"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.
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