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Updated: June 26, 2025
On my arrival at Johannisberg Prince Metternich was waiting for me with a caleche a la Daumont. Our jaunty postilion blew his little horn incessantly as we galloped through the village and up the long, steep hill which leads to the chateau.
It was just the voice of Auguste Moleux, the town-crier of Boulogne, who, bell in hand, was trudging his way along the Rue Daumont, closely followed by two fellows of the municipal guard.
General Daumont de Croisailles was not married and did not intend to disturb the tranquillity of his bachelor life as long as he lived, for he loved all women, whether they were dark, fair or red-haired, too passionately to love only one, who would grow old, and worry him with useless complaints.
"That is true, by the way," he replied, in the most natural tone possible. "Who was it?" "It was a new lodger who has come into the house," said the old woman. "And what is his name?" "I don't know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort." "And who is this Monsieur Dumont?" The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and answered:
He broke them in, one after another, and transformed them into veritable mechanical horses, accustomed them to bear the noise of trumpets and drums, and of firing, without starting, tired them out by long rides the evening before every review, and bit his lips to prevent himself from laughing when people declared that General Daumont de Croisailles was a first-rate rider, who was really fond of danger.
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