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
Returning to my room, and locking the door, I hastily opened the
missive, which was sealed with a large seal, and wore every appearance
of importance. I found its contents to exceed all my expectations. The
King of Navarre desired me to wait on him at noon on the following day,
and the letter concluded with such expressions of kindness and goodwill
as left me in no doubt of the Prince’s intentions. I read it, I confess,
with emotions of joy and gratitude which would better have become a
younger man, and then cheerfully sat down to spend the rest of the
day in making such improvements in my dress as seemed possible. With a
thankful heart I concluded that I had now escaped from poverty, at any
rate from such poverty as is disgraceful to a gentleman; and consoled
myself for the meanness of the appearance I must make at Court with the
reflection that a day or two would mend both habit and fortune.
Accordingly, it was with a stout heart that I left my lodgings a few
minutes before noon next morning, and walked towards the castle. It was
some time since I had made so public an appearance in the streets, which
the visit of the King of Navarre’s Court; had filled with an unusual
crowd, and I could not help fancying as I passed that some of the
loiterers eyed me with a covert smile; and, indeed, I was shabby enough.
But finding that a frown more than sufficed to restore the gravity of
these gentry, I set down the appearance to my own self-consciousness,
and, stroking my moustachios, strode along boldly until I saw before me,
and coming to meet me, the same page who had delivered the note.
He stopped in front of me with an air of consequence, and making me a
low bow--whereat I saw the bystanders stare, for he was as gay a young
spark as maid-of-honour could desire--he begged me to hasten, as the
king awaited me in his closet.
‘He has asked for you twice, sir,’ he continued importantly, the feather
of his cap almost sweeping the ground.
‘I think,’ I answered, quickening my steps, ‘that the king’s letter says
noon, young sir. If I am late on such an occasion, he has indeed cause
to complain of me.’
‘Tut, tut!’ he rejoined waving his hand with a dandified ‘It is no
matter. One man may steal a horse when another may not look over the
wall, you know.’
A man may be gray-haired, he may be sad-complexioned, and yet he may
retain some of the freshness of youth. On receiving this indication of a
favour exceeding all expectation, I remember I felt the blood rise to
my face, and experienced the most lively gratitude. I wondered who had
spoken in my behalf, who had befriended me; and concluding at last that
my part in the affair at Brouage had come to the king’s ears, though I
could not conceive through whom, I passed through the castle gates with
an air of confidence and elation which was not unnatural, I think, under
the circumstances. Thence, following my guide, I mounted the ramp and
entered the courtyard.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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