Upon the southern slope of one of those barren hills that
rise abruptly here and there in the desolate expanse of the Landes,
in South-western France, stood, in the reign of Louis XIII, a
gentleman's residence, such as abound in Gascony, and which the
country people dignify by the name of chateau.
Two tall towers, with extinguisher tops, mounted guard at the
angles of the mansion, and gave it rather a feudal air. The deep
grooves upon its facade betrayed the former existence of a
draw-bridge, rendered unnecessary now by the filling up of the
moat, while the towers were draped for more than half their height
with a most luxuriant growth of ivy, whose deep, rich green
contrasted happily with the ancient gray walls.
A traveller, seeing from afar the steep pointed roof and
lofty towers standing out against the sky, above the furze and
heather that crowned the hill-top, would have pronounced it a
rather imposing chateau—the residence probably of some provincial
magnate; but as he drew near would have quickly found reason to
change his opinion. The road which led to it from the highway was
entirely overgrown with moss and weeds, save a narrow pathway in
the centre, though two deep ruts, full of water, and inhabited by a
numerous family of frogs, bore mute witness to the fact that
carriages had once passed that way.
The roof, of dark red tiles, was disfigured by many large,
leprous-looking, yellow patches, while in some places the decayed
rafters had given way, leaving formidable gaps. The numerous
weather-cocks that surmounted the towers and chimneys were so
rusted that they could no longer budge an inch, and pointed
persistently in various directions. The high dormer windows were
partially closed by old wooden shutters, warped, split, and in
every stage of dilapidation; broken stones filled up the loop-holes
and openings in the towers; of the twelve large windows in the
front of the house, eight were boarded up; the remaining four had
small diamond-shaped panes of thick, greenish glass, fitting so
loosely in their leaden frames that they shook and rattled at every
breath of wind; between these windows a great deal of the stucco
had fallen off, leaving the rough wall exposed to
view.
Above the grand old entrance door, whose massive stone frame
and lintel retained traces of rich ornamentation, almost
obliterated by time and neglect, was sculptured a coat of arms, now
so defaced that the most accomplished adept in heraldry would not
be able to decipher it. Only one leaf of the great double door was
ever opened now, for not many guests were received or entertained
at the chateau in these days of its decadence. Swallows had built
their nests in every available nook about it, and but for a slender
thread of smoke rising spirally from a chimney at the back of this
dismal, half-ruined mansion, the traveller would have surely
believed it to be uninhabited. This was the only sign of life
visible about the whole place, like the little cloud upon the
mirror from the breath of a dying man, which alone gives evidence
that he still lives.
Upon pushing open the practicable leaf of the great
worm-eaten door, which yielded reluctantly, and creaked dolefully
as it turned upon its rusty hinges, the curious visitor entered a
sort of portico, more ancient than the rest of the building, with
fine, large columns of bluish granite, and a lofty vaulted roof. At
the point of intersection of the arches was a stone shield, bearing
the same coat of arms that was sculptured over the entrance
without. This one was in somewhat better preservation than the
other, and seemed to bear something resembling three golden storks
(cigognes) on an azure field; though it was so much in shadow, and
so faded and dingy, that it was impossible to make it out clearly.
Fastened to the wall, at a convenient height from the ground, were
great iron extinguishers, blackened by the smoke from torches in
long by-gone years, and also iron rings, to which the guests'
horses were made fast in the olden times, when the castle was in
its glory. The dust that lay thick upon them now showed that it was
long since they had been made use of.
From this portico—whence a door on either side opened into
the main building; one leading into a long suite of apartments on
the ground floor, and the other into what had probably been a
guard-room—the explorer passed into an interior court, dismal,
damp, and bare. In the corners nettles and various rank weeds were
growing riotously amid the great heaps of rubbish fallen from the
crumbling cornice high above, and grass had sprung up everywhere in
the crevices of the stone pavement. Opposite the entrance a flight
of dilapidated, shaky steps, with a heavy stone balustrade, led
down into a neglected garden, which was gradually becoming a
perfect thicket. Excepting in one small bed, where a few cabbages
were growing, there was no attempt at cultivation, and nature had
reasserted her rights everywhere else in this abandoned spot,
taking, apparently, a fierce delight in effacing all traces of
man's labour. The fruit trees threw out irregular branches without
fear of the pruning knife; the box, intended to form a narrow
border to the curiously shaped flower-beds and grass-plots, had
grown up unchecked into huge, bushy shrubs, while a great variety
of sturdy weeds had usurped the places formerly devoted to choice
plants and beautiful, fragrant flowers. Brambles, bristling with
sharp thorns, which had thrown their long, straggling arms across
the paths, caught and tried to hold back any bold adventurer who
attempted to penetrate into the mysterious depths of this desolate
wilderness. Solitude is averse to being surprised in dishabille,
and surrounds herself with all sorts of defensive
obstacles.
