A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de Marsac by - (e reader for manga txt) 📗

‘But she—she has spoken of me lately?’ he continued, his face falling.

‘I do not think she has named your name for a fortnight,’ I answered, laughing. ‘There’s for you! Why, man,’ I continued, adopting a different tone, and laying my hand on his shoulder in a manner which reassured him at least; as much as my words, ‘are you so young a lover as to be ignorant that a woman says least of that of which she thinks most? Pluck up, courage! Unless I am mistaken, you have little to be afraid of except the past. Only have patience.’

‘You think so?’ he said gratefully.

I assured him that I had no doubt of it; and on that he fell into a reverie, and I to watching him. Alas for the littleness of our natures! He had received me with open arms, yet at sight of the happiness which took possession of his handsome face I gave way to the pettiest feeling which can harbour in a man’s breast. I looked at him with eyes of envy, bitterly comparing my lot with that which fate had reserved for him. He had fortune, good looks, and success on his side, great relations, and high hopes; I stood in instant jeopardy, my future dark, and every path which presented itself so hazardous that I knew not which to adopt. He was young, and I past my prime; he in favour, and I a fugitive.

To such reflections he put an end in a way which made me blush for my churlishness. For, suddenly awaking out, of his pleasant dream, he asked me about myself and my fortunes, inquiring eagerly how I came to be in St. Cloud, and listening to the story of my adventures with a generous anxiety which endeared him to me more and more. When I had done—and by that time Simon had joined us, and was waiting at the lower end of the room—he pronounced that I must see the king.

‘There is nothing else for it,’ he said.

‘I have come to see him,’ I answered.

‘Mon dieu, yes!’ he continued, rising from his seat and looking at me with a face of concern. ‘No one else can help you.’

I nodded.

‘Turenne has four thousand men here. You can do nothing against so many?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘The question is, will the king protect me?’

‘It is he or no one,’ M. d’Agen answered warmly. ‘You cannot see him to-night: he has a Council. To-morrow at daybreak you may. You must lie here to-night, and I will set my fellows to watch, and I think you will be safe. I will away now and see if my uncle will help. Can you think of anyone else who would speak for you?’

I considered, and was about to answer in the negative, when Simon, who had listened with a scared face, suggested M. de Crillon.

‘Yes, if he would,’ M. d’Agen exclaimed, looking at the lad with approbation. ‘He has weight with the king.’

‘I think he might,’ I replied slowly. ‘I had a curious encounter with him last night. And with that I told M. d’Agen of the duel I fought at the inn.

‘Good!’ he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘I wish I had been there to see. At any rate we will try him. Crillon fears no one, not even the king.’

So it was settled. For that night I was to keep close in my friend’s lodging, showing not even my nose at the window.

When he had gone on his errand, and I found myself alone in the room, I am fain to confess that I fell very low in my spirits. M. d’Agen’s travelling equipment lay about the apartment, but failed to give any but an untidy air to its roomy bareness. The light was beginning to wane, the sun was gone. Outside, the ringing of bells and the distant muttering of guns, with the tumult of sounds which rose from the crowded street, seemed to tell of joyous life and freedom, and all the hopes and ambitions from which I was cut off.

Having no other employment, I watched the street, and keeping myself well retired from the window saw knots of gay riders pass this way and that through the crowd, their corslets shining and their voices high. Monks and ladies, a cardinal and an ambassador, passed under my eyes—these and an endless procession of townsmen and beggars, soldiers and courtiers, Gascons, Normans and Picards. Never had I seen such a sight or so many people gathered together. It seemed as if half Paris had come out to make submission, so that while my gorge rose against my own imprisonment, the sight gradually diverted my mind from my private distresses, by bidding me find compensation for them in the speedy and glorious triumph of the cause.

Even when the light failed the pageant did not cease, but, torches and lanthorns springing into life, turned night into day. From every side came sounds of revelry or strife. The crowd continued to perambulate the streets until a late hour, with cries of ‘VIVE LE ROI!’ and ‘VIVE NAVARRE!’ while now and again the passage of a great noble with his suite called forth a fresh outburst of enthusiasm. Nothing seemed more certain, more inevitable, more clearly predestinated than that twenty-four hours must see the fall of Paris.

Yet Paris did not fall.

When M. d’Agen returned a little before midnight, he found me still sitting in the dark looking from the window. I heard him call roughly for lights, and apprised by the sound of his voice that something was wrong, I rose to meet him. He stood silent awhile, twirling his small moustaches, and then broke into a passionate tirade, from which I was not slow to gather that M. de Rambouillet declined to serve me.

‘Well,’ I said, feeling for the young man’s distress and embarrassment, ‘perhaps he is right.’

‘He says that word respecting you came this evening,’ my friend answered, his cheeks red with shame, ‘and that to countenance you after that would only be to court certain humiliation. I did not let him off too easily, I assure you,’ M. d’Agen continued, turning away to evade my gaze; ‘but I got no satisfaction. He said you had his good-will, and that to help you he would risk something, but that to do so under these circumstances would be only to injure himself.’

‘There is still Crillon,’ I said, with as much cheerfulness as I could assume. ‘Pray Heaven he be there early! Did M. de Rambouillet say anything else?’

‘That your only chance was to fly as quickly and secretly as possible.’

‘He thought; my situation desperate, then?’

My friend nodded; and scarcely less depressed on my account than ashamed on his own, evinced so much feeling that it was all I could do to comfort him; which I succeeded in doing only when I diverted the conversation to Madame de Bruhl. We passed the short night together, sharing the same room and the same bed, and talking more than we slept—of madame and mademoiselle, the castle on the hill, and the camp in the woods, of all old days en fin, but little of the future. Soon after dawn Simon, who lay