Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2)James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
History
Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2)
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
France -- History -- Henry II, 1547-1559 -- Fiction
"His gown sha'n't save him," replied the count. "Those priests have too
much immunity already in all parts of the world. But what do you now, de
Rohan? Will you hunt with me to-day, and we will drive this Lord of
Masseran's deer from one end of Savoy to the other? or do you go on to
Paris at once, and deny me your good company?"
"I write to Paris," replied the cavalier, "and send off a messenger
immediately. But I myself go up to seek this Lord of Masseran. I have
despatches for him from the Marechal de Brissac, and also some orders to
give by word of mouth."
"I hope they are not disagreeable orders," replied the count, turning
towards the door of the inn; "for he is not one of those whom I should
like to offend in his own castle."
"Oh no, I shall say nothing that should offend him," replied Bernard de
Rohan. "But, besides that, I shall not go till after the arrival of the
rest of my men, who come across the mountain this morning; and he might
find it rather dangerous to do me harm."
"His ways of dealing with troublesome friends are various," replied the
count. "I should love neither to dine nor to sleep in his dwelling. A
word to the wise, good friend, a word to the wise! Now, my men, quick!
quick! get ready the horses, bring out the dogs. You will not be
tempted, De Rohan?"
"I cannot now," replied his friend. "Another day, if I stay so long. I
wish you sport, I wish you good sport;" and, turning towards his
chamber, he caused a table to be brought, and materials for writing to
be placed before him. He there remained for nearly an hour and a half,
busily tracing upon paper those small black characters which, since some
man--whether Cadmus, who, if he did it, may well be said to have sown
dragons' teeth and reaped a harvest of strife, or whoever else the
learned world may have it--those black characters, I say, which, since
some man, not contented with what mischief the tongue can do, invented
writing for the propagation thereof, have worked more of wo and
mischief, as well as of happiness and prosperity, than any other
invention that the prolific mind of man ever brought forth. At length
the sound of a trumpet coming down the hill saluted his ear, and in a
few minutes after it was announced to him that the rest of his train had
arrived.
CHAPTER VI.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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