Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/The Countess Gabrielle
THE COUNTESS GABRIELLE.
In the year 1800, I was staying in a small village in France, taking a short holiday after the numerous occupations of my busy life. My time was chiefly spent in walking excursions about the neighbourhood. My hostess at the village auberge fully entered into my wish of exploring the curiosities of the surrounding country, and when I returned from one expedition, was always sure to have another to propose for my amusement.
“Monsieur devra aller voir l’église de A. ou le château de Monseigneur le Marquis au pied de la montagne,” she would say, as she was laying the cloth for my supper. Then she would tell me the best way of getting to the spot in question, and all so clearly pointed out, that I soon found that my best chance of success in the way of enjoyment lay in following her directions implicitly. One evening when I came in, she laughingly told me that she was now come nearly to the end of her list, but had kept the best for the last, and that to-morrow I must go to the Château des Carlans, which she was sure would please me better than all the places I had yet seen. It was a long way, and difficult to find; so, would Monsieur have the cheval brun (he would find him a very pleasant horse to ride), and little Pierre could go with him as a guide? I was quite content, and the next morning saw me mounted on the cheval brun, a thick-set, steady-going little hack, while bare-footed Pierre ran by my side. It was a long way, and owing to my steed losing a shoe, and no smith appearing within reach, and the three hours’ search after that worthy which ensued, I soon saw that I had better make up my mind to spend the night at Carlan, or the nearest village, and send Pierre back to give notice of my proceedings.
“The road was quite straight now,” he said, and so we parted, and I went on my way. I had questioned my little guide as we came along about the Carlans, whose château we were going to visit, but he was not able to enlighten me much.
“C’était une grande famille que les Carlans, mais il n’y en a plus,” was all he knew, and so I waited to satisfy my curiosity till I should meet some one better able to instruct me.
As the evening came on, the sky began to darken, and the clouds to scud about in rather an alarming way. There seemed to be no habitations in the immediate neighbourhood so I pressed on my horse as fast as I could, in the direction which had been pointed out to me. At last I came in sight of the Château des Carlans, which I had no difficulty in recognising from the descriptions I had heard of it. It stood in the centre of a grove of trees with a thickly-set avenue leading from one side of it down to the road, and was built in red brick with a number of turrets rising round one tall square tower. As far as I could see, it presented a confused mass of irregular buildings. Huge and gloomy enough it looked, and this appearance increased as I rode along the avenue. I had entered the park through a large arched gateway, which was in better repair than anything else seemed to be; except that one side of the massive iron-studded gate hung on by one hinge, while the other stood wide open, it might have still been the entrance to some lordly and well-kept demesne. The park was gloomy in the extreme: huge trees with moss-covered trunks threw their giant branches down to the very ground. On one side a large piece of water, looking still, and dark, and deep, without one living thing to enliven its surface, joined by a narrow rivulet the moat round the castle. On the other side were wide expanses of lawn and forest ground, while right before me rose the great sombre castle itself. A sort of modern terrace in the Louis XIV. style lay in front of it, strangely out of keeping with the grim feudal appearance of the building itself. There was certainly not much prospect of a night’s lodging here; but I remembered that my good hostess’s directions had never proved wrong yet, so I rode boldly along the avenue, across the terrace, and up to the great door. It was firmly closed, but I pulled violently at a rude sort of bell, evidently put up to suit the modern ideas of the porter, and swung away lustily at the huge iron knocker.
For a long time I heard no answer but the echo proceeding from my own efforts, which went rumbling off through long corridors and wide vacant spaces. I was almost beginning to despair, when I fancied I heard a sound in the distance, at first faint, and then nearer and nearer. The noise of shuffling feet came along the passage, then a rattling of keys. At last, one turned gratingly in the rusty lock, and slowly swinging open the door, a little, quaint-looking dame stood before me. With her snow-white hair, and wrinkled face, her strange dress, and high-heeled, steel-buckled shoes, the old woman might have served as a pendant to some of the pictures of the deceased ladies, whose portraits, doubtless, still hung in the picture-gallery.
