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.
