The duke was proud and rich, and prouder and haughtier was his
duchess, who was born Berri. Ah! they were mighty folk then, before the
Revolution came with its sharp axes to clip off their heads. This inn
was the stable of the chateau, which stood off yonder in the woods.
Alas! nothing remains of it to-day but a few blackened foundations, for
it was burned to the earth by the red devils in '93. But at the time I
speak of, the chateau was a big, rich palace, full of gay folk; all the
nobility came there, and the duchess ruled the land.
She was crazy for music, and to such lengths did she go in her madness
that she even invited as her guests celebrated composers and singers.
The duke was old-fashioned and hated those crazy people who lived only
to hum and strum. He would have none of them, and quarrels with his
duchess were of daily occurrence. Indeed, sirs, so bad did it become
that he swore that he would leave the house if Messire Gluck, or Messire
Piccini, or any of the other strolling vagabonds--so the duke called
them--entered his chateau.
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