Many years since, a long time before the French revolution, my
uncle had passed several months at Paris. The English and French
were on better terms, in those days, than at present, and mingled
cordially together in society. The English went abroad to spend
money then, and the French were always ready to help them: they
go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without
French assistance. Perhaps the travelling English were fewer and
choicer then, than at present, when the whole nation has broke
loose, and inundated the continent. At any rate, they circulated
more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle,
during his residence in Paris, made many very intimate
acquaintances among the French noblesse.
Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the winter-time,
in that part of Normandy called the Pays de Caux, when, as
evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient
chateau rising out of the trees of its walled park, each turret
with its high conical roof of gray slate, like a candle with an
extinguisher on it.
“To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my uncle to a
meager, but fiery postillion, who, with tremendous jack boots and
cocked hat, was floundering on before him.
“To Monseigneur the Marquis de ——,” said the postillion, touching
his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of
reverence to the noble name pronounced. My uncle recollected the
Marquis for a particular friend in Paris, who had often expressed
a wish to see him at his paternal chateau. My uncle was an old
traveller, one that knew how to turn things to account. He
revolved for a few moments in his mind how agreeable it would be
to his friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way by
a pop visit; and how much more agreeable to himself to get into
snug quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the Marquis’s
well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superior champagne and
burgundy; rather than take up with the miserable lodgment, and
miserable fare of a country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the
meager postillion was cracking his whip like a very devil, or
like a true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue that led to
the chateau.
You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every body travels
in France nowadays. This was one of the oldest; standing naked
and alone, in the midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold
stone terraces; with a cold-looking formal garden, cut into
angles and rhomboids; and a cold leafless park, divided
geometrically by straight alleys; and two or three noseless,
cold-looking statues without any clothing; and fountains spouting
cold water enough to make one’s teeth chatter. At least, such was
the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of my uncle’s visit;
though, in hot summer weather, I’ll warrant there was glare
enough to scorch one’s eyes out.
The smacking of the postillion’s whip, which grew more and more
intense the nearer they approached, frightened a flight of
pigeons out of the dove-cote, and rooks out of the roofs; and
finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the Marquis
at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle; for his chateau,
like the house of our worthy host, had not many more guests at
the time than it could accommodate. So he kissed my uncle on each
cheek, after the French fashion, and ushered him into the castle.
The Marquis did the honors of his house with the urbanity of his
country. In fact, he was proud of his old family chateau; for
part of it was extremely old. There was a tower and chapel that
had been built almost before the memory of man; but the rest was
more modern; the castle having been nearly demolished during the
wars of the League. The Marquis dwelt upon this event with great
satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain a grateful feeling
towards Henry IV., for having thought his paternal mansion worth
battering down. He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his
ancestors, and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows to
show; and divers huge boots and buff jerkins, that had been worn
by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handled sword, which
he could hardly wield; but which he displayed as a proof that
there had been giants in his family.
In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great warriors.
When you looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as
depicted in their portraits, and then at the little Marquis, with
his spindle shanks; his sallow lanthern visage, flanked with a
pair of powdered ear-locks, or _ailes de pigeon_, that seemed
ready to fly away with it; you would hardly believe him to be of
the same race. But when you looked at the eyes that sparkled out
like a beetle’s from each side of his hooked nose, you saw at
once that he inherited all the fiery spirit of his forefathers.
In fact, a Frenchman’s spirit never exhales, however his body may
dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows more inflammable, as the
earthly particles diminish; and I have seen valor enough in a
little fiery-hearted French dwarf, to have furnished out a
tolerable giant.
When once the Marquis, as he was wont, put on one of the old
helmets that were stuck up in his hall; though his head no more
filled it than a dry pea its pease cod; yet his eyes sparkled
from the bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy of
carbuncles, and when he poised the ponderous two-handled sword of
his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the doughty little
David wielding the sword of Goliath, which was unto him like a
weaver’s beam.
However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this description of
the Marquis and his chateau; but you must excuse me; he was an
old friend of my uncle’s, and whenever my uncle told the story,
he was always fond of talking a great deal about his host.—Poor
little Marquis! He was one of that handful of gallant courtiers,
who made such a devoted, but hopeless stand in the cause of their
sovereign, in the chateau of the Tuilleries, against the
irruption of the mob, on the sad tenth of August.
He displayed the valor of a preux French chevalier to the last;
flourished feebly his little court sword with a sa-sa! in face of
a whole legion of _sans-culottes_; but was pinned to the wall
like a butterfly, by the pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul
was borne up to heaven on his _ailes de pigeon_.