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 chose out for his first attentions the party of four whom I have
mentioned; going up to them and accosting them with a ruffling air,
directed especially to the gentleman in the mask. The latter lifted his
head haughtily on finding himself addressed by a stranger, but did not
offer to answer. Someone else did, however, for a sudden bellow like
that of an enraged bull proceeded from behind the settle. The words were
lost in noise, the unseen speaker’s anger seeming so overpowering that
he could not articulate; but the tone and voice, which were in some way
familiar to me, proved enough for the bully, who, covering his retreat
with a profound bow, backed out rapidly, muttering what was doubtless an
apology. Cocking his hat more fiercely to make up for this repulse,
he next proceeded to patrol the room, scowling from side to side as he
went, with the evident intention of picking a quarrel with someone less
formidable.
By ill-chance his eye lit, as he turned, on our masks. He said something
to his companions; and encouraged, no doubt, by the position of
our seats at the board, which led him to think us people of small
consequence, he came to a stop opposite us.
‘What! more dukes here?’ he cried scoffingly. ‘Hallo, you sir!’ he
continued to me, ‘will you not unmask and drink a glass with me?’
I thanked him civilly, but declined.
His insolent eyes were busy, while I spoke, with madame’s fair hair and
handsome figure, which her mask failed to hide. ‘Perhaps the ladies will
have better taste, sir,’ he said rudely. ‘Will they not honour us with a
sight of their pretty faces?’
Knowing the importance of keeping my temper I put constraint on myself,
and answered, still with civility, that they were greatly fatigued and
were about to retire.
‘Zounds!’ he cried, ‘that is not to be borne. If we are to lose them so
soon, the more reason we should enjoy their BEAUX YEUX while we can.
A short life and a merry one, sir. This is not a nunnery, nor, I dare
swear, are your fair friends nuns.’
Though I longed to chastise him for this insult, I feigned deafness,
and went on with my meal as if I had not heard him; and the table being
between us prevented him going beyond words. After he had uttered one or
two coarse jests of a similar character, which cost us less as we were
masked, and our emotions could only be guessed, the crowd about us,
seeing I took the thing quietly, began to applaud him; but more as it
seemed to me out of fear than love. In this opinion I was presently
confirmed on hearing from Simon who whispered the information in my
ear as he handed a dish--that the fellow was an Italian captain in the
king’s pay, famous for his skill with the sword and the many duels in
which he had displayed it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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