Adventure stories; France -- History -- Louis XI, 1461-1483 -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Fiction
Partly this isolation pleased me, for it threw me much with
Mademoiselle Suzanne and the young Count, but only to find myself again
fumbling with a doubt. The puzzle was Mademoiselle herself. In Paris
she had stood for Narbonne and Navarre, pleading in the nation's stead
as the very equal of Philip de Commines, while here, amongst her own
folk, she was no more than body-servant to a child of six, his nurse,
his playfellow, and at his wilful beck every hour of the day and night.
It was true that Morsigny treated her with all respect, but her
humility to the child Gaston was greater than the humility of Morsigny
to Mademoiselle Suzanne D'Orfeuil.
To solve a puzzle the best course is to examine it closely and with
persistent diligence. That is one obvious statement. Here is another:
it is a pleasant thing when duty and desire run in pairs. So it was
now with me, or so I persuaded myself. To solve the puzzle was my
desire, to secure the person of the little Count was my duty, and the
way to achieve both was to keep a close attendance on Mademoiselle--or
so, and with great ease, again I persuaded myself.
Day by day, then, that I might the better fulfil my mission, we rode,
we hawked, we hunted, we strolled, Count Gaston always one of three,
and, what was much less satisfactory, a full-armed guard always where I
did not desire them to be.
If we cooled ourselves in the woods, Anton and Pierre were prowling
somewhere in the coverts; if we sunned ourselves in the garden, and
played at the humanising passion of flower-culture, 'Tuco or Hugues
glowered at me from unexpected corners. Was Mademoiselle doubtful of
my loyalty? At the time I did not think so, but Navarre was unsleeping
in its suspicions of France, and to Morsigny we stood for all that was
hated in King Louis. It rather seemed to me as if their watchfulness
drove us closer together, as if she would make up to the stranger for
their surly want of confidence. For day by day she grew more frank,
though never forgetting what was due from the nurse of Count Gaston to
the friend of Philip de Commines.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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