However, the courageous explorer who persisted in following
the ancient, overgrown alley, and was not to be daunted by
formidable briers that tore his hands and clothing, nor
low-hanging, closely interlaced branches that struck him smart
blows in the face as he forced his way through them, would have
reached at last a sort of rocky niche, fancifully arranged as a
grotto. Besides the masses of ivy, iris and gladiolus, that had
been carefully planted long ago in the interstices of the rock, it
was draped with a profusion of graceful wild vines and feathery
ferns, which half-veiled the marble statue, representing some
mythological divinity, that still stood in this lonely retreat. It
must have been intended for Flora or Pomona, but now there were
tufts of repulsive, venomous-looking mushrooms in the pretty,
graceful, little basket on her arm, instead of the sculptured fruit
or flowers that should have filled it. Although her nose was
broken, and her fair body disfigured by many dark stains, and
overgrown in part with clinging mosses, it could still plainly be
seen that she had once been very lovely. At her feet was a marble
basin, shaped like a shell, half full of discoloured, stagnant
water; the lion's head just above it, now almost entirely concealed
by a thick curtain of leaves, no longer poured forth the sparkling
stream that used to fall into it with a musical murmur. This little
grotto, with its fountain and statue, bore witness to former
wealth; and also to the aesthetic taste of some long-dead owner of
the domain. The marble goddess was in the Florentine style of the
Renaissance, and probably the work of one of those Italian
sculptors who followed in the train of del Rosso or Primaticcio,
when they came to France at the bidding of that generous patron of
the arts, Francis I; which time was also, apparently, the epoch of
the greatest prosperity of this noble family, now so utterly fallen
into decay.
Behind the grotto rose a high wall, built of stone, crumbling
and mouldy now, but still bearing some broken remains of
trellis-work, evidently intended to be covered with creepers that
would entirely conceal the wall itself with a rich tapestry of
verdure. This was the limit of the garden; beyond stretched the
wide expanse of the sandy, barren Landes, flecked here and there
with patches of scanty heather, and scattered groves of pine
trees.
Turning back towards the chateau it became apparent that this
side of it was even more neglected and ruinous than the one we have
already described; the recent poverty-stricken owners having tried
to keep up appearances as far as possible, and concentrated their
efforts upon the front of their dilapidated abode. In the stable,
where were stalls for twenty horses, a miserable, old, white pony
stood at an empty manger, nibbling disconsolately at a scanty truss
of hay, and frequently turning his sunken, lack-lustre eyes
expectantly towards the door. In front of an extensive kennel,
where the lord of the manor used to keep a whole pack of hounds, a
single dog, pathetically thin, lay sleeping tranquilly and soundly,
apparently so accustomed to the unbroken solitude of the place that
he had abandoned all habits of watchfulness.
Entering the chateau the visitor found himself in a broad and
lofty hall, containing a grand old staircase, with a richly carved,
wooden balustrade—a good deal broken and defaced now, like
everything else in this doleful Castle Misery. The walls had been
elaborately frescoed, representing colossal figures of Hercules
supporting brackets upon which rested the heavily ornamented
cornice. Springing from it fantastic vines climbed upward on the
arched ceiling, and above them the blue sky, faded and dingy, was
grotesquely variegated with dark spots, caused by the water
filtering through from the dilapidated roof. Between the
oft-repeated figures of Hercules were frescoed niches, wherein
heads of Roman emperors and other illustrious historical characters
had been depicted in glowing tints; but all were so vague and dim
now that they were but the ghosts of pictures, which should be
described with the shadows of words—ordinary terms are too
substantial to apply to them. The very echoes in this deserted hall
seemed startled and amazed as they repeated and multiplied the
unwonted sound of footsteps.
