Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, and
seemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that
side was well stuffed with ghost stories.
There was a universal demand for the tale.
"Nay," said the old gentleman, "it's a mere anecdote - and a very
commonplace one; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a story
that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But whether as
having happened to himself or to another, I cannot recollect. But no
matter, it's very likely it happened to himself, for he was a man very
apt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of others
much more singular. At any rate, we will suppose it happened to
himself."
"What kind of man was your uncle?" said the questioning gentleman.
"Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great traveller, and
fond of telling his adventures."
"Pray, how old might he have been when this happened?"
"When what happened?" cried the gentleman with the flexible nose,
impatiently - "Egad, you have not given any thing a chance to happen
- -come, never mind our uncle's age; let us have his adventures."
The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the old
gentleman with the haunted head proceeded.
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 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.
