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 perfect stillness of the valley, the clearness of the air, and the
absence of any sign of life in the castle before us--which might have
been that of the Sleeping Princess, so fairy-like it looked against the
sky--with the suspense and excitement in our own breasts, which these
peculiarities seemed to increase a hundred-fold, made the time that
followed one of the strangest in my experience. It was nearly ten
o’clock, and the warm sunshine flooding everything about us rendered
the ascent, laden as we were, laborious in the extreme. The crisp,
short turf, which had scarcely got its spring growth, was slippery and
treacherous. We dared not hasten, for we knew not what eyes were upon
us, and we dared as little after we had gone half-way--lay our faggots
down, lest the action should disclose too much of our features.
When we had reached a point within a hundred paces of the gate, which
still remained obstinately closed, we stood to breathe ourselves, and
balancing my bundle on my head, I turned to make sure that all was right
behind us. I found that M. d’Agen, intent on keeping his distance,
had chosen the same moment for rest, and was sitting in a very natural
manner on his faggot, mopping his face with the sleeve of his jerkin.
I scanned the brown leafless wood, in which we had left Maignan and our
men; but I could detect no glitter among the trees nor any appearance
likely to betray us. Satisfied on these points, I muttered a few
words of encouragement to Fanchette, whose face was streaming with
perspiration; and together we turned and addressed ourselves to our
task, fatigue--for we had had no practice in carrying burdens on the
head--enabling us to counterfeit the decrepitude of age almost to the
life.
The same silence prevailing as we drew nearer inspired me with not a few
doubts and misgivings. Even the bleat of a sheep would have been welcome
in the midst of a stillness which seemed ominous. But no sheep bleated,
no voice hailed us. The gate, ill-hung and full of fissures, remained
closed. Step by step we staggered up to it, and at length reached it.
Afraid to speak lest my accent should betray me, I struck the forepart
of my faggot against it and waited: doubting whether our whole stratagem
had not been perceived from the beginning, and a pistol-shot might not
be the retort.
Nothing of the kind happened, however. The sound of the blow, which
echoed dully through the building, died away, and the old silence
resumed its sway. We knocked again, but fully two minutes elapsed before
a grumbling voice, as of a man aroused from sleep, was heard drawing
near, and footsteps came slowly and heavily to the gate. Probably the
fellow inspected us through a loophole, for he paused a moment, and my
heart sank; but the next, seeing nothing suspicious, he unbarred the
gate with a querulous oath, and, pushing it open, bade us enter and be
quick about it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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