

Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                     THE CHÂTEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC.


FEW Englishmen or Englishwomen are intimately acquainted with the little
town of Le Puy.  It is the capital of the old province of Le Velay, which
also is now but little known, even to French ears, for it is in these
days called by the imperial name of the Department of the Haute Loire.
It is to the south-east of Auvergne, and is nearly in the centre of the
southern half of France.

But few towns, merely as towns, can be better worth visiting.  In the
first place, the volcanic formation of the ground on which it stands is
not only singular in the extreme, so as to be interesting to the
geologist, but it is so picturesque as to be equally gratifying to the
general tourist.  Within a narrow valley there stand several rocks,
rising up from the ground with absolute abruptness.  Round two of these
the town clusters, and a third stands but a mile distant, forming the
centre of a faubourg, or suburb.  These rocks appear to be, and I believe
are, the harder particles of volcanic matter, which have not been carried
away through successive ages by the joint agency of water and air.

When the tide of lava ran down between the hills the surface left was no
doubt on a level with the heads of these rocks; but here and there the
deposit became harder than elsewhere, and these harder points have
remained, lifting up their steep heads in a line through the valley.

The highest of these is called the Rocher de Corneille.  Round this and
up its steep sides the town stands.  On its highest summit there was an
old castle; and there now is, or will be before these pages are printed,
a colossal figure in bronze of the Virgin Mary, made from the cannon
taken at Sebastopol.  Half-way down the hill the cathedral is built, a
singularly gloomy edifice,—Romanesque, as it is called, in its style, but
extremely similar in its mode of architecture to what we know of
Byzantine structures.  But there has been no surface on the rock side
large enough to form a resting-place for the church, which has therefore
been built out on huge supporting piles, which form a porch below the
west front; so that the approach is by numerous steps laid along the side
of the wall below the church, forming a wondrous flight of stairs.  Let
all men who may find themselves stopping at Le Puy visit the top of these
stairs at the time of the setting sun, and look down from thence through
the framework of the porch on the town beneath, and at the hill-side
beyond.

Behind the church is the seminary of the priests, with its beautiful
walks stretching round the Rocher de Corneille, and overlooking the town
and valley below.

Next to this rock, and within a quarter of a mile of it, is the second
peak, called the Rock of the Needle.  It rises narrow, sharp, and abrupt
from the valley, allowing of no buildings on its sides.  But on its very
point has been erected a church sacred to St. Michael, that lover of rock
summits, accessible by stairs cut from the stone.  This, perhaps—this
rock, I mean—is the most wonderful of the wonders which Nature has formed
at La Puy.

Above this, at a mile’s distance, is the rock of Espailly, formed in the
same way, and almost equally precipitous.  On its summit is a castle,
having its own legend, and professing to have been the residence of
Charles VII., when little of France belonged to its kings but the
provinces of Berry, Auvergne, and Le Velay.  Some three miles farther up
there is another volcanic rock, larger, indeed, but equally sudden in its
spring,—equally remarkable as rising abruptly from the valley,—on which
stands the castle and old family residence of the house of Polignac.  It
was lost by them at the Revolution, but was repurchased by the minister
of Charles X., and is still the property of the head of the race.

Le Puy itself is a small, moderate, pleasant French town, in which the
language of the people has not the pure Parisian aroma, nor is the glory
of the boulevards of the capital emulated in its streets.  These are
crooked, narrow, steep, and intricate, forming here and there excellent
sketches for a lover of street picturesque beauty; but hurtful to the
feet with their small, round-topped paving stones, and not always as
clean as pedestrian ladies might desire.

And now I would ask my readers to join me at the morning table d’hôte at
the Hotel des Ambassadeurs.  It will of course be understood that this
does not mean a breakfast in the ordinary fashion of England, consisting
of tea or coffee, bread and butter, and perhaps a boiled egg.  It
comprises all the requisites for a composite dinner, excepting soup; and
as one gets farther south in France, this meal is called dinner.  It is,
however, eaten without any prejudice to another similar and somewhat
longer meal at six or seven o’clock, which, when the above name is taken
up by the earlier enterprise, is styled supper.

The déjeûner, or dinner, at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, on the morning in
question, though very elaborate, was not a very gay affair.  There were
some fourteen persons present, of whom half were residents in the town,
men employed in some official capacity, who found this to be the
cheapest, the most luxurious, and to them the most comfortable mode of
living.  They clustered together at the head of the table, and as they
were customary guests at the house, they talked their little talk
together—it was very little—and made the most of the good things before
them.  Then there were two or three commis-voyageurs, a chance traveller
or two, and an English lady with a young daughter.  The English lady sat
next to one of the accustomed guests; but he, unlike the others, held
converse with her rather than with them.  Our story at present has
reference only to that lady and to that gentleman.

Place aux dames.  We will speak first of the lady, whose name was Mrs.
Thompson.  She was, shall I say, a young woman of about thirty-six.  In
so saying, I am perhaps creating a prejudice against her in the minds of
some readers, as they will, not unnaturally, suppose her, after such an
announcement, to be in truth over forty.  Any such prejudice will be
unjust.  I would have it believed that thirty-six was the outside, not
the inside of her age.  She was good-looking, lady-like, and considering
that she was an Englishwoman, fairly well dressed.  She was inclined to
be rather full in her person, but perhaps not more so than is becoming to
ladies at her time of life.  She had rings on her fingers and a brooch on
her bosom which were of some value, and on the back of her head she wore
a jaunty small lace cap, which seemed to tell, in conjunction with her
other appointments, that her circumstances were comfortable.

