Adventure of my Uncle, by Washington Irving
Tales of a
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.
In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great warriors. When
you looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as depicted 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 forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman's spirit never exhales,
however his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows more
inflammable, as the earthly particles diminish; and I have seen valor
enough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf, to have furnished out a
When once the Marquis, as he was wont, 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 cod; yet his eyes sparkled from the bottom of the
iron cavern with the brilliancy of carbuncles, and when he poised the
ponderous two-handled sword of his ancestors, you would have thought
you saw the doughty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, which
was unto him like a weaver's beam.
However, gentlemen, I am dwelling 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 gallant courtiers, who made such a devoted, 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
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 chamber 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
antiquities; and also because the better apartments were already
occupied. Indeed, he perfectly 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 chagrin 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 Guise had slept in it during the
wars of the League, my uncle was fain to felicitate himself upon being
honored with such distinguished quarters.
The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. An
old, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint 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
grimace and a shrug 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 apprehension 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 casements
rattled 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 rattling 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 hoarse murmur through this passage, and creak the door
to and fro, as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whether
to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely 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, apprehended 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 daunted by a wild-looking apartment; but
the night, as I have said, was cold and gusty, 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 chilly as if from a dungeon. 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 tongs on the opposite wall, look like a long-legged
giant. My uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresses
which form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking
himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the
bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the wind, and
chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend the
Marquis for a night's lodgings: and so he fell asleep.
He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened 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, dismal 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 lengthened
up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed,
and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was already
wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of
Vesuvius, the French opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's chop-house in
London, and all the farrago of noted 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 glided 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 sweeping 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
intervals 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 possessed 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 subdue; 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 buckles, 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 marrow in his
bones. It then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, and
wringing them in a supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the room.
My uncle lay for some time meditating 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 resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted
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 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
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
"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. 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 narration; nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor the
chivalry 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 imprisonment 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 imminent danger of falling into
"The spirit of the Duchess," proceeded the Marquis, "rose with her
trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a being
buffet so resolutely with hardships. She determined 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 privately provided a vessel for her escape in case of emergency.
"The little band of fugitives 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 seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the imminence
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 mariner. Such was
the violence of the wind and waves, that he faltered, 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 exertions 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 defiance. To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner.
As the only resource left, she procured horses; mounted with her female
attendants en croupe behind the gallant gentlemen who accompanied
her; and scoured the country to seek some temporary asylum.
"While the Duchess," continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger on my
uncle's breast to arouse his flagging attention, "while the Duchess,
poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this disconsolate manner,
she arrived at this chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; for
the clattering 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, galloped ahead,
and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled.
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 drenched, half drowsy pages and
attendants seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep and
"The Duchess was received with a hearty 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 refreshments for the wayfarers.
"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 abruptly, 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
followers were quartered in the chambers 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 sinewy 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 eyebrows. "There is a tradition—that a strange
occurrence took place that night—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable
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
Here he paused again—my uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity.
"Excuse me," said the Marquis—a slight blush streaking his sullen
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 piqued. The pompous 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 unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being
a traveller, in quest of information, considered it his duty to inquire
into every thing.
The Marquis, however, evaded every question.
"Well," said my uncle, a little petulantly, "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
deliberately; took a long sonorous pinch of snuff—
"Bah!" said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of the
* * * * *
Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for him to
resume his narrative; but he continued silent.
"Well," said the inquisitive gentleman, "and what did your uncle say
"Nothing," replied the other.
"And what did the Marquis say farther?"
"And is that all?"
"That is all," said the narrator, filling a glass of wine.
"I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose—"I
surmise it was the old housekeeper walking her rounds to see that all
"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 sipped his wine and said
nothing more; and there was an odd expression about his dilapidated
countenance that left me in doubt whether he were in drollery or
"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 prone to meet with
strange adventures. But at any rate, you shall have it."