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
‘We only want to know this,’ I said, speaking slowly, in fear lest my
language should be little more intelligible to them than their PATOIS to
me. ‘There are a dozen horsemen in the old castle there, are there not?’
The man stilled his wife, who continued to chatter and mow at us, and
answered eagerly that there were; adding, with a trembling oath, that
the robbers had beaten him, robbed him of his small store of meal, and
when he would have protested, thrown him out, breaking his leg.
‘Then how came you here?’ I said.
‘She brought me on her back,’ he answered feebly.
Doubtless there were men in my train who would have done all that these
others had done; but hearing the simple story told, they stamped and
swore great oaths of indignation; and one, the roughest of the party,
took out some black bread and gave it to the woman, whom under other
circumstances he would not have hesitated to rob. Maignan, who knew
all arts appertaining to war, examined the man’s leg and made a kind of
cradle for it, while I questioned the woman.
‘They are there still?’ I said. ‘I saw their horses tethered under the
walls.’
‘Yes, God requite them!’ she answered, trembling violently.
‘Tell me about the castle, my good woman,’ I said. ‘How many roads into
it are there?’
‘Only one.’
‘Through the nearer tower?’
She said yes, and finding that she understood me, and was less dull of
intellect than her wretched appearance led me to expect, I put a series
of questions to her which it would be tedious to detail. Suffice it
that I learned that it was impossible to enter or leave the ruin except
through the nearer tower; that a rickety temporary gate barred the
entrance, and that from this tower, which was a mere shell of four
walls, a narrow square-headed doorway without a door led into the court,
beyond which rose the habitable tower of two stories.
‘Do you know if they intend to stay there?’ I asked
‘Oh, ay, they bade me bring them faggots for their fire this morning,
and I should have a handful of my own meal back,’ she answered bitterly;
and fell thereon into a passion of impotent rage, shaking both her
clenched hands in the direction of the castle, and screaming frenzied
maledictions in her cracked and quavering voice.
I pondered awhile over what she had said; liking very little the thought
of that narrow square-headed doorway through which we must pass before
we could effect anything. And the gate, too, troubled me. It might not
be a strong one, but we had neither powder, nor guns, nor any siege
implements, and could not pull down stone walls with our naked hands. By
seizing the horses we could indeed cut off Bruhl’s retreat; but he might
still escape in the night; and in any case our pains would only increase
the women’s hardships while adding fuel to his rage. We must have some
other plan.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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