When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, my uncle was
shown to his room, in a venerable old tower. It was the oldest
part of the chateau, and had in ancient times been the Donjon or
stronghold; of course the chamber was none of the best. The
Marquis had put him there, however, because he knew him to be a
traveller of taste, and fond of antiquities; and also because the
better apartments were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly
reconciled my uncle to his quarters by mentioning the great
personages who had once inhabited them, all of whom were in some
way or other connected with the family. If you would take his
word for it, John Baliol, or, as he called him, Jean de Bailleul,
had died of chagrin in this very chamber on hearing of the
success of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the battle of
Bannockburn; and when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept
in it during the wars of the League, my uncle was fain to
felicitate himself upon being honored with such distinguished
quarters.
The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the
warmest. An old, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint
livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood
beside the fire-place, gave a queer look about the room, and then
wished him _bon repos_, with a grimace and a shrug that would
have been suspicious from any other than an old French servant.
The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to strike any
one who had read romances with apprehension and foreboding. The
windows were high and narrow, and had once been loop-holes, but
had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme thickness of the
walls would permit; and the ill-fitted casements rattled to every
breeze. You would have thought, on a windy night, some of the old
Leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment in their
huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and like
a true French door would stand ajar, in spite of every reason and
effort to the contrary, opened upon a long, dark corridor, that
led the Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to
air themselves in, when they turned out of their graves at
midnight. The wind would spring up into a hoarse murmur through
this passage, and creak the door to and fro, as if some dubious
ghost were balancing in its mind whether to come in or not. In a
word, it was precisely the kind of comfortless apartment that a
ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, would single out for
its favourite lounge.
My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strange
adventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several
attempts to shut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended
any thing, for he was too old a traveller to be daunted by a
wild-looking apartment; but the night, as I have said, was cold
and gusty, something like the present, and the wind howled about
the old turret, pretty much as it does round this old mansion at
this moment; and the breeze from the long dark corridor came in
as damp and chilly as if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore,
since he could not close the door, threw a quantity of wood on
the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the great wide-mouthed
chimney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the shadow of
the tongs on the opposite wall, look like a long-legged giant. My
uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresses which
form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking
himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the
bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the
wind, and chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his
friend the Marquis for a night’s lodgings: and so he fell asleep.
He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was
awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his
chamber, which struck midnight. It was just such an old clock as
ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and struck so
slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it would never have
done. He counted and counted till he was confident he counted
thirteen, and then it stopped.
The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last faggot was
almost expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then
lengthened up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his
eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose.
His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle up the
present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French opera, the
Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in London, and all the
farrago of noted places with which the brain of a traveller is
crammed—in a word, he was just falling asleep.
Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of foot-steps that appeared
to be slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often
heard him say himself, was a man not easily frightened; so he lay
quiet, supposing that this might be some other guest; or some
servant on his way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the
door; the door gently opened; whether of its own accord, or
whether pushed open, my uncle could not distinguish:—a figure all
in white glided in. It was a female, tall and stately in person,
and of a most commanding air. Her dress was of an ancient
fashion, ample in volume and sweeping the floor. She walked up to
the fire-place without regarding my uncle; who raised his
nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly at her. She remained
for some time standing by the fire, which flashing up at
intervals cast blue and white gleams of light that enabled my
uncle to remark her appearance minutely.
Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still more so by
the Blueish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, but its
beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was the look of
one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom trouble could not cast
down nor subdue; for there was still the predominating air of
proud, unconquerable resolution. Such, at least, was the opinion
formed by my uncle, and he considered himself a great
physiognomist.
The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire,
putting out first one hand, then the other, then each foot,
alternately, as if warming itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it
really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle furthermore remarked
that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with
paste or diamond buckles, that sparkled as though they were
alive. At length the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy
look about the apartment, which, as it passed over my uncle, made
his blood run cold, and chilled the very marrow in his bones. It
then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, and
wringing them in a supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the
room.
