Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 18 text:

'The Cjolden Roc) certainly was not his Sunday best, with a huge bow necktie of the same color and long baggy trousers of a greyish hue patched in places and torn at the cuffs. His features were rough and slightly weatherbeaten, such as those of r man who had to work hard all his life, but in spite of this, his face had a kind and honest look. ' Bonjour, messieurs,” he said, in a welcoming manner. M. LcSage answered him, he introduced himself as our host, and soon all three of us were in earnest conversation. Our new friend invited us to make ourselves entirely at home and told us everything in his house was at our dis- posal. From him we learned the name of the village, some of its history, and many facts about the surrounding country. At length I ventured to ask about the chateau in the north end of the valley. His face suddenly became grave and lost its light aspect. May I be so rude as to ask, why you ask this?” his voice was strange and puzzled. Simply curiosity, sir. You see we noticed it as we drove over the hill be- hind the village.” I began to apologize, what for I really do not know, but he cut me short saying: I am sorry for my rudeness, monsieur, but you see to us villagers that chateau seems an excellent place to keep away from. Many of the people of our community arc superstitious. I myself am not, but with the history of the subject in question ringing in our ears, even I, who am a firm believer that there is no such thing as the supernatural, have always given it a wide berth.” M. LeSage and I became immediately curious and begged our host to tell us its story. Here, I thought, was an article for the newspaper for which I worked in Paris. Reluctantly he consented to tell us. Finally he began: What I am to tell you, you may not believe, at least not parts of it, but this is the story of what my eldest brother, long since dead, related to me. My story begins back in 1843. At that time the chateau which you saw from the hill was owned by one Jacques Dumont, a rich Frenchman, said to be a descendant of Louis XVI who was overthrown in the French Revolution. Jacques Dumont was a very rich man and also very stern. As a business man he was hard and relentless, never having compassion on a competitor and so it was natural that these traits should follow him in private life. Now, Dumont had a son named Albert for whom he had prepared many plans, in fact he had nearly laid the boy’s life out before him, but Albert did not live up to these plans. The boy was addicted to the gay night life of Paris and would po orf for days and often a week at a time to make merry at the capital. Finally the father, who was used to having his own way, decided to have it out with his son. It was rumored that they argued for a whole night and in the end nearly came to blows. The most important result was that the father, in his wrath, disowned his son and ordered him out of the house. Albert left and was not heard of again for many years.

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 THE CHATEAU ON THE BLUFF HONORABLE MENTION By Janies Wheble WELVE miles south of Paris, nestled in the heart of a group of picturesque hills, lies the small village of Dunne. It was here that my friend M. LeSage and I experienced one of the most harrowing adventures we have ever known. We were driving north from Marseilles to Paris on this occasion and it being nearly dusk, we decided to put up at this village for the night. As our car nosed over the brow of the hill, we had an excellent view of the place. It was situated in the south end of a small valley about a half mile wide and twice as long. The village was quite compact and it was surrounded by flow- ing wheat fields that extended up the sides of the slopes. A long, dusty, ribbon-like road led our eye to the northern end of the valley and then dis- appeared among the hills. What attracted our attention was a huge chateau built on the edge of a high bluff overlooking the entire valley. At present it was too far away to see plainly, but even from where we were, it had a dark and ominous appearance. Though the village was not known very well to tourists, we eventually found a small rooming house. Here we made reservations and after transferring our belongings to our room, parked the car in a woodshed for the night. That evening we ate a hearty supper, for we were very hungry. Later we settled ourselves in some ancient and none too comfortable rocking chairs in the main room of the house. For an hour or so my companion and I sat there by ourselves, smoking and conversing in low tones. The house and nearby neighborhood were very quiet, so quiet at times that we could hear the clock ticking in the next room. At last we heard footsteps in the adjoining chamber and slowly the door swung open admitting to us an elderly gentleman. He wore a black coat that 15

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T te Cjclclen As the time rolled on Jacques Dumont grew old and feeble and gradually began to repent the hasty action he had taken against his son and sole heir. At times he was tempted to inquire about him from some of his erstwhile friends, but his stubbornness always prevailed. Suddenly one spring morning in 1858 a dark skinned, middle aged man called at the chateau and asked for old Dumont. On being granted an inter- view, the bronzed stranger, who proved to be a Spaniard, told the aged gen- tleman that he had been sent to him by his son. The father now forgot all he had held against Albert and plied the messenger with questions. He learned that his boy, on leaving home, had gone to sea, but after a short time had returned to land, joining a newly formed band of fighting men in Northern Africa, organized for the purpose of helping France in the conquest of Algeria. These men were known as the French Foreign Legion. For a year he fought under the tricolor of France, but during one of the Legion’s campaigns against the barbaric tribes of the Atlas, he was shot. While dying he requested this Spaniard, one of his closest comrades, to return to France, seek out his father and beg his forgiveness for him. This report was a severe blow to the old gentleman and he died two months later. Now comes the part that you may feel skeptical in believing. After the death of its owner the chateau was boarded up and deserted, and up until five years ago never held much fear for the peasantry of our neighborhood. One day five years ago two fine young lads of our village decided to go in and explore inside of the house of mystery, much against the will of their parents. Half the village followed to watch them. After much effort three or four boards were pried loose from the front door of the building and the young- lads entered. For a minute or so all went well, but suddenly a terrifying screech broke out from the house and two young bucks, white as ghosts, came tumbling head over heels through the small opening made in the door. With- out waiting to be told, the entire group set out for the village at a terrific pace. The ghost of Albert Dumont had made its first appearance. For a few seconds silence prevailed. Do you believe this story?” I asked at last. I really do not know what to believe, monsieur. My common sense tells me that it is ridiculous, but still the two boys, now men, swear it is true.” That night my sleep was limited. Here indeed, I thought, was a story for my paper. In the morning M. LeSage and I discussed the chateau continually and finding that his curiosity was no less aroused than mine, I suggested that we delay our trip to Paris long enough to explore that mysterious building and its surroundings. Of course neither one of us believed we would meet with a ghost or anything of the sort, but as in defiance of the spirit of Albert Dumont we decided to attack his fortress at dusk and remain in the house till well after dark, when the supernatural world is supposed to come out of hiding.