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
The very brevity of her reply; the joyful sob which accompanied it,
and which I detected even through the door; the wild cry of
thankfulness--almost an oath--of her companion--all these assured me
at once that I was welcome--welcome as I had never been before--and, so
assuring me, braced me to the height of any occasion which might befall.
‘Can you open the door? I muttered. All the time I was on my knees, my
attention divided between the inside of the room and the stray sounds
which now and then came up to me from the hall below. ‘Have you the
key?’
‘No; we are locked in,’ mademoiselle answered.
I expected this. ‘If the door is bolted inside,’ I whispered, ‘unfasten
it, if you please!’
They answered that it was not, so bidding them stand back a little from
it, I rose and set my shoulder against it. I hoped to be able to burst
it in with only one crash, which by itself, a single sound, might not
alarm the men downstairs. But my weight made no impression upon the
lock, and the opposite wall being too far distant to allow me to get any
purchase for my feet, I presently desisted. The closeness of the door
to the jambs warned me that an attempt to prise it open would be equally
futile; and for a moment I stood gazing in perplexity at the solid
planks, which bid fair to baffle me to the end.
The position was, indeed, one of great difficulty, nor can I now think
of any way out of it better or other than that which I adopted. Against
the wall near the head of the stairs I had noticed, as I came up, a
stout wooden stool. I stole out and fetched this, and setting it against
the opposite wall, endeavoured in this way to get sufficient purchase
for my feet. The lock still held; but, as I threw my whole weight on the
door, the panel against which I leaned gave way and broke inwards with
a loud, crashing sound, which echoed through the empty house, and might
almost have been beard in the street outside.
It reached the ears, at any rate, of the men sitting below, and I heard
them troop noisily out and stand in the hall, now talking loudly, and
now listening. A minute of breathless suspense followed--it seemed a
long minute; and then, to my relief, they tramped back again, and I
was free to return to my task. Another thrust, directed a little lower,
would, I hoped, do the business; but to make this the more certain I
knelt down and secured the stool firmly against the wall. As I rose
after settling it, something else, without sound or warning, rose also,
taking me completely by surprise--a man’s head above the top stair,
which, as it happened, faced me. His eyes met mine, and I knew I was
discovered.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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