My uncle lay for some time meditating on this visitation, for (as
he Remarked when he told me the story) though a man of firmness,
he was also a man of reflection, and did not reject a thing
because it was out of the regular course of events. However,
being, as I have before said, a great traveller, and accustomed
to strange adventures, he drew his nightcap resolutely over his
eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted the bedclothes high
over his shoulders, and gradually fell asleep.
How long he slept he could not say, when he was awakened by the
voice of some one at his bed-side. He turned round and beheld the
old French servant, with his ear-locks in tight buckles on each
side of a long, lanthorn face, on which habit had deeply wrinkled
an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grimaces and asked a
thousand pardons for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning was
considerably advanced. While my uncle was dressing, he called
vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked the
ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of rambling about
this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his
shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw
open the other with every finger extended; made a most whimsical
grimace, which he meant to be complimentary:
“It was not for him to know any thing of _les braves fortunes_ of
Monsieur.”
My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in this
quarter. After breakfast he was walking with the Marquis through
the modern apartments of the chateau; sliding over the well-waxed
floors of silken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding and
brocade; until they came to a long picture gallery, containing
many portraits, some in oil and some in chalks.
Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had
all the family pride of a nobleman of the _ancient regime_. There
was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that
was not, in some way or other, connected with his house. My uncle
stood listening with inward impatience, resting sometimes on one
leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis descanted,
with his usual fire and vivacity, on the achievements of his
ancestors, whose portraits hung along the wall; from the martial
deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and
intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces,
powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, and pink and blue silk coats
and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovely
shepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an
hour glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains
with dainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands.
In the midst of his friend’s discourse my uncle’s eyes rested on
a full-length portrait, which struck him as being the very
counterpart of his visitor of the preceding night.
“Methinks,” said he, pointing to it, “I have seen the original of
this portrait.”
“_Pardonnez moi_,” replied the Marquis politely, “that can hardly
be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years. That was
the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured during the
minority of Louis the Fourteenth.”
“And was there any thing remarkable in her history.”
Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately
threw himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long
story. In fact, my uncle had pulled upon himself the whole
history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which the beautiful
Duchess had played so distinguished a part. Turenne, Coligni,
Mazarin, were called up from their graves to grace his narration;
nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor the chivalry of the
Pertcocheres forgotten. My uncle began to wish himself a thousand
leagues off from the Marquis and his merciless memory, when
suddenly the little man’s recollections took a more interesting
turn. He was relating the imprisonment of the Duke de
Longueville, with the Princes Condé and Conti, in the chateau of
Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse
the sturdy Normans to their rescue. He had come to that part
where she was invested by the royal forces in the chateau of
Dieppe, and in imminent danger of falling into their hands.
“The spirit of the Duchess,” proceeded the Marquis, “rose with
her trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a
being buffet so resolutely with hardships. She determined on a
desperate means of escape. One dark unruly night, she issued
secretly out of a small postern gate of the castle, which the
enemy had neglected to guard. She was followed by her female
attendants, a few domestics, and some gallant cavaliers who still
remained faithful to her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small
port about two leagues distant, where she had privately provided
a vessel for her escape in case of emergency.
“The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the
distance on foot. When they arrived at the port the wind was high
and stormy, the tide contrary, the vessel anchored far off in the
road, and no means of getting on board, but by a fishing shallop
that lay tossing like a cockle shell on the edge of the surf. The
Duchess determined to risk the attempt. The seamen endeavored to
dissuade her, but the imminence of her danger on shore, and the
magnanimity of her spirit urged her on. She had to be borne to
the shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of
the wind and waves, that he faltered, lost his foothold, and let
his precious burden fall into the sea.
“The Duchess was nearly drowned; but partly through her own
struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she got to
land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, she
insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, had by this
time become so violent as to set all efforts at defiance. To
delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only
resource left, she procured horses; mounted with her female
attendants _en croupe_ behind the gallant gentlemen who
accompanied her; and scoured the country to seek some temporary
asylum.
