The height where we stood had anciently been fortified, and some parts of the walls are still remaining, which bear the name of The Château of Robert le Diable. Whence the celebrated legend of that personage derives its origin I know not. The only account I could obtain of him in this part of the country was from an old woman not to be relied on.
"In the old times," she said, "when Normandy was separate from France, the lord of that castle, The Comte Robert, was a bold, wild young man, rather famous for doing what he ought not to have done. His lady mother had been a strange, solitary being, living separate from all the world after her husband's death, only entertaining herself with books, which the people judged to be of sorcery, because nobody but herself understood them, and only talking with spirits; so the people said, though nobody had ever been present at any of these ghostly conversazione. Be that as it may--in her last moments she was attended by a capuchin of the neighbouring monastery, who was so horrified (it appeared) at the confession of her monstrous sins, that he was seen to stagger out of the castle like one distracted; and when one of the servants, entirely from love to his mistress, and without any curiosity whatever, ran after him to ask, what was the matter, he replied, like a man out of his senses, swearing that he would not drink the other bottle and crying out that the young count was the devil, and his mother not a whit better. Now the valet, who was a very religious man, and believed every thing a capuchin said to him, returned to the castle and told all the people that, his young master was the devil.
"'C'est le diable,' said the valet. 'Le diable!' cried the butler, laying his finger on his proboscis. 'Le Diable!' exclaimed the écuyer, pulling up his boots. 'Le Diable!' said the countess's maid, getting closer to the écuyer. 'Do not be frightened, Jeannette,' whispered he, 'the devil himself shan't hurt you--' What he said more was lost in a buzz. 'Fie! don't be blasphemous, Roger,' cried Jeannette, 'who knows what may happen?' and so they talked it all over, and agreed that it was very possible that the young count might be the devil.
"When the old lady was safely dead and buried, Count Robert ordered his cellar to be replenished, for it had fallen much to decay; and getting together a great company of young knights and nobles, they fell into all manner of excesses; hunting till they were tired, eating till they were full, and drinking till they were drunk, bespattering the old women with dirt from their horses' feet, and kissing the young ones in a very unbecoming manner. So that every body cried out that Count Robert was--le diable.
"Now it so happened that the Count fell in love with the abbess of the convent of Beauchamp, whom her brother, the Marquis of Millemonte, had caused to take the veil. He having some religious scruples and qualms of conscience to paying the dower her father had left her, in case she entered into the state of matrimony. Nevertheless, the count, who cared little about religious matters, set his brains to work; and taking the method of the famous Count Orry, he obtained admission to the convent; so that every body cried out more than ever, that Count Robert was certainly--le diable.
"The news of this occurrence was not very palatable to the Marquis of Millemont, but Count Robert heeded not whether he liked it or no, and went on in revelry and feastings, till one night, the marquis, with a large company, suddenly broke in upon him, and began to lay about him without mercy. Now, though the count was as drunk as the sow of a certain celebrated personage, he fought so hard, that every one swore Count Robert was le diable; till, overpowered by numbers, he was driven, with the few of his followers who remained alive, from chamber to chamber, even to the outer wall; whence, sooner than be taken, he threw himself down into the ditch of the castle; and all those who were by vowed and averred, that the water where he fell hissed and fizzed, as if a piece of hot iron had tumbled into it, which completely convinced all the world that Count Robert was really nothing but le diable.
"From that time to this," said the old woman, "the château has gone gradually to decay. I remember it, standing high above every thing around, but now the upstart trees measure their height against it, and in the greenness of their youth seem to mock its forlorn old age, forgetting that they shall decay and fall like it, and like me. Every year robs it of something; and it is only wonderful that it has not fallen before, as for many a century it has never been inhabited: for who would dwell in the château of Robert le Diable?"
I hated sentiment at that time of my life; and as the old woman was beginning to grow somewhat sentimental on the old castle, we wished her good morning, and proceeded as fast as we could to Berney. The postmaster, or rather the post-mistress, for it was a women, was very civil and good-tempered, and as she kept an hotel into the bargain, we should have lodged with her, had it not been for a wet court-yard between the inn and the street. It had been originally carpeted with straw, which had since been beaten into a mash and wetted with a fortnight's rain, so that with the assistance of a number of oxen, horses, goats, and pigs, it had been rendered quite impassable. We went then to l'Equerre where we were shown through the kitchen into a single room with two beds. I hinted to the landlady, that we should require two rooms, and here began our first battle. She had no idea, it appears, of people occupying two rooms, when one would do. But I kept to my point, and told her that an Englishman always required a room to himself. She said that it was very extraordinary. I agreed to that, but told her that the English were an extraordinary nation, and when they could not get two rooms they always went away. Thereupon, she instantly gave us what we required, though she had vowed fifty times before that she had but that one apartment vacant.
While dinner was preparing we went out to visit the churches, and walked through the beautiful valley of Charentonne. We staid a moment in the cemetery, but there was only one tomb to be distinguished from the routine of epitaphs commonplace. On the one I speak of appeared a broken rose, rudely sculptured in the stone, and below were written some lines, the idea of which was better than the versification.
"Flower of a day, that blossom'd but to die,
In native earth thine earth-born beauties lie:
Not so thine odour, tho' thy stem be riven,
It, on the blast that broke thee, rose to heaven."