A door near the head of the first flight of stairs opened
into what had evidently been the great banqueting hall in the old
days when sumptuous repasts and numerous guests were not uncommon
things in the chateau. A huge beam divided the lofty ceiling into
two compartments, which were crossed at regular intervals by
smaller joists, richly carved, and retaining some traces of
gilding. The spaces between had been originally of a deep blue
tint, almost lost now under the thick coating of dust and spiders'
webs that no housemaid's mop ever invaded. Above the grand old
chimney-piece was a noble stag's head, with huge, spreading
antlers, and on the walls hung rows of ancient family portraits, so
faded and mouldy now that most of the faces had a ghastly hue, and
at night, by the dim, flickering lamp-light, they looked like a
company of spectres. Nothing in the world is sadder than a
collection of old portraits hanging thus, neglected and forgotten,
in deserted halls—representations, half obliterated themselves, of
forms and faces long since returned to dust. Yet these painted
phantoms were most appropriate inhabitants of this desolate abode;
real living people would have seemed out of place in the
death-stricken house.
In the middle of the room stood an immense dining-table of
dark, polished wood, much worm-eaten, and gradually falling into
decay. Two tall buffets, elaborately carved and ornamented, stood
on opposite sides of the room, with only a few odd pieces of
Palissy ware, representing lizards, crabs, and shell-fish, reposing
on shiny green leaves, and two or three delicate wine-glasses of
quaint patterns remaining upon the shelves where gold and silver
plate used to glitter in rich profusion, as was the mode in France.
The handsome old chairs, with their high, carved backs and faded
velvet cushions, that had been so firm and luxurious once, were
tottering and insecure; but it mattered little, since no one ever
came to sit in them now round the festive board, and they stood
against the wall in prim order, under the rows of family
portraits.
A smaller room opened out of this one, hung round with faded,
moth-eaten tapestry. In one corner stood a large bed, with four
tall, twisted columns and long, ample curtains of rich brocade,
which had been delicate green and white, but now were of a dingy,
yellowish hue, and cut completely through from top to bottom in
every fold. An ebony table, with some pretty gilded ornaments still
clinging to it, a mirror dim with age, and two large arm-chairs,
covered with worn and faded embroidery, that had been wrought by
the fair fingers of some noble dame long since dead and forgotten,
completed the furniture of this dismal chamber.
In these two rooms were the latticed windows seen in the
front of the chateau, and over them still hung long sweeping
curtains, so tattered and moth-eaten that they were almost falling
to pieces. Profound silence reigned here, unbroken save by
occasional scurrying and squeaking of mice behind the wainscot, the
gnawing of rats in the wall, or the ticking of the
death-watch.
From the tapestried chamber a door opened into a long suite
of deserted rooms, which were lofty and of noble proportions, but
devoid of furniture, and given up to dust, spiders, and rats. The
apartments on the floor above them were the home of great numbers
of bats, owls, and jackdaws, who found ready ingress through the
large holes in the roof. Every evening they flew forth in flocks,
with much flapping of wings, and weird, melancholy cries and
shrieks, in search of the food not to be found in the immediate
vicinity of this forlorn mansion.
The apartments on the ground floor contained nothing but a
few bundles of straw, a heap of corn-cobs, and some antiquated
gardening implements. In one of them, however, was a rude bed,
covered with a single, coarse blanket; presumably that of the only
domestic remaining in the whole establishment.
It was from the kitchen chimney that the little spiral of
smoke escaped which was seen from without. A few sticks were
burning in the wide, old-fashioned fireplace, but the flames looked
pale under the bright light that streamed down upon them through
the broad, straight flue. The pot that hung from the clumsy iron
crane was boiling sleepily, and if the curious visitor could have
peeped into it he would have seen that the little cabbage bed in
the garden had contributed of its produce to the pot-au-feu. An old
black cat was sitting as close to the fire as he could without
singeing his whiskers, and gravely watching the simmering pot with
longing eyes. His ears had been closely cropped, and he had not a
vestige of a tail, so that he looked like one of those grotesque
Japanese chimeras that everybody is familiar with. Upon the table,
near at hand, a white plate, a tin drinking cup, and a china dish,
bearing the family arms stamped in blue, were neatly arranged,
evidently in readiness for somebody's supper. For a long time the
cat remained perfectly motionless, intently watching the pot which
had almost ceased to boil as the fire got low, and the silence
continued unbroken; but at last a slow, heavy step was heard
approaching from without, and presently the door opened to admit an
old man, who looked half peasant, half gentleman's servant. The
black cat immediately quitted his place by the fire and went to
meet him; rubbing himself against the newcomer's legs, arching his
back and purring loudly; testifying his joy in every way possible
to him.
