Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all the family pride of a nobleman of the ancient regime.  There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that was not, in some way or other, connected with his house.  My uncle stood listening with inward impatience, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity, on the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung along the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, and pink and blue silk coats and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an hour glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains with dainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands.

In the midst of his friend’s discourse my uncle’s eyes rested on a full-length portrait, which struck him as being the very counterpart of his visitor of the preceding night.

“Methinks,” said he, pointing to it, “I have seen the original of this portrait.”

“Pardonnez moi,” replied the Marquis politely, “that can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years.  That was the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured during the minority of Louis the Fourteenth.”

“And was there any thing remarkable in her history.”

Never was question more unlucky.  The little Marquis immediately threw himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long story.  In fact, my uncle had pulled upon himself the whole history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguished a part.  Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves to grace his narration; nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor the chivalry of the Pertcocheres forgotten.  My uncle began to wish himself a thousand leagues off from the Marquis and his merciless memory, when suddenly the little man’s recollections took a more interesting turn.  He was relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville, with the Princes Conde and Conti, in the chateau of Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Normans to their rescue.  He had come to that part where she was invested by the royal forces in the chateau of Dieppe, and in imminent danger of falling into their hands.

“The spirit of the Duchess,” proceeded the Marquis, “rose with her trials.  It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely with hardships.  She determined on a desperate means of escape.  One dark unruly night, she issued secretly out of a small postern gate of the castle, which the enemy had neglected to guard.  She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, and some gallant cavaliers who still remained faithful to her fortunes.  Her object was to gain a small port about two leagues distant, where she had privately provided a vessel for her escape in case of emergency.