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 mingled¹ 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 inundated³ 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 turrets⁶ of an ancient chateau⁷ rising out of the trees of its walled park, each turret⁵ with its high conical roof of gray slate⁸, like a candle with an extinguisher on it.
 
“To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my uncle to a meager⁹, but fiery¹⁰ postillion, who, with tremendous jack¹¹ boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him.
 
“To Monseigneur the Marquis de ——,” said the postillion, touching¹² his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of reverence¹³ to the noble name pronounced. My uncle recollected¹⁴ the Marquis for a particular friend in Paris, who had often expressed a wish to see him at his paternal¹⁵ chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one that knew how to turn things to account. He revolved¹⁶ for a few moments in his mind how agreeable it would be to his friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable¹⁷ way by a pop visit; and how much more agreeable to himself to get into snug¹⁸ quarters in a chateau, and have a relish¹⁹ of the Marquis’s well-known kitchen, and a smack²⁰ of his superior champagne²¹ and burgundy; rather than take up with the miserable²² 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; standing²³ naked and alone, in the midst of a desert of gravel²⁴ 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 alleys²⁵; and two or three noseless, cold-looking statues without any clothing; and fountains spouting²⁶ cold water enough to make one’s teeth chatter²⁷. 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 scorch²⁸ one’s eyes out.
 
The smacking²⁹ 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 enchanted³⁰ to see my uncle; for his chateau, like the house of our worthy³¹ 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 ushered³² 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 chapel³³ that had been built almost before the memory of man; but the rest was more modern; the castle having been nearly demolished³⁴ 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 mansion³⁵ worth battering³⁶ down. He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his ancestors, and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows to show; and divers³⁷ huge boots and buff jerkins, that had been worn by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handled sword, which he could hardly wield³⁸; 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 warriors³⁹. When you looked at their bluff⁴⁰ visages and brawny⁴¹ limbs, as depicted⁴² 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 forefathers⁴³. In fact, a Frenchman’s spirit never exhales⁴⁴, however his body may dwindle⁴⁵. It rather rarefies, and grows more inflammable, as the earthly particles diminish; and I have seen valor⁴⁶ enough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf⁴⁷, to have furnished out a tolerable giant.
 
When once the Marquis, as he was wont⁴⁸, 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 cod⁴⁹; yet his eyes sparkled from the bottom of the iron cavern⁵⁰ with the brilliancy of carbuncles, and when he poised⁵¹ the ponderous⁵² two-handled sword of his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the doughty⁵³ little David wielding⁵⁴ the sword of Goliath, which was unto him like a weaver’s beam.
 
However, gentlemen, I am dwelling⁵⁵ 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 gallant⁵⁶ courtiers, who made such a devoted⁵⁷, 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 valor 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 chamber⁵⁸ 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 antiquities⁵⁹; and also because the better apartments were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly⁶⁰ 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 chagrin⁶¹ 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 Guise⁶² had slept in it during the wars of the League, my uncle was fain to felicitate himself upon being honored with such distinguished⁶³ quarters.
 
The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. An old, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint⁴ 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 grimace⁶⁴ and a shrug⁶⁵ 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 apprehension⁶⁶ 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 ill-fitted casements⁶⁷ rattled⁶⁸ 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 rattling⁶⁹ 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 hoarse⁷⁰ murmur⁷¹ through this passage, and creak the door to and fro, as if some dubious⁷² ghost were balancing in its mind whether to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely⁷³ 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, apprehended⁷⁴ 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 daunted⁷⁵ by a wild-looking apartment; but the night, as I have said, was cold and gusty⁷⁶, 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 chilly⁷⁷ as if from a dungeon⁷⁸. 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 tongs⁷⁹ on the opposite wall, look like a long-legged giant. My uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresses⁸⁰ which form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess⁸¹; then tucking himself snugly⁸² in, and burying himself up to the chin in the bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the wind, and chuckling⁸³ to think how knowingly he had come over his friend the Marquis for a night’s lodgings⁸⁴: and so he fell asleep.
 
He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened⁸⁵ 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, dismal⁸⁶ 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 lengthened⁸⁷ up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn⁸⁸ almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle² up the present scene with the crater⁸⁹ of Vesuvius, the French opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in London, and all the farrago of noted⁹⁰ 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 foot-steps 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 glided⁹¹ 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 sweeping⁹² 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 intervals⁹³ 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 possessed⁹⁴ 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 subdue⁹⁵; 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 buckles⁹⁶, 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 marrow⁹⁷ in his bones. It then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, and wringing⁹⁸ them in a supplicating⁹⁹ manner, glided slowly out of the room.
 