"Well, well, Beelzebub," said the old man, bending down and
stroking him affectionately, "are you really so glad to see me?
Yes, I know you are, and it pleases me, old fellow, so it does. We
are so lonely here, my poor young master and I, that even the
welcome of a dumb beast is not to be despised. They do say that you
have no soul, Beelzebub, but you certainly do love us, and
understand most times what we say to you too." These greetings
exchanged, Beelzebub led the way back to the fire, and then with
beseeching eyes, looking alternately from the face of his friend to
the pot-au-feu, seemed mutely begging for his share of its
contents. Poor Beelzebub was growing so old that he could no longer
catch as many rats and mice as his appetite craved, and he was
evidently very hungry.
Pierre, that was the old servant's name, threw more wood on
the smouldering fire, and then sat down on a settle in the chimney
corner, inviting his companion—who had to wait still for his supper
as patiently as he might—to take a seat beside him. The firelight
shone full upon the old man's honest, weather-beaten face, the few
scattered locks of snow-white hair escaping from under his dark
blue woollen cap, his thick, black eyebrows and deep wrinkles. He
had the usual characteristics of the Basque race; a long face,
hooked nose, and dark, gipsy-like complexion. He wore a sort of
livery, which was so old and threadbare that it would be impossible
to make out its original colour, and his stiff, soldier-like
carriage and movements proclaimed that he had at some time in his
life served in a military capacity. "The young master is late
to-night," he muttered to himself, as the daylight faded. "What
possible pleasure can he find in these long, solitary rambles over
the dunes? It is true though that it is so dreary here, in this
lonely, dismal house, that any other place is
preferable."
At this moment a joyous barking was heard without, the old
pony in the stable stamped and whinnied, and the cat jumped down
from his place beside Pierre and trotted off towards the door with
great alacrity. In an instant the latch was lifted, and the old
servant rose, taking off his woollen cap respectfully, as his
master came into the kitchen. He was preceded by the poor old dog,
trying to jump up on him, but falling back every time without being
able to reach his face, and Beelzebub seemed to welcome them
both—showing no evidence of the antipathy usually existing between
the feline and canine races; on the contrary, receiving Miraut with
marks of affection which were fully reciprocated.
The Baron de Sigognac, for it was indeed the lord of the
manor who now entered, was a young man of five or six and twenty;
though at first sight he seemed much older, because of the deep
gravity, even sadness, of his demeanour; the feeling of utter
powerlessness which poverty brings having effectually chased away
all the natural piety and light-heartedness of youth. Dark circles
surrounded his sunken eyes, his cheeks were hollow, his mustache
drooped in a sorrowful curve over his sad mouth. His long black
hair was negligently pushed back from his pale face, and showed a
want of care remarkable in a young man who was strikingly handsome,
despite his doleful desponding expression. The constant pressure of
a crushing grief had drawn sorrowful lines in a countenance that a
little animation would have rendered charming. All the elasticity
and hopefulness natural to his age seemed to have been lost in his
useless struggles against an unhappy fate. Though his frame was
lithe, vigorous, and admirably proportioned, all his movements were
slow and apathetic, like those of an old man. His gestures were
entirely devoid of animation, his whole expression inert, and it
was evidently a matter of perfect indifference to him where he
might chance to find himself at home, in his dismal chateau, or
abroad in the desolate Landes.
