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Glossary Some terminology that may be used in this description includes: Marbled boards The spine usually faces outward when a book is placed on a shelf Ask the seller a question. Poulle had a chapel dedicated to St Anne, in reference to his daughter Anne-Victoire. Due to the loss of its land title, it could not be sold as a national asset under the French Revolution and was thus protected from vandalism during the revolution. It passed into the heritage of H-E.
Poulle and was transmitted to Christian Dior who offered it to the commune of Montauroux in The chapel was built in by the White Penitents, and still has today the wooden painted decor which adorns the walls as well as the vault. Anne-Victoire was very pious and obtained permission from the Bishop of Frejus to allow the priest of Montauroux to say mass in the chapel St Anne every Sunday except for Christmas, Easter and other festivals. The inhabitants of the neighborhood became accustomed to hearing Mass at La Colle Noire.
The St Anne chapel is still consecrated today.
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Head of office at the Ministry of Justice in Paris, he showed little interest in the property located in the remote Var region where his family originated. The property was ceded to an industrialist named Fayolle, whose widow resold the estate in to Pierre Grosselin. On October 25, , the property, still with an area of more than 90 hectares, comprising a noble house, agricultural buildings and land cultivated mainly in vines and flowers, was bought by Christian Dior. Famous and recognized — his house of couture was created in and his house of perfumes in — Christian Dior acquired this emblematic property in a region that he knew well.
Indeed, his father, a widow since , lived close by in the plain of Callian with his young sister Catherine who was the inspiration for the perfume Miss Dior ,  "And then Miss Dior was born. She was born from those evenings of Provence crossed by fireflies where the green jasmine serves as a counter-song to the melody of the night and the earth". It was therefore in the Provence dear to his heart, in the inaccessible Var inland that Christian Dior would develop his house, far from Paris and 30 Avenue Montaigne, home of his couture house.
Of the house, I can not say much because I'm restoring it. It is simple, solid and noble, and its serenity suits the period of life that I will have to tackle in a few years. That house, I wish it to be my real home. That where — if God lends me long life — I can withdraw. That where — if I have the means — I can close the loop of my existence and find, under another climate, the closed garden that protected my childhood.
I will open it! An instant later, with a groaning of old locks and a rasping of bars, the low door swung open, and the Prussians poured into the stone-flagged passage. No, it is no use your cocking your pistol, sir. You may kill me, but you cannot make me tell you that which I do not know. Captain Baumgarten rasped out a German oath.
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He had had his journey for nothing, then. The man's answers were only too likely to be true. It was what he might have expected. But at least he would search the house and make sure.
Leaving a picket at the front door and another at the back, the sergeant and he drove the trembling butler in front of them-- his shaking candle sending strange, flickering shadows over the old tapestries and the low, oak-raftered ceilings. They searched the whole house, from the huge stone-flagged kitchen below to the dining-hall on the second floor, with its gallery for musicians, and its panelling black with age, but nowhere was there a living creature.
Up above, in an attic, they found Marie, the elderly wife of the butler; but the owner kept no other servants, and of his own presence there was no trace. It was long, however, before Captain Baumgarten had satisfied himself upon the point. It was a difficult house to search. Thin stairs, which only one man could ascend at a time, connected lines of tortuous corridors. The walls were so thick that each room was cut off from its neighbour. Huge fireplaces yawned in each, while the windows were 6ft. Captain Baumgarten stamped with his feet, tore down curtains, and struck with the pommel of his sword.
If there were secret hiding-places, he was not fortunate enough to find them. It is likely enough that about daybreak our bird may return to the nest.
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The fellow will serve you with meat and wine. It is a wild night, and we shall be better here than on the country road. The logs are laid and we can light the fire.
You will call me if there is any alarm. What can you give me for supper--you? Let a guard go about with him, sergeant, and let him feel the end of a bayonet if he plays us any tricks. Captain Baumgarten was an old campaigner.
by Leroux, Gaston
In the Eastern provinces, and before that in Bohemia, he had learned the art of quartering himself upon the enemy. While the butler brought his supper he occupied himself in making his preparations for a comfortable night. He lit the candelabrum of ten candles upon the centre table. The fire was already burning up, crackling merrily, and sending spurts of blue, pungent smoke into the room. The captain walked to the window and looked out. The moon had gone in again, and it was raining heavily. He could hear the deep sough of the wind, and see the dark loom of the trees, all swaying in the one direction.
It was a sight which gave a zest to his comfortable quarters, and to the cold fowl and the bottle of wine which the butler had brought up for him. He was tired and hungry after his long tramp, so he threw his sword, his helmet, and his revolver-belt down upon a chair, and fell to eagerly upon his supper. Then, with his glass of wine before him and his cigar between his lips, he tilted his chair back and looked about him.
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He sat within a small circle of brilliant light which gleamed upon his silver shoulder-straps, and threw out his terra-cotta face, his heavy eyebrows, and his yellow moustache. But outside that circle things were vague and shadowy in the old dining-hall. Two sides were oak-panelled and two were hung with faded tapestry, across which huntsmen and dogs and stags were still dimly streaming.
Above the fireplace were rows of heraldic shields with the blazonings of the family and of its alliances, the fatal saltire cross breaking out on each of them. Four paintings of old seigneurs of Chateau Noir faced the fireplace, all men with hawk noses and bold, high features, so like each other that only the dress could distinguish the Crusader from the Cavalier of the Fronde. Captain Baumgarten, heavy with his repast, lay back in his chair looking up at them through the clouds of his tobacco smoke, and pondering over the strange chance which had sent him, a man from the Baltic coast, to eat his supper in the ancestral hall of these proud Norman chieftains.
But the fire was hot, and the captain's eyes were heavy. His chin sank slowly upon his chest, and the ten candles gleamed upon the broad, white scalp.
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