My uncle lay for some time meditating¹⁰⁰ 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 resolutely¹⁰¹ over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted¹⁰² the bedclothes 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 beheld¹⁰³ 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 everlasting¹⁰⁴ smile. He made a thousand grimaces¹⁰⁵ and asked a thousand pardons for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning was considerably¹⁰⁶ advanced. While my uncle was dressing¹⁰⁷, he called vaguely¹⁰⁸ to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked the ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of rambling¹⁰⁹ about this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged¹¹⁰ his shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom¹¹¹, threw open the other with every finger extended; made a most whimsical grimace, which he meant to be complimentary¹¹²:
 
“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 gilding¹¹³ 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 eloquence¹¹⁴ 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 impatience¹¹⁵, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity¹¹⁶, on the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung along the wall; from the martial¹¹⁷ deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and intrigues¹¹⁸ of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles¹¹⁹, and pink and blue silk coats and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hoop¹²⁰ petticoats and waists no thicker than an hour glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains with dainty crooks¹²¹ decorated with fluttering ribbands.
 
In the midst of his friend’s discourse¹²² 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 remarkable¹²³ 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 narration¹²⁴; nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor the chivalry¹²⁵ 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 imprisonment¹²⁶ 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 imminent¹²⁷ 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 buffet¹²⁸ so resolutely with hardships. She determined¹²⁹ 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 privately¹³⁰ provided a vessel¹³¹ for her escape in case of emergency.
 
“The little band of fugitives¹³² 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 seamen¹³³ endeavored to dissuade¹³⁴ her, but the imminence¹³⁵ 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 mariner¹³⁶. Such was the violence of the wind and waves, that he faltered¹³⁷, lost his foothold, and let his precious burden fall into the sea.
 
“The Duchess was nearly drowned; but partly through her own struggles, partly by the exertions¹³⁸ 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 defiance¹³⁹. To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only resource left, she procured¹⁴⁰ horses; mounted with her female attendants en croupe behind the gallant gentlemen who accompanied her; and scoured¹⁴¹ the country to seek some temporary asylum¹⁴².
 
“While the Duchess,” continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger¹⁴³ on my uncle’s breast to arouse his flagging attention, “while the Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this disconsolate¹⁴⁴ manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; for the clattering¹⁴⁵ 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, galloped¹⁴⁶ ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled¹⁴⁷. 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, care-worn faces, such bedraggled dresses, as the poor Duchess and her females presented, each seated behind her cavalier; while half drenched¹⁴⁸, half drowsy¹⁴⁹ pages and attendants seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep and fatigue¹⁵⁰.
 
“The Duchess was received with a hearty¹⁵¹ welcome by my ancestors. 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 refreshments¹⁵² for the wayfarers¹⁵³.
 
“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 abruptly¹⁵⁴, 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 followers¹⁵⁵ were quartered in the chambers¹⁵⁶ opening upon the neighboring corridor, and her favorite 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 sinewy¹⁵⁷ 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 eyebrows¹⁵⁸. “There is a tradition—that a strange occurrence took place that night—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable¹⁵⁹ 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 streaking¹⁶⁰ his sullen¹⁶¹ 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 piqued¹⁶². The pompous¹⁶³ 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 unreasonable¹⁶⁴ squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller, in quest of information, considered it his duty to inquire into every thing.
 
The Marquis, however, evaded¹⁶⁵ every question.
 
“Well,” said my uncle, a little petulantly¹⁶⁶, “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 deliberately¹⁶⁷; took a long sonorous¹⁶⁸ 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 narrative¹⁶⁹; but he continued silent.
 
“Well,” said the inquisitive¹⁷⁰ 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 surmise¹⁷¹,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish¹⁷² nose—“I surmise it was the old housekeeper¹⁷³ 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 afterpart of his story in reserve; but he sipped¹⁷⁴ his wine and said nothing more; and there was an odd expression about his dilapidated countenance¹⁷⁵ that left me in doubt whether he were in drollery¹⁷⁶ 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 prone¹⁷⁷ to meet with strange adventures. But at any rate, you shall have it.”