Alexandre Dumas and the Château de Chazelet
"The mysterious doctor", followed by "The daughter of the marquis" are two novels by Alexandre DUMAS whose intrigue begins and ends at the Château de Chazelet, with two chapters devoted to the castle. Alexandre DUMAS wrote these novels in Brussels in 1852, with the help of his friend and poet Alphone ESQUIROS who stayed in his youth at the castle, welcomed by the Count of Tilières.
Written in Brussels during his exile, these two novels which were to appear in the Journal es Mousquetaires, were finally published posthumously in 1872.
In 1854, Alexandre DUMAS went to the castle and met the Count of Tilières. The Count will offer him a beautiful old silk and silver tapestry from the Lady to the unicorn. Alexandre Dumas will later sell this tapestry to Victor Hugo. One can imagine that this gift was a thank you to the author for having written this novel. Alexandre DUMAS, writing CHAZELET with ET at the end in the original preserved manuscript of the work, decided to publish it under the name of Chazelay to leave a little anonymity to this "enchanted" place as the poet Esquiros wrote,
This set is known ase "Creation Redemption" in the work of DUMAS.
Synopsis of the Mysterious Doctor
A doctor installed for three years in Argenton, in the Creuse, Jacques Merey prefers to treat small people and refuses a rich and noble patient base.If he is appreciated by the poor, he is also decried, because his methods are not in agreement with those of his colleagues. Thus he hypnotizes the sick and especially the injured in order to provide first aid without being bothered by the cries of pain of his patients, and to be able to operate with peace of mind, both for him and for the one who receives them. And of course, some do not hesitate to spread the rumor of some witchcraft on his part while others continue to praise his humanism.
In this July 17, 1785, people of the castle of Chazelet are dispatched by the lord of the place so that it puts an end to the terror that inflicts a rabid dog in the courtyard of the house. He does not intend to move but Marthe, his old servant, asks him to render this service, despite his antipathy towards the marquis, because valets and peasants are likely to be bitten by the rabid canine.
Whoever defines himself as the doctor of the poor and ignorant manages to control the dog by looking him fixedly in the eyes and in order to save his life, collects him. The animal shows affection for this new master and fifteen days later, takes him into the heart of a forest near Argenton to a hut. There lives a lumberjack, a poacher in his spare time, and his mother. Scipio, since thus called the dog, makes them happy but especially Jacques Merey sees acagnardée in a corner, a child.
He brings her home and in the company of Marthe takes care of him, educates him, because Eva, thus he decides to name her, is an innocent, an idiot, who does not speak and seems to not understand what 'we tell him. The only movements of sympathy, of affection that she shows, the only smile that lights up her face, are intended for Scipio who himself spares no show of joy in finding the girl of seven or eight years old.At home, with the help of his faithful Marthe and Scipio, Jacques Merey will tame the innocent, untie his tongue, then teach him to read, to play the piano, in short to transform the chrysalis into a magnificent butterfly, using innovative procedures for the time, such as electrotherapy. And the affection felt by the doctor towards his young protege gradually turns into a sweet feeling of love that is shared ...
Portrait of Alexandre Dumas in 1855 by Nadar
Portrait of Alphonse Esquiros in 1869
Alphonse Esquiros
From his collaboration with Alexandre Dumas, the poet Alphonse Esquiros will no doubt pass on his memories of his youth at the Château de Chazelet.
In his collection of poems "Les hirondelles" dated 1834, there is a very beautiful poem on the Castle, addressed to the Count of Tilières:
The castle of Châzelet
to m. of tilière
Far from me, monuments with modern arcades,
Time has written nothing on your young facades;
For you no engraved badge;
You have no venerable wrinkles on your forehead,
And under the pompous shelter of your miserable roofs
The passer-by never dreamed.
Born yesterday, you lack the luster of years
That age puts old-fashioned heads everywhere;
You don't have a green coat;
We saw you build: we think we can still hear
Scream the steel tooth on the sound stone,
And drop the heavy hammer.
I like in an misty sky an ancient turret,
Where you think you see a fantastic shadow wander;
Where once some prisoner
A livid head came out through the slots:
Where now, in an empty room,
At midnight, he comes back to pray.
