The Hotel de Périgny stood in the Rue des Augustines, diagonally
opposite the historic pile once occupied by Henri II and Diane de
Poitiers, the beautiful and fascinating Duchesse de Valentinois of
equivocal yet enduring fame. It was constructed in the severe beauty
of Roman straight lines, and the stains of nearly two centuries had
discolored the blue-veined Italian marble. A high wall inclosed it,
and on the top of this wall ran a miniature cheval-de-frise of iron.
Nighttime or daytime, in mean or brilliant light, it took on the somber
visage of a kill-joy. The invisible hand of fear chilled and repelled
the curious: it was a house of dread. There were no gardens; the
flooring of the entire court was of stone; there was not even the usual
vine sprawling over the walls.
Men had died in this house; not always in bed, which is to say,
naturally. Some had died struggling in the gloomy corridors, in the
grand salon, on the staircase leading to the upper stories. In the
Valois's time it had witnessed many a violent night; for men had held
life in a careless hand, and the master of fence had been the
law-giver. Three of the House of Périgny had closed their accounts
thus roughly. The grandsire and granduncle of the present marquis,
both being masters of fence, had succumbed in an attempt to give law to
each other. And the apple of discord, some say, had been the Duchesse
de Valentinois. The third to die violently was the ninth marquis,
father of the present possessor of the title. History says that he
died of too much wine and a careless tongue. Thus it will be seen that
the blood in the veins of this noble race was red and hot.
Children, in mortal terror, scampered past the hôtel; at night sober
men, when they neared it, crossed the street. Few of the Rochellais
could describe the interior; these were not envied of their knowledge.
It had been tenanted but twice in thirty years. Of the present
generation none could remember having seen it cheerful with lights.
The ignorant abhor darkness; it is the meat upon which their
superstition feeds. To them, deserted houses are always haunted, if
not by spirits at least by the memory of evil deeds.
The master of this house of dread was held in awe by the citizens to
whom he was a word, a name to be spoken lowly, even when respect
tinctured the utterance. Stories concerning the marquis had come from
Paris and Périgny, and travel, the good gossip, had distorted acts of
mere eccentricity into deeds of violence and wickedness. The nobility,
however, did not share the popular belief. They beheld in the marquis
a great noble whose right to his title ran back to the days when a
marquisate meant the office of guarding the marshes and frontiers for
the king. Besides, the marquis had been the friend of two kings, the
lover of a famous beauty, the husband of the daughter of a Savoy
prince. These three virtues balanced his moral delinquencies. To the
popular awe in which the burghers held him there was added a large
particle of distrust; for during the great rebellion he had served
neither the Catholics nor the Huguenots; neither Richelieu, his enemy,
nor De Rohan, his friend. Catholics proclaimed him a Huguenot,
Huguenots declared him a Catholic; yet, no one had ever seen him attend
mass, the custom of good Catholics, nor had any heard him pray in
French, the custom of good Huguenots. What then, being neither one nor
the other? An atheist, whispered the wise, a word which was then
accepted in its narrowest cense: that is to say, Monsieur le Marquis
had sold his soul to the devil.