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
That, I thank God, restored me to myself, or I had been for ever shamed.
I cried to them with all the voice I had left to take her away; and
calling out frantically again and again that I had the plague and she
would die, I bade the man close the door. Nay, regaining something of
strength in my fear for her, I rose up, half-dressed as I was, and would
have fled into some corner to avoid her, still calling out to them to
take her away, to take her away--if a fresh paroxysm had not seized me,
so that I fell blind and helpless where I was.
For a time after that I knew nothing; until someone held water to my
lips, and I drank greedily, and presently awoke to the fact that the
entrance was dark with faces and figures all gazing at me as I lay. But
I could not see her; and I had sense enough to know and be thankful that
she was no longer among them. I would fain have bidden Maignan to begone
too, for I read the consternation in his face. But I could not muster
strength or voice for the purpose, and when I turned my head to see
who held me--ah me! it comes back to me still in dreams--it was
mademoiselle’s hair that swept my forehead and her hand that ministered
to me; while tears she did not try to hide or wipe away fell on my hot
cheek. I could have pushed her away even then, for she was slight and
small; but the pains came upon me, and with a sob choking my voice I
lost all knowledge.
I am told that I lay for more than a month between life and death,
now burning with fever and now in the cold fit; and that but for the
tendance which never failed nor faltered, nor could have been outdone
had my malady been the least infectious in the world. I must have died
a hundred times, as hundreds round me did die week by week in that year.
From the first they took me out of the house (where I think I should
have perished quickly, so impregnated was it with the plague poison) and
laid me under a screen of boughs in the forest, with a vast quantity of
cloaks and horse-cloths cunningly disposed to windward. Here I ran some
risk from cold and exposure and the fall of heavy dews; but, on the
other hand, had all the airs of heaven to clear away the humours and
expel the fever from my brain.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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