought of his young cousin, Angèle de La Garandine,
whom he believed would be willingly bestowed upon him, as she had no
property. What encouraged him to take her to wife was the fact that she
was reputed to be simple and ignorant of the world. Having been deceived
by a woman of intelligence, he felt more comfortable with a fool. He
married Mademoiselle de La Garandine, and quickly perceived the falsity
of his calculations. Angèle was kind, Angèle was good, and Angèle loved
him; she had not, in herself, any leanings toward evil, but the least
astute person could quickly lead her astray at any moment. It was enough
to tell her: “Do this for fear of bogies; comes in here or the were-wolf
will eat you;” or “Shut your eyes, and take this drop of medicine,” and
the innocent girl would straightway do so, at the will of the rascals
who wanted of her that which it was very natural to want of her, for
she was pretty. Monsieur de Montragouz, injured and betrayed by this
innocent girl, as much as and more than he had been by Blanche de
Gibeaumex, had the additional pain of knowing it, for Angèle was too
candid to conceal anything from him. She used to tell him: “Sir, some
one told me this; some one did that to me; some one took so and so away
from me; I saw that; I felt so and so.” And by her ingenuousness she
caused her lord to suffer torments beyond imagination. He endured them
like a Stoic. Still he finally had to tell the simple creature that she
was a goose, and to box her ears. This, for him, was the beginning of
a reputation for cruelty, which was not fated to be diminished. A
mendicant monk, who was passing Gulllettes while Monsieur de Montragouz
was out shooting woodcock, found Madame Angèle sewing a doll’s
petticoat. This worthy friar, discovering that she was as foolish as she
was beautiful, took her away on his donkey, having persuaded her that
the Angel Gabriel was waiting in a wood, to give her a pair of pearl
garters. It is believed that she must have been eaten by a wolf, for she
was never seen again.
After such a disastrous experience, how was it that Bluebeard could make
up his mind to contract yet another union? It would be impossible to
understand it, were we not well aware of the power which a fine pair of
eyes exerts over a generous heart.
The honest gentleman met, at a neighbouring château which he was in
the habit of frequenting, a young orphan of quality, by name Alix de
Pontalcin, who, having been robbed of all her property by a greedy
trustee, thought only of entering a convent. Officious friends
intervened to alter her determination and persuade her to accept the
hand of Monsieur de Montragoux. Her beauty was perfect. Bluebeard, who
was promising himself the enjoyment of an infinite happiness in her
arms, was once more deluded in his hopes, and this time experienced a
disappointment, which, owing to his disposition, was bound to make an
even greater impression upon him than all the afflictions which he
had suffered in his previous marriages. Alix de Pontalcin obstinately
refused to give actuality to the union to which she had nevertheless
consented.
In vain did Monsieur de Montragoux press her to become his wife; she
resisted prayers, tears, and objurgations, she refused her husband’s
lightest caresses, and rushed off to shut herself into the Cabinet of
the Unfortunate Princesses, where she remained, alone and intractable,
for whole nights at a time.
The cause of a resistance so contrary to laws both human and divine was
never known; it was attributed to Monsieur de Montragoux’s blue beard,
but our previous remarks on the subject of his beard render such a
supposition far from probable. In any case, it is a difficult subject
to discuss. The unhappy husband underwent the cruellest sufferings. In
order to forget them, he hunted with desperation, exhausting horses,
hounds, and huntsmen. But when he returned home, foundered and
overtired, the mere sight of Mademoiselle de Pontalcin was enough to
revive his energies and his torments. Finally, unable to endure the
situation any longer, he applied to Rome for the annulment of a marriage
which was nothing better than a trap; and in consideration of a handsome
present to the Holy Father he obtained it in accordance with canon law.
If Monsieur de Montragoux discarded Mademoiselle de Pontalcin with
all the marks of respect due to a woman, and without breaking his cane
across her back, it was because he had a valiant soul, a great heart,
and was master of himself as well as of Guillettes. But he swore that,
for the future, no female should enter his apartments. Happy had he been
if he had held to his oath to the end!