She first looked surprised, and then pleased to see me; and, after asking whether I wished to see the castle, directed me to ride along the terrace, to a smaller door, where I should find some one to take my horse. A young man in a peasant’s dress made his appearance, and I then came back to the great door where she still stood, and entered the hall with her. It was a large, long hall, with doors opening on to it from every side, and a fine wide staircase with carved oak balustrade leading from the lower end to the apartments above. One of these doors my conductress opened, and we found ourselves in a low vaulted corridor which led to the rooms she occupied. Here she introduced me to her husband, apparently more ancient than herself; who, notwithstanding the time of year, sat before a blazing wood fire. The sight of it was anything but unpleasant on this chill, damp evening. Setting a chair before it, she courteously begged me to be seated. In a few minutes we were in full chat, and I felt that I was on the high road to learning as much of the history of the Seigneurs de Carlan as could be retained in the memory of living man. However, I did not forget to inquire about a lodging for the night, and the old dame, who seemed to have taken a considerable fancy to me, told me she would give me a room in the castle itself.
“Quoique,” as she said with a sigh, “il y a bien des années que personne y a logé que Jean et moi.”
So we passed the evening, and comfortably supped together at a small table by the fire, while the young man I had seen before, and a buxom peasant girl of about sixteen, took theirs at a sort of dresser, near the door. Soon after supper, the old lady with her attendant rose to prepare my room, and after many comings and goings, rattling of keys, and opening of cupboards, she pronounced it ready.
Following her, with Marie bringing up the rear, I crossed the hall, walked up the broad staircase, and found myself in a vast open corridor, corresponding to the hall below. Doors, staircases, and passages opened on to it in bewildering confusion. One of these last my hostess followed, and opening a door at the end of it, ushered me into my apartment. It looked bright enough at first, with its blazing fire and plentiful supply of bon-grès; but a second look showed me that it would take much more to enlighten all the depths and corners of that vast old chamber. The huge bed, with its deep crimson hangings, the walls of similar colour, the carved ebony chest, the cupboards, the closet in the corner, looked deep and mysterious enough for anything. However, as my hostess and her attendant never seemed even to suspect that I should dislike sleeping so far from all companionship, I was ashamed to confess my superstitious feelings, and called out a careless “Good night” to them down the passage, just as if I were quite at my ease. And, yet, when I saw their light disappear down the stairs, I shut my door with a nervous thrill I could not account for, and cast an apprehensive glance at the great oriel window near my door.
It was a fearful night. The wind and rain were beating heavily against the windows, and the storm rolling noisily round the old house, filling its echoes with strange rumbling sounds, and then moaning away along the passages to beat back with redoubled force against the clattering shutters and windows. I do not know what I feared, but strange influences were at work within me, and as I drew back the curtains to enter my bed, I think no apparition staring from behind them would have surprised me much. Having made up the fire, till it blazed brightly and strong, and went roaring lustily up the chimney, despite the wind and rain, I lay down to rest, and happily being well tired with my day’s exertions, soon fell fast asleep. How long I slept, I do not know, but I woke to find my fire slumbering in ashes, and a noise of voices and steps in the passage next my room.
Trembling in every limb with the strange sensations moving round me, I rose in my bed and listened. There were children in the passage! Yes, I heard their little pattering feet running up and down; and though I could distinguish no words, there was a sound of infantine voices. It was not real, that sound, not loud nor strong, but more in the air, about me, and yet moving in the passage! What children could they be, I thought, playing at this hour in this dark, stormy night, in the passages of this abandoned castle? There they run again past my door; one little hand touches it as they pass; now a burst of childish laughter rings out—but stop—up the stairs I hear, or rather feel, some one coming, a rustling of silks, a shuffling of feet, and the little unearthly footsteps pass on to meet it. On it comes, I hear the little ones join it, and the rustling of the silks and the sweeping of the train stop before my door. I hear mutterings and sounds, and the laugh of a child high up, as if the presence that had joined them had raised the little one in its arms. Then follows a kiss quite audible in the midnight air, and the window shaken by the wind seems to open, and I hear a scream and a plunge and wild waters rising, and a woman’s cry in the depths of the moat below, mingling with the moans of a child. And screams are in the passage, and steps in the distance, and a man’s voice, and a young girl’s, and a child’s, rise in one weird concert loud and strong, and mingle with the sound of the wind, and the howling of the storm.
