France -- History -- Louis XIII, 1610-1643 -- Fiction
They were still at table when a great barking of dogs was heard
without, together with the noise of horses’ feet, and in a moment three
loud, impatient knocks upon the outer door resounded through the house.
Mionnette rushed to open it, whereupon a gentleman entered, followed by
a number of dogs, who nearly knocked the tall maid-servant over in
their eagerness to get in, and rushed into the dining-room where our
friends were assembled, barking, jumping over each other, and licking
off the plates that had been used and removed to a low side table,
before their master could stop them. A few sharp cuts with the whip he
held in his hand distributed promiscuously among them, without
distinction between the innocent and the guilty ones, quieted this
uproar as if by magic, and the aggressive hounds, taking refuge under
the benches ranged along the walls, curled themselves round on the
floor and went comfortably to sleep, or lay panting, with their red
tongues hanging out of their mouths and heads reposing on their
fore-paws—not daring to stir.
The obstreperous dogs thus disposed of, the cavalier advanced into the
room, with the calm assurance of a man who feels perfectly at his ease;
his spurs ringing against the stone floor at every step. The landlord
followed him obsequiously, cap in hand, cringing and bowing in most
humble fashion—having entirely laid aside his boasting air and
evidently feeling very ill at ease—this being a personage of whom he
stood in awe. As the gentleman approached the table he politely saluted
the company, before turning to give his orders to Maître Chirriguirri,
who stood silently awaiting them.
The newcomer was a handsome man of about thirty, with curly light hair,
and a fair complexion, somewhat reddened by exposure to the sun. His
eyes were blue, and rather prominent, his nose slightly retroussi; his
small blond mustache was carefully turned up at the ends, and scarcely
shaded a well-formed but sensual mouth, below which was a small,
pointed beard—called a royal in those days, an imperial in these. As he
took off his broad felt hat, richly ornamented with long sweeping
plumes, and threw it carelessly down on one of the benches, it was seen
that his smooth, broad forehead was snowy white, and the contrast with
his sunburnt cheeks was not by any means displeasing. Indeed it was a
very handsome, attractive face, in which an expression of frank gaiety
and good humour tempered the air of pride that pervaded it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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