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
He left me amazed beyond measure. I stood repeating his phrase about
‘the full price’ a hundred times over, but still found it and his
passion inexplicable. To cut the matter short, I could come to no other
conclusion than that he desired to insult me, and aware of my poverty
and the equivocal position in which I stood towards mademoiselle, chose
his words accordingly. This seemed a thing unworthy of one of whom I
had before thought highly; but calmer reflection enabling me to see
something of youthful bombast in the tirade he had delivered, I smiled
a little sadly, and determined to think no more of the matter for the
present, but to persist firmly in that which seemed to me to be the
right course.
Having settled this, I was about to enter the house, when Maignan
stopped me, telling me that the plague had killed five people in it,
letting only the man we had seen; who had, indeed, been seized, but
recovered. This ghastly news had scared my company to such a degree that
they had gone as far from the house as the level ground permitted, and
there lighted a fire, round which they were going to pass the night.
Fanchette had taken up her quarters in the stable, and the equerry
announced that he had kept a shed full of sweet hay for M. d’Agen and
myself. I assented to this arrangement, and after supping off soup and
black bread, which was all we could procure, bade the peasant rouse us
two hours before sunrise; and so, being too weary and old in service to
remain awake thinking, I fell asleep, and slept; soundly till a little
after four.
My first business on rising was to see that the men before mounting made
a meal, for it is ill work fighting empty. I went round also and saw
that all had their arms, and that such as carried pistols had them
loaded and primed. Francois did not put in an appearance until this work
was done, and then showed a very pale and gloomy countenance. I took no
heed of him, however, and with the first streak of daylight we started
in single file and at a snail’s pace up the valley, the peasant, whom I
placed in Maignan’s charge, going before to guide us, and M. d’Agen and
I riding in the rear. By the time the sun rose and warmed our chilled
and shivering frames we were over the worst of the ground, and were able
to advance at some speed along a track cut through a dense forest of
oak-trees.
Though we had now risen out of the valley, the close-set trunks and the
undergrowth round them prevented our seeing in any direction. For a mile
or more we rode on blindly, and presently started on finding ourselves
on the brow of a hill, looking down into a valley, the nearer end of
which was clothed in woods, while the farther widened into green sloping
pastures. From the midst of these a hill or mount rose sharply up,
until it ended in walls of grey stone scarce to be distinguished at that
distance from the native rock on which they stood.
‘See!’ cried our guide. ‘There is the castle!’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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