And now all is still, and on beats the wind, and the rain, and the storm, but the spell of that dark hour seems passed! I throw myself out of bed, and making up my fire, and lighting my candles, dress with trembling hands, and so sitting dressed before the hearth, I await the day. It came at last, bright and fresh, and as I threw open my window to court the morning air, I saw that the whole country seemed renovated beneath the influence of the plentiful rain. The old park bore traces of the ravages of the wind. Several trees torn up by the roots lay scattered beneath the walls of the castle, close to which I could see, by leaning far over the parapet of my window, the cold, dark waters of the old moat. About six o’clock I went down, and found my hostess up and dressed, and evidently much astonished at my early appearance. She was, however, more surprised at my paleness.
“Monsieur n’a pas bien dormi, peut-être?” she asked.
I replied “yes;” but my hesitation and evident fatigue awoke her curiosity, and she questioned me till I told her the whole story of my nightly visitants. Her face visibly changed as I told her of the strange sounds and voices which had disturbed my slumbers, and turning from me to continue her preparations for our morning meal, I heard her murmur: “Pauvre dame, après tant d’années ne peut-elle dormir en paix?” I had caught her words, but no entreaties of mine could draw more from her then; she promised, however, that later she would tell me all she knew.
After breakfast my hostess proposed a visit to the rest of the castle, and we set off together. First she led me through a long suite of saloons, furnished with rare taste and magnificence, though the furniture was of ancient shape, and they had the cold, solemn aspect of uninhabited rooms. The last of these saloons opened into a small crimson-hung boudoir, with a lovely prospect from its low balconied windows, of a wide expanse of park and woodland across the moat. The clump of trees on the opposite side had evidently been cut in former times to give the fair occupants of the room the best advantages of the view; but now they were wild, untrimmed, and uncut; and the traces of former flower-beds were almost hidden beneath the moss, rank grass, and fallen branches of the trees and shrubs. The room itself might have been in constant use, for any appearance of neglect or decay there was about it. The mirror in its silver frame, the silver sconces, the glittering ornaments of the mantelpiece, the floor with its beautiful inlaid designs, the brass and ebony cabinet, were as bright and well-polished as if the lady of the castle was hourly expected to visit her sanctuary. The illusion of the minute was complete. I suddenly found myself transported to the retreat of the high-born Countess of sixty years ago. I almost fancied I heard the rustling of silks, and the tripping of a dainty high-heeled foot along the empty saloons beyond, and that in another second the hanging draperies would be drawn aside to let the Lady of Carlan pass in.
My hostess seemed to enjoy my surprise, and for some minutes looked on in silence. At last, beckoning me across the room, she drew aside a curtain, and pointed to a picture on the wall. It was the portrait of a lady, and underneath the escutcheon on the gilded frame was written, “Gabrielle de Plessie, Comtesse de Carlan.” Very beautiful and very haughty was the young Countess, with her fair hair and flashing eyes, and short curling lip. On her head, thrown back with an almost defiant air, she wore a velvet hat, such as one sees in portraits of Marie Antoinette; one hand toyed with the balls of her countess’s coronet, which lay on a cushion by her; the other held the leash of a tall greyhound which stood at her feet. The face was very fair; but so unquiet, so wildly passionate was its expression, that involuntarily I found myself repeating the strange words of the old housekeeper, “Pauvre dame, après tant d’années ne peut-elle dormir en paix?” On the other side of the room was another portrait; it was that of a man in the prime of life, with happiness written in every line of a handsome, open countenance. At the bottom of the frame was written Henri de Carlan. One other picture yet remained. It was smaller than either of the other two, and hung between the windows in a simple oval frame. Less brilliant than the one, less happy than the other, it possessed perhaps more real and lasting beauty than either. There was a touching and mournful simplicity in the dark eyes that gazed so frankly into yours, in the small hands clasped so tightly over the slender chain that hung from her neck and was the sole attempt at ornament. The portrait bore the name of Alix de Carlan.
“Sister of the last?” I asked, pointing to the portrait of the gentleman.
The old woman sighed.
