A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de MarsacWeyman, Stanley John
History
A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de Marsac
Weyman, Stanley John
France -- History -- Henry III, 1574-1589 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
The Court being in mourning for the Queen-mother, black predominated
in the dresses of those present, and set off very finely the gleaming
jewels and gemmed sword-hilts which were worn by the more important
personages. The room was spacious and lofty, hung with arras, and lit by
candles burning in silver sconces; it rang as we entered with the shrill
screaming of a parrot, which was being teased by a group occupying the
farther of the two hearths. Near them play was going on at one table,
and primero at a second. In a corner were three or four ladies, in
a circle about a red-faced, plebeian-looking man, who was playing at
forfeits with one of their number; while the middle of the room
seemed dominated by a middle-sized man with a peculiarly inflamed and
passionate countenance, who, seated on a table, was inveighing against
someone or something in the most violent terms, his language being
interlarded with all kinds of strange and forcible oaths. Two or three
gentlemen, who had the air of being his followers, stood about him,
listening between submission and embarrassment; while beside the nearer
fireplace, but at some distance from him, lounged a nobleman, very
richly dressed, and wearing on his breast the Cross of the Holy Ghost;
who seemed to be the object of his invective, but affecting to ignore it
was engaged in conversation with a companion. A bystander muttering that
Crillon had been drinking, I discovered with immense surprise that the
declaimer on the table was that famous soldier; and I was still looking
at him in wonder--for I had been accustomed all my life to associate
courage with modesty--when, the door of the chamber suddenly opening, a
general movement in that direction took place. Crillon, disregarding all
precedency, sprang from his table and hurried first to the threshold.
The Baron de Biron, on the other hand--for the gentleman by the fire was
no other--waited, in apparent ignorance of the slight which was being
put upon him, until M. de Rambouillet came up; then he went forward
with him. Keeping close to my patron’s elbow, I entered the chamber
immediately behind him.
Crillon had already seized upon the king, and, when we entered, was
stating his grievance is a voice not much lower than that which he had
used outside. M. de Biron, seeing this, parted from the marquis, and,
going aside with his former companion, sat down on a trunk against the
wall; while Rambouillet, followed by myself and three or four gentlemen
of his train, advanced to the king, who was standing near the alcove.
His Majesty seeing him, and thankful, I think, for the excuse, waved
Crillon off. ‘Tut, tut! You told me all that this morning,’ he said
good-naturedly. ‘And here is Rambouillet, who has, I hope, something
fresh to tell. Let him speak to me. Sanctus! Don’t look at me as if
you would run me through, man. Go and quarrel with someone of your own
size.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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