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
‘But you will not pass through the streets alone?’
She laughed so bitterly my heart ached for her. ‘The unhappy are always
safe,’ she said.
Remembering how short a time it was since I had surprised her in the
first happiness of wedded love, I felt for her all the pity it was
natural I should feel. But the responsibility under which his Majesty’s
presence and the charge of mademoiselle laid me forbade me to indulge
in the luxury of evincing my gratitude. Gladly would I have escorted her
back to her home--even if I could not make that home again what it had
been, or restore her husband to the pinnacle from which I had dashed
him--but I dared not do this. I was forced to content myself with less,
and was about to offer to send one of my men with her, when a hurried
knocking at the outer door arrested the words on my lips.
Signing to her to stand still, I listened. The knocking was repeated,
and grew each moment more urgent. There was a little grille, strongly
wired, in the upper part of the door, and this I was about to open in
order to learn what was amiss, when Simon’s voice reached me from the
farther side imploring me to open the door quickly. Doubting the lad’s
prudence, yet afraid to refuse lest I should lose some warning he had to
give, I paused a second, and then undid the fastenings. The moment the
door gave way he fell in bodily, crying out to me to bar it behind him.
I caught a glimpse through the gap of a glare as of torches, and saw
by this light half a dozen flushed faces in the act of rising above the
edge of the landing. The men who owned them raised a shout of triumph at
sight of me, and, clearing the upper steps at a bound, made a rush for
the door. But in vain. We had just time to close it and drop the two
stout bars. In a moment, in a second, the fierce outcry fell to a dull
roar; and safe for the time, we had leisure to look in one another’s
faces and learn the different aspects of alarm. Madame was white to the
lips, while Simon’s eyes seemed starting from his head, and he shook in
every limb with terror.
At first, on my asking him what it meant, he could not speak. But that
would not do, and I was in the act of seizing him by the collar to force
an answer from him when the inner door opened, and the king came out,
his face wearing an air of so much cheerfulness as proved both his
satisfaction with mademoiselle’s story and his ignorance of all we were
about. In a word he had not yet taken the least alarm; but seeing Simon
in my hands, and madame leaning against the wall by the door like one
deprived of life, he stood and cried out in surprise to know what it
was.
‘I fear we are besieged, sire,’ I answered desperately, feeling my
anxieties increased a hundredfold by his appearance--‘but by whom I
cannot say. This lad knows, however,’ I continued, giving Simon, a
vicious shake, ‘and he shall speak. Now, trembler,’ I said to him, ‘tell
your tale?’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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