simpler building attracts
the eyes of the traveller by its magnificent situation and imposing size;
it is the chateau of Chaumont. Built upon the highest hill of the shore,
it frames the broad summit with its lofty walls and its enormous towers;
high slate steeples increase their loftiness, and give to the building
that conventual air, that religious form of all our old chateaux, which
casts an aspect of gravity over the landscape of most of our provinces.
Black and tufted trees surround this ancient mansion, resembling from
afar the plumes that encircled the hat of King Henry. At the foot of the
hill, connected with the chateau by a narrow path, lies a pretty village,
whose white houses seem to have sprung from the golden sand; a chapel
stands halfway up the hill; the lords descended and the villagers
ascended to its altar-the region of equality, situated like a neutral
spot between poverty and riches, which have been too often opposed to
each other in bitter conflict.

Here, one morning in the month of June, 1639, the bell of the chateau
having, as usual, rung at midday, the dinner-hour of the family,
occurrences of an unusual kind were passing in this ancient dwelling. The
numerous domestics observed that in repeating the morning prayers before
the assembled household, the Marechale d'Effiat had spoken with a broken
voice and with tears in her eyes, and that she had appeared in a deeper
mourning than was customary. The people of the household and the Italians
of the Duchesse de Mantua, who had at that time retired for a while to
Chaumont, saw with surprise that sudden preparations were being made for
departure. The old domestic of the Marechal d'Effiat (who had been dead
six months) had taken again to his travelling-boots, which he had sworn
to abandon forever. This brave fellow, named Grandchamp, had followed the
chief of the family everywhere in the wars, and in his financial work; he
had been his equerry in the former, and his secretary in the latter. He
had recently returned from Germany, to inform the mother and the children
of the death of the Marechal, whose last sighs he had heard at
Luzzelstein. He was one of those faithful servants who are become too
rare in France; who suffer with the misfortunes of the family, and
rejoice with their joys; who approve of early marriages, that they may
have young masters to educate; who scold the children and often the
fathers; who risk death for them; who serve without wage