I love these old castles where the crow falls;
Where in large courtyards the sound of the horn awakens;
Where the grass turns green;
Where in a pure wave with a slow and stupid course,
Two towers throw away their moving image
On the surface of the canals.
I love you, Châzelet, with Gothic turrets,
When you get up in the evening, your five twin heads
In a nebulous horizon;
Because the rust of years with which your forehead is crowned,
To better sympathize, wants a sky that surrounds
In the evening the wonderful veil.
The woodpecker sighs a faithful complaint;
The touched stained glass windows reflect the swallow;
And under its uninhabited roof,
The winter crows with the prophetic voice
The tired birds of an aquatic race,
Claim hospitality.
Its blazon erased, its lonely balconies,
Its vaults bending over austere rooms,
His simple and mysterious forehead,
Its dark and spiraling stairs,
Its five towers sharpening their eastern arrow,
Everything charms me and speaks to me.
I think that recently, from Palestine,
And drawing an Argentine voice from his horn,
Stops a young knight:
Let the north wind whisper in his black hair
And that, making the steel of his armor shudder,
He turns up the stairs.
I see in spirit the young lady of the castle,
Half-opening, to see it, barely;
Pale and blushing in turn;
Letting her hand kiss, and her shy fingers
Taking away from the knight these heavy chlamyds
Let love lighten too often.
And then, I like to believe myself a magical find,
Charming, by her agreements, the mild woman;
For her embracing her verses;
Marrying music with poetry,
And in the shadows through the green jealousy,
Slipping him stealth tickets.
When in the underground our docile lamp
Throws its flickering light on the black walls;
When we raise the locks,
I think I can still hear the voice of a captive,
Or a crying old man, for whom death happens,
Who shouts: have mercy on us!
However, these are only these Gothic castles
That we can thus populate with fantastic images;
The shadows of the great knights
Come wandering, at night, on their lonely forehead,
And old memories hover mysteriously
Near their Gothic pillars.
II
Who has put on your forehead these funeral veils,
Why this long silence living under the towers,
These windows without light in the middle of darkness,
These forgotten, and once famous, couriers
This grass that grows in your courses?
The passerby who, from afar, sees your tarnished face,
Between the thick woods and the green poplars,
Believe that in your dungeons, the old tyranny
Would still like to be reborn; or that a bad genius
Live under your deserted walls.
Passing, climb with me these steps without light,
And look over there at these still flowering fields:
Do you not see the cemetery enclosure whitewashed;
Contemplate this lawn, this tomb without stones;
- This is where a son rests!
O my muse, always with faithful pain.
Praying, disheveled near the old tombs,
Here, veil your forehead from the feathers of your wing;
Have an eternal complaint in your heart.
For fear of arousing sobs!
III.
Farewell, the castle I love, with Gothic turrets,
Who granted me the rights of hospitality,
Like once Ferrara, in heroic times,
Du Tasse still wandering received poverty:
Farewell, charming country, where, when the day wakes up,
I came under the woods to sing with the bird,
Where the muse, whispered, spoke to my ear
And his hand in mine went under a cradle
Farewell, harvested fields, farewell, green meadow,
Farewell, rustic temple surrounded by herds,
Where faith kneels, where innocence prays,
Where the dead, the living go to seek rest;
Farewell, fiery couriers, cavalry white farewell,
Goodbye mastiffs in the shade, running to my voice,
Blandus waves! oh rival fountain,
Park shaded by pines, soft silences of the woods;
Goodbye, bird nests and you white doves,
Who bathe your pen in the waves of the washhouse.
Thatched cottages in the hamlet, a dark asylum for graves;
- Before I die, may I see you again!
May I, when age has bowed my head,
Come near this port to shelter my old years,
And, like a sailor, tired of his storm,
With evergreen branches mix my white hair.
You will be far then, oh my young years,
The shadow of these old walls will blacken my old brow,
And picking off, my finger, my withered garlands,
I'll be close to where the others will go.
Then I will reread you, with complacency,
I will go, in these beautiful places, to seek a memory,
I will say: this is where my childhood sat
And in the past time I will think I am getting younger.
Earth who received me, listen to my prayer,
When I go, from your fields admire the beauty,
Don't refuse me, at the end of my career,
Long hospitality!
May 1833.