He had on an old gray felt hat, much too large for him, with
a dingy, shabby feather, that drooped as if it felt heartily
ashamed of itself, and the miserable condition to which it was
reduced. A broad collar of guipure lace, ragged in many places, was
turned down over a just-au-corps, which had been cut for a taller
and much stouter man than the slender, young baron. The sleeves of
his doublet were so long that they fell over his hands, which were
small and shapely, and there were large iron spurs on the clumsy,
old-fashioned riding-boots he wore. These shabby, antiquated
clothes had belonged to his father; they were made according to the
fashion that prevailed during the preceding reign; and the poor
young nobleman, whose appearance in them was both ridiculous and
touching, might have been taken for one of his own ancestors.
Although he tenderly cherished his father's memory, and tears often
came into his eyes as he put on these garments that had seemed
actually a part of him, yet it was not from choice that young de
Sigognac availed himself of the paternal wardrobe. Unfortunately he
had no other clothes, save those of his boyhood, long ago outgrown,
and so he was thankful to have these, distasteful as they could not
fail to be to him. The peasants, who had been accustomed to hold
them in respect when worn by their old seignior, did not think it
strange or absurd to see them on his youthful successor; just as
they did not seem to notice or be aware of the half-ruined
condition of the chateau. It had come so gradually that they were
thoroughly used to it, and took it as a matter of course. The Baron
de Sigognac, though poverty-stricken and forlorn, was still in
their eyes the noble lord of the manor; the decadence of the family
did not strike them at all as it would a stranger; and yet it was a
grotesquely melancholy sight to see the poor young nobleman pass
by, in his shabby old clothes, on his miserable old pony, and
followed by his forlorn old dog.
The baron sat down in silence at the table prepared for him,
having recognised Pierre's respectful salute by a kindly gesture.
The old servant immediately busied himself in serving his master's
frugal supper; first pouring the hot soup—which was of that kind,
popular among the poor peasantry of Gascony, called "garbure"—upon
some bread cut into small pieces in an earthen basin, which he set
before the baron; then, fetching from the cupboard a dish of bacon,
cold, and cooked in Gascon fashion, he placed that also upon the
table, and had nothing else to add to this meagre repast. The baron
ate it slowly, with an absent air, while Miraut and Beelzebub, one
on each side of him, received their full share from his kind
hand.
The supper finished, he fell into a deep reverie. Miraut had
laid his head caressingly upon his master's knee, and looked up
into his face with loving, intelligent eyes, somewhat dimmed by
age, but still seeming to understand his thoughts and sympathize
with his sadness. Beelzebub purred loudly meantime, and
occasionally mewed plaintively to attract his attention, while
Pierre stood in a respectful attitude, cap in hand, at a little
distance, motionless as a statue, waiting patiently until his
master's wandering thoughts should return. By this time the
darkness had fallen, and the flickering radiance from the few
sticks blazing in the great fireplace made strange effects of light
and shade in the spacious old kitchen. It was a sad picture; this
last scion of a noble race, formerly rich and powerful, left
wandering like an uneasy ghost in the castle of his ancestors, with
but one faithful old servant remaining to him of the numerous
retinue of the olden times; one poor old dog, half starved, and
gray with age, where used to be a pack of thirty hounds; one
miserable, superannuated pony in the stable where twenty horses had
been wont to stand; and one old cat to beg for caresses from his
hand.
At last the baron roused himself, and signed to Pierre that
he wished to retire to his own chamber; whereupon the servant
lighted a pine knot at the fire, and preceded his master up the
stairs, Miraut and Beelzebub accompanying them. The smoky, flaring
light of the torch made the faded figures on the wall seem to waver
and move as they passed through the hall and up the broad
staircase, and gave a strange, weird expression to the family
portraits that looked down upon this little procession as it moved
by below them. When they reached the tapestried chamber Pierre
lighted a little copper lamp, and then bade the baron good-night,
followed by Miraut as he retraced his steps to the kitchen; but
Beelzebub, being a privileged character, remained, and curled
himself up comfortably in one of the old arm-chairs, while his
master threw himself listlessly into the other, in utter despair at
the thought of his miserable loneliness, and aimless, hopeless
life. If the chamber seemed dreary and forlorn by day, it was far
more so by night. The faded figures in the tapestry had an uncanny
look; especially one, a hunter, who might have passed for an
assassin, just taking aim at his victim. The smile on his
startlingly red lips, in reality only a self-satisfied smirk, was
fairly devilish in that light, and his ghastly face horribly
life-like. The lamp burned dimly in the damp heavy air, the wind
sighed and moaned along the corridors, and strange, frightful
sounds came from the deserted chambers close at hand. The storm
that had long been threatening had come at last, and large, heavy
rain-drops were driven violently against the window-panes by gusts
of wind that made them rattle loudly in their leaden frames.
