Château de Roussan****

Hotel and Restaurant in Saint Remy de Provence

History

The History

What better way of introducing you to Roussan than by letting the Château speak for itself? Where do you come from, wonderful mansion? Which memories of the past centuries would you like to share with us? Tell us the tale of Roussan…

My first master having drawn history’s attention was, during the second half of the XVIth century, the Captain and Knight Bertrand de Nostredame, brother of Nostradamus. I was to him the ‘treasured love of his life, the heart of his heart’. What better hymn to love than the one that gave me life?

On the 16th of January 1608, Bertrand de Nostredame’s grandson handed me over to a cousin of his, Melchior Jacques de Joannis de Nochère, and through an inheritance, I fell between the hands of Diane de Joannis de Roussan. Allow me to tell you about the tragic destiny of my lovely Lady Diane, known as the ‘Belle de Provence’.

Her first and great love was the young and handsome Marquis de Castellane, with whom she lived many years of her life. Upon the friendly invitation of Mme de Sévigné, the couple travelled to Paris, and Lady Diane was introduced to the King Louis the XIVth. He danced with her, probably a menuet, and courted her avidly.

In 1701, I became the property of Sir Jean Antoine de Servan, from Tarascon. I was left to his nephew, the general lawyer in the parliament of the Dauphiné, who retired here with his wife, Lady Dupoirier, a kind and noblewoman who dedicated her time to helping the poor and ill people in Saint‐Remy‐de‐Provence.

In 1848, the family de Buchaud de Bussy opened my door, bringing with them many embellishments, like the greenhouse; until 1887, when the Roussel family acquired me with the same love and passion they have for me today.

Therefore, as you are reading these lines, you are welcome here thanks to the love that Philippe Roussel and his wife, Irène Sabatier d’Espeyron have for their Provencal mansion.

Guardian angels of these walls, I owe them my recent revival.


Angelot Je ne compte que les heures sereines