Adventure stories; France -- History -- Louis XI, 1461-1483 -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction
"And being there, Monsieur Hellewyl, you are where no gentleman should
ever put himself."
I shrugged my shoulders. For a man who knew the world so well Monsieur
de Commines was going the wrong way about gaining his end.
"To put myself right, then, I had best answer my own question; I shall
see Mademoiselle--to-morrow."
He only bowed, waited a second or two, then, saying carelessly that the
hour was late, called a lackey to show me my quarters for the night,
and we parted with constraint. Yes, Monsieur de Commines' lesson had
gone too far. I do not say it was not deserved, but youth loves to
think itself above laughter, and few things bite deeper through its
sensitive skin than does a barbed jest. That I was not only a fool,
but an ungrateful fool, I am now the first to admit. But a wound to
self-esteem has this quality, it blinds as well as galls and I could
see no farther than my temper.
As I leaned out of the narrow window that overlooked the river, my
indignation was too hot to be cooled by the night air, my irritation
too raw to be soothed by the beauty or strangeness of the scene. And
yet, to a man fresh from the outskirts of a Flanders wood, how much
there was of beauty and strangeness.
Underneath me, beyond the fosse, lay the garden, bordered on either
side by the thin stream of the water that fed the moat; beyond that
swept the river, broad and full and a-swirl with strength. Here it
gloomed to blackness, there it flashed bright and smooth as steel where
the moon caught the soundless slope of the currents as they met below
Ile Notre Dame. To the left the Tour de Nesle rose on the further
bank, black and sinister with its tradition of murder, the water
lapping almost to its buttresses. Still farther to the left was the
huge bulk of the Chateau Galliard; farther yet, and Notre Dame melted
into the vapours of the night, lost against the background of the Ile
des Vaches and Ile de Javiaux. Out of the vapours rose spires, towers,
and sloping roofs innumerable, shining with dew or edged to a white
effulgence as the full lustre of the moon glorified them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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