My Sword's My Fortune: A Story of Old FranceHayens, Herbert
History
My Sword's My Fortune: A Story of Old France
Hayens, Herbert
France -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction
But I reflected there were more people who would notice my velvet suit,
silver aigulets, lace collar, black hat with its imposing feather, and
black leather boots, than would know I lived in two small rooms in a
dirty street; and experience has taught me how high a value the world
sets on outside show. So I walked with head erect, and just the
smallest swagger, and the passers-by did not fail to yield the wall to
such a brilliant gallant. Albert de Lalande in rich velvet was a very
different person from the simple country youth in rusty black, whose
poverty had provoked the sneers of the guests at Vancey.
By one of those wonderful changes, which, more than anything, marked
this period, Paris had become quiet and peaceful. The Frondeurs, as
Mazarin's enemies were called, had stopped their private quarrels; the
friends of Orleans joked with those of Conde; the agents of Mazarin and
the followers of De Retz walked together like brothers; the citizens
laid aside their weapons; the night-hawks had returned to their roosts.
Instead of meeting with insults, the Queen Regent was greeted with
applause; people shouted themselves hoarse on seeing the little King,
thus expressing their loyalty in the cheapest and emptiest manner.
But no one, except his paid servants, spoke a word in favour of
Mazarin, and in his cabinet at the Palais Royal, the real ruler of
France sat like a big spider spinning his web; very slowly, very
patiently, but strongly and surely. The threads might become loose or
even destroyed; it mattered not. With a steady perseverance that no
defeat could daunt, the spinning went on. The loose ends were caught
up; fresh threads replaced those carried away. It was plain that the
death of the spinner alone could prevent the completion of the web.
But this was looking too far ahead for all save a very few. The
majority accepted the strange truce without question, and, happy in the
present sunshine, cared nothing for the dark clouds that might arise in
the future.
The streets were thronged with pleasure-seekers, and at night I could
scarcely reach the Luxembourg for the crowd. It was a pleasant crowd,
however, totally unlike the surly threatening mob I had twice seen and
did not wish to see again. No one quarrelled; nothing constituted a
cause for anger; the nearest approach to ill-humour being a
reproachful, "Oh, monsieur, you trod on my foot!" from a pretty girl to
a stout citizen, who offered a thousand apologies for his clumsiness,
and was charmingly pardoned.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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