A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de Marsac by - (best love novels of all time .txt) 📕

‘Well!’ he said at, last, speaking slowly and with unimaginable insolence, ‘I am here to look at you!’

I felt my anger rise, and gave him back look for look. ‘At your will,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

‘And to solve a question,’ he continued in the same tone. ‘To learn whether the man who was mad enough to insult and defy me was the old penniless dullard some called him, or the dare-devil others painted him.’

‘You are satisfied now?’ I said.

He eyed me for a moment closely; then with sudden heat he cried, ‘Curse me if I am! Nor whether I have to do with a man very deep or very shallow, a fool or a knave!’

‘You may say what you please to a prisoner,’ I retorted coldly.

‘Turenne commonly does—to whom he pleases!’ he answered. The next moment he made me start by saying, as he drew out a comfit-box and opened it, ‘I am just from the little fool you have bewitched. If she were in my power I would have her whipped and put on bread and water till she came to her senses. As she is not, I must take another way. Have you any idea, may I ask,’ he continued in his cynical tone, ‘what is going to become of you, M. de Marsac?’

I replied, my heart inexpressibly lightened by what he had said of mademoiselle, that I placed the fullest confidence in the justice of the King of Navarre.

He repeated the name in a tone, I did not understand.

‘Yes, sir, the King of Navarre,’ I answered firmly.

‘Well, I daresay you have good reason to do so,’ he rejoined with a sneer. ‘Unless I am mistaken he knew a little more of this affair than he acknowledges.’

‘Indeed? The King of Navarre?’ I said, staring stolidly at him.

‘Yes, indeed, indeed, the King of Navarre!’ he retorted, mimicking me, with a nearer approach to anger than I had yet witnessed in him. ‘But let him be a moment, sirrah!’ he continued, ‘and do you listen to me. Or first look at that. Seeing is believing.’

He drew out as he spoke a paper, or, to speak more correctly, a parchment, which he thrust with a kind of savage scorn into my hand. Repressing for the moment the surprise I felt, I took it to the window, and reading it with difficulty, found it to be a royal patent drawn, as far as I could judge, in due form, and appointing some person unknown—for the name was left blank—to the post of Lieutenant-Governor of the Armagnac, with a salary of twelve thousand livres a year!

‘Well, sir?’ he said impatiently.

‘Well?’ I answered mechanically. For my brain reeled; the exhibition of such a paper in such a way raised extraordinary thoughts in my mind.

‘Can you read it?’ he asked.

‘Certainly,’ I answered, telling myself that he would fain play a trick on me.

‘Very well,’ he replied, ‘then listen. I am going to condescend; to make you an offer, M. de Marsac. I will procure you your freedom, and fill up the blank, which you see there, with your name—upon one condition.’

I stared at him with all the astonishment it was natural for me to feel in the face, of such a proposition. ‘You will confer this office on me?’ I muttered incredulously.

‘The king having placed it at my disposal,’ he answered, ‘I will. But first let me remind you,’ he went on proudly, ‘that the affair has another side. On the one hand I offer you such employment, M. de Marsac, as should satisfy your highest ambition. On the other, I warn you that my power to avenge myself is no less to-day than it was yesterday; and that if I condescend to buy you, it is because that course commends itself to me for reasons, not because it is the only one open.’

I bowed. ‘The condition, M. le Vicomte?’ I said huskily, beginning to understand him.

‘That you give up all claim and suit to the hand of my kinswoman,’ he answered lightly. ‘That is all. It is a simple and easy condition.’

I looked at him in renewed astonishment, in wonder, in stupefaction; asking myself a hundred questions. Why did he stoop to bargain, who could command? Why did he condescend to treat, who held me at his mercy? Why did he gravely discuss my aspirations, to whom they must seem the rankest presumption? Why?—but I could not follow it. I stood looking at him in silence; in perplexity as great as if he had offered me the Crown of France; in amazement and doubt and suspicion that knew no bounds.

‘Well!’ he said at last, misreading the emotion which appeared in my face. ‘You consent, sir?’

‘Never!’ I answered firmly.

He started. ‘I think I cannot have heard you aright,’ he said, speaking slowly and almost courteously. ‘I offer you a great place and my patronage, M. de Marsac. Do I understand that you prefer a prison and my enmity?’

‘On those conditions,’ I answered.

‘Think, think!’ he said harshly.

‘I have thought,’ I answered.

‘Ay, but have you thought where you are?’ he retorted. ‘Have you thought how many obstacles lie between you and this little fool? How many persons you must win over, how many friends you must gain? Have you thought what it will be to have me against you in this, or which of us is more likely to win in the end?’

‘I have thought,’ I rejoined.

But my voice shook, my lips were dry. The room had grown dark. The rock outside, intercepting the light, gave it already the air of a dungeon. Though I did not dream of yielding to him, though I even felt that in this interview he had descended to my level, and I had had the better of him, I felt my heart sink. For I remembered how men immured in prisons drag out their lives always petitioning, always forgotten; how wearily the days go, that to free men are bright with hope and ambition. And I saw in a flash what it would be to remain here, or in some such place; never to cross horse again, or breathe the free air of Heaven, never to hear the clink of sword against stirrup, or the rich tones of M. d’Agen’s voice calling for his friend!

I expected M. de Turenne to go when I had made my answer, or else to fall into such a rage as opposition is apt to cause in those who seldom encounter it. To my surprise, however, he restrained himself. ‘Come,’ he said, with patience which fairly astonished me, and so much the more as chagrin was clearly marked in his voice, ‘I know where you put your trust. You think the King of Navarre will protect you. Well, I pledge you the honour of Turenne that he will not; that the King of Navarre will do nothing to save you. Now, what do you say?’