University of Virginia Library

THE
ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE.

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 at 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 meagre 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 lodgement, and miserable fare of a
country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the
meagre 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 now-a-days.
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 honours 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 rarifies,

and grows more inflammable, as the earthy
particles diminish; and I have seen valour
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 Goliah,
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
valour 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.

But all this has nothing to do with my story:
to the point then:—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 honoured with such
distinguished quarters.

The night was shrewd and windy, and the
chamber none of the warmest. An old longfaced,
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 illfitted
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
footsteps 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 bed clothes 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 visiter
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 ancien 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
eye rested on a full length portrait, which
struck him as being the very counterpart of his
visiter 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 Longneville, 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
endeavoured 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 burthen
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, gallopped ahead, and announced the
name of the visiter. 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, careworn
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 ancestor. 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 neighbouring corridor, and her favourite
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, he 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 after-part
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.