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.




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