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 swore two or three great oaths, such as men of his kind use to hide
an excess of feeling, and after some further remonstrance went away to
carry out my orders; leaving me to stand on the brow in a strange kind
of solitude, and watch horses and men withdraw to the wood, until the
whole valley seemed left to me and stillness and the grey evening. For
a time I stood in thought. Then reminding myself, for a fillip to my
spirits, that I had been far more alone when I walked the streets of St.
Jean friendless and threadbare (than I was now), I turned, and swinging
my scabbard against my boots for company, stumbled through the dark,
silent courtyard, and mounted as cheerfully as I could to madame’s room.
To detail all that passed during the next five days would be tedious
and in indifferent taste, seeing that I am writing this memoir for the
perusal of men of honour; for though I consider the offices which the
whole can perform for the sick to be worthy of the attention of every
man, however well born, who proposes to see service, they seem to be
more honourable in the doing than the telling. One episode, however,
which marked those days filled me then, as it does now, with the most
lively pleasure; and that was the unexpected devotion displayed by Simon
Fleix, who, coming to me, refused to leave, and showed himself at this
pinch to be possessed of such sterling qualities that I freely forgave
him the deceit he had formerly practised on me. The fits of moody
silence into which he still fell at times and an occasional irascibility
seemed to show that he had not altogether conquered his insane fancy;
but the mere fact that; he had come to me in a situation of hazard, and
voluntarily removed himself from mademoiselle’s neighbourhood, gave me
good hope for the future.
M. de Bruhl died early on the morning of the second day, and Simon and
I buried him at noon. He was a man of courage and address, lacking only
principles. In spite of madame’s grief and prostration, which were as
great as though she had lost the best husband in the world, we removed
before night to a separate camp in the woods; and left with the utmost
relief the grey ruin on the hill, in which, it seemed to me, we had
lived an age. In our new bivouac, where, game being abundant, and the
weather warm, we lacked no comfort, except the society of our friends,
we remained four days longer. On the fifth morning we met the others of
our company by appointment on the north road, and commenced the return
journey.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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