The little girl who sat next to her was the youngest of her two
daughters, and might be about thirteen years of age.  Her name was
Matilda, but infantine circumstances had invested her with the nickname
of Mimmy, by which her mother always called her.  A nice, pretty, playful
little girl was Mimmy Thompson, wearing two long tails of plaited hair
hanging, behind her head, and inclined occasionally to be rather loud in
her sport.

Mrs. Thompson had another and an elder daughter, now some fifteen years
old, who was at school in Le Puy; and it was with reference to her
tuition that Mrs. Thompson had taken up a temporary residence at the
Hôtel des Ambassadeurs in that town.  Lilian Thompson was occasionally
invited down to dine or breakfast at the inn, and was visited daily at
her school by her mother.

“When I’m sure that she’ll do, I shall leave her there, and go back to
England,” Mrs. Thompson had said, not in the purest French, to the
neighbour who always sat next to her at the table d’hôte, the gentleman,
namely, to whom we have above alluded.  But still she had remained at Le
Puy a month, and did not go; a circumstance which was considered
singular, but by no means unpleasant, both by the innkeeper and by the
gentleman in question.

The facts, as regarded Mrs. Thompson, were as follows:—She was the widow
of a gentleman who had served for many years in the civil service of the
East Indies, and who, on dying, had left her a comfortable income of—it
matters not how many pounds, but constituting quite a sufficiency to
enable her to live at her ease and educate her daughters.

Her children had been sent home to England before her husband’s death,
and after that event she had followed them; but there, though she was
possessed of moderate wealth, she had no friends and few acquaintances,
and after a little while she had found life to be rather dull.  Her
customs were not those of England, nor were her propensities English;
therefore she had gone abroad, and having received some recommendation of
this school at Le Puy, had made her way thither.  As it appeared to her
that she really enjoyed more consideration at Le Puy than had been
accorded to her either at Torquay or Leamington, there she remained from
day to day.  The total payment required at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs was
but six francs daily for herself and three and a half for her little
girl; and where else could she live with a better junction of economy and
comfort?  And then the gentleman who always sat next to her was so
exceedingly civil!

The gentleman’s name was M. Lacordaire.  So much she knew, and had
learned to call him by his name very frequently.  Mimmy, too, was quite
intimate with M. Lacordaire; but nothing more than his name was known of
him.  But M. Lacordaire carried a general letter of recommendation in his
face, manner, gait, dress, and tone of voice.  In all these respects
there was nothing left to be desired; and, in addition to this, he was
decorated, and wore the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honour,
ingeniously twisted into the shape of a small flower.

M. Lacordaire might be senior in age to Mrs. Thompson by about ten years,
nor had he about him any of the airs or graces of a would-be young man.
His hair, which he wore very short, was grizzled, as was also the small
pretence of a whisker which came down about as far as the middle of his
ear; but the tuft on his chin was still brown, without a gray hair.  His
eyes were bright and tender, his voice was low and soft, his hands were
very white, his clothes were always new and well fitting, and a
better-brushed hat could not be seen out of Paris, nor perhaps in it.

Now, during the weeks which Mrs. Thompson had passed at La Puy, the
acquaintance which she had formed with M. Lacordaire had progressed
beyond the prolonged meals in the salle à manger.  He had occasionally
sat beside her evening table as she took her English cup of tea in her
own room, her bed being duly screened off in its distant niche by
becoming curtains; and then he had occasionally walked beside her, as he
civilly escorted her to the lions of the place; and he had once
accompanied her, sitting on the back seat of a French voiture, when she
had gone forth to see something of the surrounding country.

On all such occasions she had been accompanied by one of her daughters,
and the world of Le Puy had had nothing material to say against her.  But
still the world of Le Puy had whispered a little, suggesting that M.
Lacordaire knew very well what he was about.  But might not Mrs. Thompson
also know as well what she was about?  At any rate, everything had gone
on very pleasantly since the acquaintance had been made.  And now, so
much having been explained, we will go back to the elaborate breakfast at
the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.

Mrs. Thompson, holding Mimmy by the hand, walked into the room some few
minutes after the last bell had been rung, and took the place which was
now hers by custom.  The gentlemen who constantly frequented the house
all bowed to her, but M. Lacordaire rose from his seat and offered her
his hand.

“And how is Mees Meemy this morning?” said he; for ’twas thus he always
pronounced her name.

Miss Mimmy, answering for herself, declared that she was very well, and
suggested that M. Lacordaire should give her a fig from off a dish that
was placed immediately before him on the table.  This M. Lacordaire did,
presenting it very elegantly between his two fingers, and making a little
bow to the little lady as he did so.

“Fie, Mimmy!” said her mother; “why do you ask for the things before the
waiter brings them round?”

“But, mamma,” said Mimmy, speaking English, “M.