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
I ran my eye over the company, and noticed among them, besides a dozen
travelling parties like our own, specimens of all those classes which
are to be found in the rear of an army. There were some officers and
more horse-dealers; half a dozen forage-agents and a few priests; with a
large sprinkling of adventurers, braves, and led-captains, and here and
there two or three whose dress and the deference paid to them by their
neighbours seemed to indicate a higher rank. Conspicuous among these
last were a party of four who occupied a small table by the door. An
attempt had been made to secure some degree of privacy for them by
interposing a settle between them and the room; and their attendants,
who seemed to be numerous, did what they could to add to this by filling
the gap with their persons. One of the four, a man of handsome dress
and bearing, who sat in the place of honour, was masked, as we were. The
gentleman at his right hand I could not see. The others, whom I could
see, were strangers to me.
Some time elapsed before our people succeeded in procuring us any food,
and during the interval we were exposed to an amount of comment on the
part of those round us which I found very little to my liking. There
were not half a dozen women present, and this and our masks rendered my
companions unpleasantly conspicuous. Aware, however, of the importance
of avoiding an altercation which might possibly detain us, and would
be certain to add to our notoriety, I remained quiet; and presently the
entrance of a tall, dark-complexioned man, who carried himself with
a peculiar swagger, and seemed to be famous for something or other,
diverted the attention of the company from us.
The new-comer was somewhat of Maignan’s figure. He wore a back and
breast over a green doublet, and had an orange feather in his cap and an
orange-lined cloak on his shoulder. On entering he stood a moment in the
doorway, letting his bold black eyes rove round the room, the while he
talked in a loud braggart fashion to his companions. There was a lack of
breeding in the man’s air, and something offensive in his look; which I
noticed produced wherever it rested a momentary silence and constraint.
When he moved farther into the room I saw that he wore a very long
sword, the point of which trailed a foot behind him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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