Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 19 text:

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.

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'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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T te Cjolden After eating an early dinner, my friend and I informed our host of our plans. I had a feeling that this might happen”, he said. That is why I hesitated to tell you the story. But now that you are determined, perhaps I had better go with you to guide you as far as the chateau.” We assured him that we could manage it safely, but he said that he felt somewhat responsible for us and so he must go. At 6:30 P.M. we left our rooming house, climbed into the car, and headed for the house of mystery. Both M. LeSage and I carried a revolver and I had a flashlight. It was agreed that after we reached the house, our host would drive the car back to the village and should call for us at sunrise the next morn- ing at some appointed place. Our ride through the valley was uneventful as there was nothing but wheat fields on either side of the road, but as we neared the northern end, the coun- try became wooded and wild. At last we started up the road that led to the chateau. About a quarter of a mile from our destination we were advised by our guide to stop the car and proceed on foot, as the road ahead was impossible for a vehicle. We accepted his advice and he, after walking with us to where we could see the building in the distance, left us to face the mysteries of the night by ourselves. As we walked forward through the fading light, we could see forming be- fore us a mansion of enormous size. It was entirely of French style with many gables and huge windows. A flight of broad marble steps led up to the front entrance, which consisted of two high doors of exquisite French design. Even in the dilapidated and neglected condition, the building was a beautiful piece of architecture. M. Lesage and I walked around the house once to take in the surroundings. We found that it was bordered on all sides, except one, by woods, the fourth side being near the edge of the bluff. At last we decided to enter the house. Gaining the top of the marble steps, we slipped through the boards, pried loose five years before by the discoverers of Albert Dumont’s ghost. Inside it was as dark as a dungeon. I turned my flashlight and played it about the walls. We were in a long wide hallway with a wide staircase directly in front of us. To the left and right were doors leading to various rooms. We entered one of these and found that we were in a spacious dining room. A large mahogany table stood in the center of the room doing its best to stand on three legs. The other had fallen away. Broken pieces of chairs and bits of statuary lay scattered over the floor, and torn, cob- webbed curtains hung crazily over the windows. From this room we went from one to another, finding everything ruined and dilapidated. Finally after exploring everything except the cellar and attic, we chose the living room in which to await our ghost. Making ourselves as comfortable as possible in one corner of the room, we settled down for the night. (continued on page 28)