Adventure stories; France -- History -- Louis XI, 1461-1483 -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction
God be thanked for fresh air! The three greatest blessings in the
world are fresh air, pure water, and a clean life. Not even the ruin
behind us nor the dead at my feet could make stale the sweetness of the
breath that filled my lungs. A dozen steps from the door, Martin had
laid her on the grass, and for a moment we stood one on either side of
her, motionless. Then Martin went down on one knee and deliberately
began fumbling at the loose ends of the bow that knotted-in the kirtle
at the throat. Everywhere in the dress there were marks of Solignac's
disaster, powdered ash, jagged dents with frayed edges, blotches of
charcoal, smouldered holes even, but the stern hard face with the set
teeth and wide-open angry eyes was unbruised. It was only when he had
the two upper couple of tags unfastened that I guessed at his purpose
and it revolted me.
"Leave her alone!" I cried, leaning across her to push him back. "What
does it matter how she died?"
"It matters much," he answered. "D'you think it was for pure love and
pity that I grovelled in the heat yonder? Wait and see."
To his unaccustomed fingers--Martin knew as little of women or women's
gear as I did, and that was nothing--the knots were hard to unravel;
but at length he had enough undone to satisfy him, and he looked up.
"That," and he laid his hand upon a brown stain that stretched above
the ribs to the left, "is why I do it. You must see all Jan Meert's
work, Monsieur Gaspard, or how can you hope to pay all?" Loosening the
kirtle slightly, but no more than showed the withered muscles and cordy
sinews of the neck, he pushed his hand slowly, reverently beneath it.
"Aye! I thought so!" and again he looked up at me, sucking in his
breath with a gasp as we all do when we are hurt. "Not even her grey
head could save her. See here, Monsieur Gaspard!"
Drawing the edge of the stuff aside an inch or two he showed what I
have seen many times since, but never before, the smooth straight lips
of a sword wound. In the dry heat the skin had shrunk aside, and the
red flesh looked broadly out of the cut.
"Murdered! Babette murdered?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account