“While the Duchess,” continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger
on my uncle’s breast to arouse his flagging attention, “while the
Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this
disconsolate manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her approach
caused some uneasiness; for the clattering of a troop of horse,
at dead of night, up the avenue of a lonely chateau, in those
unsettled times, and in a troubled part of the country, was
enough to occasion alarm.
“A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, galloped
ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was
dispelled. The household turned out with flambeaux to receive
her, and never did torches gleam on a more weather-beaten,
travel-stained band than came tramping into the court. Such pale,
care-worn faces, such bedraggled dresses, as the poor Duchess and
her females presented, each seated behind her cavalier; while
half drenched, half drowsy pages and attendants seemed ready to
fall from their horses with sleep and fatigue.
“The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestors.
She was ushered into the Hall of the chateau, and the fires soon
crackled and blazed to cheer herself and her train; and every
spit and stewpan was put in requisition to prepare ample
refreshments for the wayfarers.
“She had a right to our hospitalities,” continued the little
Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of stateliness,
“for she was related to our family. I’ll tell you how it was: Her
father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Condé—”
“But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?” said my
uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting involved
in one of the Marquis’s genealogical discussions.
“Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the apartment you
occupied last night; which, at that time, was a kind of state
apartment. Her followers were quartered in the chambers opening
upon the neighboring corridor, and her favorite page slept in an
adjoining closet. Up and down the corridor walked the great
chasseur, who had announced her arrival, and who acted as a kind
of sentinel or guard. He was a dark, stern, powerful-looking
fellow, and as the light of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his
deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he seemed capable of
defending the castle with his single arm.
“It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the
year.—_Apropos_—now I think of it, last night was the anniversary
of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a
night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a singular
tradition concerning it in our family.” Here the Marquis
hesitated, and a cloud seemed to gather about his bushy eyebrows.
“There is a tradition—that a strange occurrence took place that
night—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable occurrence.”
Here he checked himself and paused.
“Did it relate to that lady?” inquired my uncle, eagerly.
“It was past the hour of midnight,” resumed the Marquis—“when the
whole chateau—”
Here he paused again—my uncle made a movement of anxious
curiosity.
“Excuse me,” said the Marquis—a slight blush streaking his sullen
visage. “There are some circumstances connected with our family
history which I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A
time of great crimes among great men: for you know high blood,
when it runs wrong, will not run tamely like blood of the
_canaille_—poor lady!—But I have a little family pride,
that—excuse me—we will change the subject if you please.”—
My uncle’s curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificent
introduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the
story to which it served as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of
being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable
squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller, in quest of
information, considered it his duty to inquire into every thing.
The Marquis, however, evaded every question.
“Well,” said my uncle, a little petulantly, “whatever you may
think of it, I saw that lady last night.”
The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise.
“She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber.”
The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a smile;
taking it no doubt for an awkward piece of English pleasantry,
which politeness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went
on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The
Marquis heard him through with profound attention, holding his
snuff-box unopened in his hand. When the story was finished he
tapped on the lid of his box deliberately; took a long sonorous
pinch of snuff—
“Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of the
gallery.—
Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for
him to resume his narrative; but he continued silent.
“Well,” said the inquisitive gentleman, “and what did your uncle
say then?”
“Nothing,” replied the other.
“And what did the Marquis say farther?”
“Nothing.”
“And is that all?”
“That is all,” said the narrator, filling a glass of wine.
“I surmise,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish
nose—“I surmise it was the old housekeeper walking her rounds to
see that all was right.”
“Bah!” said the narrator, “my uncle was too much accustomed to
strange sights not to know a ghost from a housekeeper!”
There was a murmur round the table half of merriment, half of
disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had
really an afterpart of his story in reserve; but he sipped his
wine and said nothing more; and there was an odd expression about
his dilapidated countenance that left me in doubt whether he were
in drollery or earnest.
“Egad,” said the knowing gentleman with the flexible nose, “this
story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that used to be told
of an aunt of mine, by the mother’s side; though I don’t know
that it will bear a comparison; as the good lady was not quite so
prone to meet with strange adventures. But at any rate, you shall
have it.”