“No, cousin,” she said. “She was an orphan and brought up here.”
Opening a door, we passed up a narrow staircase to a large bed-room which was probably that of the lady of the house. The hangings and ornaments were similar to those in the boudoir below, and the same care was visible in its arrangements. Three doors opened into it. One communicated with the ante-room through which we had entered, one with a room containing several little beds, doubtless the nursery of the children of the household; the third opened upon the wide passage above the great staircase. We passed on again through a suite of rooms, none of which presented any particular interest, save that of antique furniture, and strange quaint closets and corners. At last my hostess drew from her pocket a key, and putting it into the lock of a door near the staircase, showed me into a pleasant, cheerful room, overlooking the moat and park, and remarkable for its freshness and air of constant use. It was hung with blue, much simpler in its arrangements than the boudoir or state bed-room. I could not help connecting it with the dark-eyed portrait below. On the walls were two or three portraits, and by the bed a statue of the Madonna; at its feet was a bunch of withered flowers.
An involuntary shudder passed over me as we came to the door of my last night’s room.
“I have not forgotten my promise,” the old housekeeper said; “you have seen all now, except the chapel, which we will visit later: now come down again to the room below.”
In a few minutes I found myself seated in the boudoir hearing from her the strange story of the Lady Gabrielle de Plessis.
“My mother was femme de chambre to the mother of Count Henri de Carlan,” the old lady said. “I was born in the house. When I first remember the young Count, he was a fine, merry boy of about twelve; Lady Alix, his orphan cousin, was a little, dark-eyed girl of nine or ten. I was destined to be her attendant, but now my intercourse with my little mistress was limited to an occasional game of play with her and my young master. They were a charming pair, so full of life and fun, of love for each other, and devotion to my Lady Countess. I remember even then the significant looks and signs that followed them everywhere, and how people counted confidently on what must take place when they grew up. It was not so, however; by the time they were old enough to think of such things, I was of age to take my place in my young lady’s room, and I am pretty sure she never thought of her cousin but as a very dear brother. The Countess herself soon saw how it was, and was the first to give up the idea of their marrying: and so they went on with their old childish intercourse, so full of affection and confidence. The Count Henri was very proud of my young lady’s beauty, and would often come to her room while her toilette was going on, to see that her dress was to his taste. I fancy I see him now, putting her wreaths of roses on his powdered curls, sticking patches on his cheeks, unfolding her fans, and rouging his healthy red cheeks, and then racing off in a hurry to wash it off in time to hand her and his mother into the coach.
“They were merry times: such parties and dancing and hunts, and so many beaux for my Lady Alix. It was well known that my young lady’s fortune was one of the largest in France, so she had many offers. She was not to be taken in, however, by all the fortune-hunters, and she never seemed to care for one of the gentlemen she met except the young Baron de Lisle, who was a soldier and came very seldom to Carlan. Before long we all saw that there was some chance of my young lord bringing us home a mistress, and then I became really anxious that Mademoiselle Alix should find a home of her own. She did not seem to feel it herself, sweet lady, but prepared to love her new cousin with all her heart. The Countess, however, did not feel so, I am sure. She would have been ready enough to give up her place to her niece, but she could not brook the idea of a stranger stepping into her shoes. I think that my young master saw this, too; for he never told his mother of his hopes and wishes, but used to pour them all out to his cousin. Many an evening they walked together, talking earnestly, on some subject or other interesting to both; and one evening, as she said Good Night to him at the foot of the staircase, I heard her whisper something about “la belle Gabrielle,” and he blushed crimson in his young, honest way, while she can laughing to her room. So it went on for a short time, until one day we heard that our young lord was to marry the Countess and heiress of de Plessis. The wedding took place there, and our ladies were to have been present, but my lady Countess was ailing, so we did not see our new mistress till she came here.