Sometimes it seemed as if the whole sash would give way before the
fiercer blasts, as though a giant had set his knee against it, and
was striving to force an entrance. Now and again, when the wind
lulled for a moment while it gathered strength for a fresh assault,
the horrid shriek of an owl would be heard above the dashing of the
rain that was falling in torrents.
The master of this dismal mansion paid little attention to
this lugubrious symphony, but Beelzebub was very uneasy, starting
up at every sound, and peering into the shadowy corners of the
room, as if he could see there something invisible to human eyes.
The baron took up a little book that was lying upon the table,
glanced at the familiar arms stamped upon its tarnished cover, and
opening it, began to read in a listless, absent way. His eyes
followed the smooth rhythm of Ronsard's ardent love-songs and
stately sonnets, but his thoughts were wandering far afield, and he
soon threw the book from him with an impatient gesture, and began
slowly unfastening his garments, with the air of a man who is not
sleepy, but only goes to bed because he does not know what else to
do with himself, and has perhaps a faint hope of forgetting his
troubles in the embrace of Morpheus, most blessed of all the gods.
The sand runs so slowly in the hour-glass on a dark, stormy night,
in a half-ruined castle, ten leagues away from any living
soul.
The poor young baron, only surviving representative of an
ancient and noble house, had much indeed to make him melancholy and
despondent. His ancestors had worked their own ruin, and that of
their descendants, in various ways. Some by gambling, some in the
army, some by undue prodigality in living—in order that they might
shine at court—so that each generation had left the estate more and
more diminished. The fiefs, the farms, the land surrounding the
chateau itself, all had been sold, one after the other, and the
last baron, after desperate efforts to retrieve the fallen fortunes
of the family—efforts which came too late, for it is useless to try
to stop the leaks after the vessel has gone down—had left his son
nothing but this half-ruined chateau and the few acres of barren
land immediately around it. The unfortunate child had been born and
brought up in poverty. His mother had died young, broken-hearted at
the wretched prospects of her only son; so that he could not even
remember her sweet caresses and tender, loving care. His father had
been very stern with him; punishing him severely for the most
trivial offences; yet he would have been glad now even of his sharp
rebukes, so terribly lonely had he been for the last four years;
ever since his father was laid in the family vault. His youthful
pride would not allow him to associate with the noblesse of the
province without the accessories suitable to his rank, though he
would have been received with open arms by them, so his solitude
was never invaded. Those who knew his circumstances respected as
well as pitied the poor, proud young baron, while many of the
former friends of the family believed that it was extinct; which
indeed it inevitably would be, with this its only remaining scion,
if things went on much longer as they had been going for many years
past.
The baron had not yet removed a single garment when his
attention was attracted by the strange uneasiness of Beelzebub, who
finally jumped down from his arm-chair, went straight to one of the
windows, and raising himself on his hind legs put his fore-paws on
the casing and stared out into the thick darkness, where it was
impossible to distinguish anything but the driving rain. A loud
howl from Miraut at the same moment proclaimed that he too was
aroused, and that something very unusual must be going on in the
vicinity of the chateau, ordinarily as quiet as the grave. Miraut
kept up persistently a furious barking, and the baron gave up all
idea of going to bed. He hastily readjusted his dress, so that he
might be in readiness for whatever should happen, and feeling a
little excited at this novel commotion.
"What can be the matter with poor old Miraut? He usually
sleeps from sunset to sunrise without making a sound, save his
snores. Can it be that a wolf is prowling about the place?" said
the young man to himself, as he buckled the belt of his sword round
his slender waist. A formidable weapon it was, that sword, with
long blade, and heavy iron scabbard.
At that moment three loud knocks upon the great outer door
resounded through the house. Who could possibly have strayed here
at this hour, so far from the travelled roads, and in this tempest
that was making night horrible without? No such thing had occurred
within the baron's recollection. What could it
portend?