Rensselaer Republican, Volume 22, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 April 1890 — BLUEBEARD’S CANTLE. [ARTICLE]

BLUEBEARD’S CANTLE.

It Is StOl to Be Seen, and Use HeuM Actually Existed. On a bright morning in May, 1887, I left Angiers for Nantes, the metropolis of Brittany, writes Louis Frechettfe in the Arena. As I was about to take tbe train, a friend, who bad come to see me off, said with a parting handshake. “By-tbe-by, before you get to Ancenis there is a station called Champtoce. As the cars pull up look to the right and you will see the rains of an Did chateau. Take them in well— -they are the remains of Bluebeard’s castle.” “Bluebeard’s castle? What Bluebeard do you mean?” “Surely there is only one—Petreanlta Bluebeard, Offenbach’s Bluebeard.” “Did he ever live?” “Certainly, in flesh ancl bone, as von and I. with this difference —that he was a hard case to begin with, and a marshal of France into the bargain.” ! ‘"Really what was his name?” “Gilles de Retz, a descendant of one of the oldest families in Europe. HU career was most extraordinary.” ,

The name was not unknown to me. [ had read of it in the chronicles in which is handed down to us the marvelous story of the maid of Orleans. Bnt what could be the connection between it and the bloodthirsty hero of Per.reault’s celebrated tale? This question suggested itself to my mind as the train bore me at fuR speed over the waving bills that border the Loire, and from one thought to another Hound myself unconsciously rehearsing the different scenes, phases and catastrophes of the childish drama Which grandmothers take snch delight in presenting to their little gaping and shuddering audiences. I could see the youthful bride, led on by curiosity, creep tremblingly, clutching the little, gold key, to the fatal .door, open it noiselessly, utter a cry of horror, and drop fainting at the sight Df the bodies hung in a row. Then the sudden return of the angry . husband to his castle, his fury on seeing the little gold key soiled with blood, his brandishing of the deadly sword, with the infuriated cries of “Prepare to die, madam f” I could hear the pitiful tones of the poor victim, during the short respite granted her, as she called to her sister perched up on the tower: “Ann, sister Ann, seest thou no one come?” And the lamentable reply; “No, I see nothing but the shining sun on the dusty road!” And at last came the sigh of relief of yore, as I fancied I could hear from afar off the sounding approach of the galloping rescuers. The vision haunted me till we reached Chammptoce, where, sure enough. I saw on tbe right, as my friend directed, about a quarter of a mile off, the jagged form of a lofty mediaeval tower which rose about a neap of ruins and ». clump of stunted oaks, casting against the heavens its vast and somber outline. This was Gilles de Retz’s castle, BlueBeard’s home. Or rather it was one of his castles, for he had many, the whole surrounding country which bears his name (Pays de Retz) having once been his.