“There were great rejoicings in the place when they returned, and the leader of all the fêtes was Lady Alix. Our new lady was very beautiful. I shall never forget the day I saw her walk up the terrace by her husband’s side to greet the Countess, who stood at the hall-door to receive her. I thought, even then, she bowed very haughtily to the people assembled to receive her, and received her new mother’s kiss with cold constraint. Indeed the Countess herself was rather more ceremonious, I thought, than the occasion required. Lady Alix stood by her aunt, and threw her arms round her new cousin’s neck with sweet innocent joy and greeting; then she turned to Count Henry and kissed him too, as she always did. I thought then, and I am sure of it now, that there was a peculiar look in Lady Gabrielle’s face when she first saw her cousin Alix. That look haunted me long afterwards. The dominion of the two ladies did not last long together, however; before very long my lady Countess died. God only knows why He did not take the younger lady! Even before her mother-in-law died, she had shown much of her real character—enough to make us fear for the future, at least. Certainly nothing more haughty, more wildly proud and overbearing than the young Countess ever trod the earth, and in jealousy she surpassed anything I ever heard of. My lord was completely under her dominion. He both loved and admired her, though her passions terrified him. His brave but gentle nature shrank back appalled at the storms which opposition to her will was sure to arouse. One of her first caprices had been to request my services instead of those of her own maid. It was the act of a spoilt child, and the first sacrifice my gentle lady had to make for peace sake. I say a sacrifice, because she told me it was one. She came to me herself, put her pretty hand on my shoulder, and said:
“‘For my sake, Justine, do as you are asked. I shall never have anyone about me that I shall like half as well, but you know I would do a great deal to content my cousin.”
“There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, so I could only sob out ‘Yes,’ and do as she wished, for love of her. After the old Countess’s death troubles began to gather round us. The jealousy of her cousin, which I had seen coming so long in Lady Gabrielle, became at last a perfect frenzy. All her haughtiness, all her pride, were absorbed in one senseless sentiment of jealousy. If my young lady left the house for a walk in the park the Countess would creep stealthily after her, and follow her behind the trees and bushes. At every sound in the corridor of an evening she would creep out, and stand watching the door of her cousin’s room. My lord began to grow restless and miserable. He loved his cousin so dearly, that to feel his intercourse with her restricted was a perfect torture to him. Added to this, the little children—there were two now, a boy and girl—receiving no care or attention from their mother, gave all their baby love and caresses to their cousin, or petite mère Alix as they called her. At last, however, came a little respite. The Baron de Lisle came back, and when Lady Gabrielle saw how well he and the young lady agreed, she began to imagine she might have been mistaken. One day, to my dismay, when all seemed going on for the best, the baron left in a hurry; he had evidently had a misunderstanding with Lady Alix. I cannot help thinking that he had told her what he and everyone must have noticed in the Countess’s conduct towards her, and that she, sweet generous creature, had indignantly denied it and defended her cousin. Let that be as it may, he went, and from that moment things grew worse; Lady Alix was pale and worn, my lord anxious and distressed, and my mistress frantic with her jealousy. My lord was never even able to speak to his cousin without raising a storm, but I think he often used to meet her in her walks and pour out all his sorrows to her. I was sitting one day in this very room, working at my lady’s embroidery, and she herself was standing at that window, when suddenly I heard her utter a faint cry, and looking across the water I saw my lord and Lady Alix pacing up and down under the trees. I felt at once that they must be much occupied with their conversation, or they could never have forgotten the watch my lady always kept over them. There was such a fierce expression in her face that, with a feeling of terror, I waited for what would follow. We could see that Lady Alix was crying bitterly. My lord held a letter in his hand, which he gave her at last, and then left her alone while she read it. This she did slowly, turning it over and over, and then she threw herself on the bench and buried her face in her hands. My lord returned in a few minutes: when she saw him she sprang up from her seat, and threw herself into his arms. He held her tenderly, with one arm round her waist, and, stooping down, kissed her sweet, upturned face again and again.
“My lady put her hand to her heart, as if she had been stabbed, and then turned to leave the room. She looked so strange, that I followed her across the hall and up-stairs. She went very slowly, almost like one in a dream, never moving her hand from her heart. In the passage opposite the top of the stairs, my little Lord was playing with his sister. He was nearly four then, and as beautiful as an angel. When they saw their mother coming, they ran towards her. She took one hand of each, and passed on. At the large open window near the door of your last night’s chamber she stopped, and stooping, raised the little girl in her arms, and kissed her in such a strange, passionate way, that the child gave a cry of fear. Then she turned to her son. He wore round his neck a golden medallion, with his father’s hair and portrait. She snapped the slender chain with her angry fingers, and then taking him up in her arms, pressed his bright curly head against her breast. On a sudden she turned to the attendant of her children and to me, as if to bid us be gone; but at that instant there was a sound of voices below, and then, with a wild, savage cry, she leapt on the broad sill of the window, and flung herself with the child into the deep waters below. There was a splash and a scream! We rushed to the window, and saw her struggling in the water with the boy in her arms. At this instant my Lord and Lady Alix appeared in the passage. One glance sufficed; and then their wild cries of agony mingled with those rising from the moat. Every means of saving them was tried, in vain: many hours elapsed before the bodies could be even found. When they were, the little boy was still clasped as in a vice in the arms of his dead mother. Her face was terrible to look at. I wish I had never seen it, for it haunts me to this hour. The great hall, into which the bodies were brought, was hung with black, and there for two days they lay in state.
“The accident (as it was supposed to be) made much noise. Crowds of people came to see the beautiful young Countess, as she lay with her little son in the last sleep of death, and to show their sympathy with her bereaved husband. I and the children’s attendant were, besides my master and Lady Alix, the only people who ever knew the truth; and I knew what none could know besides, though they probably guessed it. After the body was found, however, they questioned me, and I told them all I knew. They listened with sad scared faces; and then my young lady called me in, and told me how, about a month ago, she had quarrelled with her affianced lover; that my lord, her cousin, had tried to reconcile them, and yesterday had brought her a letter from the Baron de Lisle, and made her promise to forgive him and become his wife; that she was hastening back to the castle to tell her cousin of her happiness, when she saw the dreadful sight. Then she led me on to the children’s room, and there showed me the little motherless Jeanne, as she lay on her bed, and made me promise never to leave her. I did so; but before many weeks the child lay by her dead mother’s side in the tomb of the Carlans. She died of fits brought on by fright. Soon after the old Baroness de Lisle came, and took my sweet lady to her future home. The Count went abroad, and the castle was shut up. I married a young man who had been my fiancé for some months, and they gave us the place in charge. My lord was a broken-hearted man; he never held up his head again, and died, I believe, in Italy. Carlan then belonged to the Lady Alix, but she never came here.
“I had lived in hopes of seeing her again, but one day a youth came here with an old attendant. He needed not have told me his name, for he had every line of his dear mother’s face. He said he was Henri de Lisle; that he came to me with his mother’s greeting, to beg I would go to see her, for she was very ill. I was ill too, and could not go, and before I was well enough to travel, my sweet lady was dead! I have seen none of the young people since, but I love the place still, in memory of those that are gone. My only pleasure is to keep these rooms as if my lady were expected here every moment. If the young ladies ever come here, they will find their mother’s rooms just as they were when she last left them. I was born here, and shall die here too, I hope, for I am used to the place, and even its nightly visitants do not frighten me, for they never harm me.”
“Then what I heard last night was real?”
“Real! No. But sure it is that every night the old scene that passed so long ago is acted here again by some strange forms bearing the likeness of the honoured dead. We have heard the sounds for years, but I thought they were meant for us alone, or I should never have chosen that room for your lodging last night.”
At this moment a loud tap at the door and the pleasant accents of the little French maid’s voice recalled us from these old remembrances to the fact of dinner being ready. We rose accordingly, with a last look at the old portraits on the walls. During the meal I learned much more of the old legends of the place, and did not rise to leave till the sun was sinking low beneath the distant hills. As I rode through the deserted park, I could almost fancy I saw the haughty Countess and her beautiful children pacing the broad terrace, or a gleam of the white robe of the Lady Alix as she swept round the garden walks by the side of her cousin.
I know not what has become of the Château des Carlans now, or of the old dame who guided me through it; she is doubtless long since in her grave, for these are the remembrances of an old man. This I can tell you. Never does a dark, stormy night come by, never do the rain and wind beat round the house, but I fancy that I hear the pattering of little weird feet by my door, the gushing of angry waters, the moans of a little child, and the death-screams of the last Countess of Carlan.