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

venture in, the street being quiet and the house giving no sign of being strongly garrisoned. The entrance lay under the archway, through a door on the right side. I judged from what I saw that the porter was probably absent, busying himself with his gossips in matters of State.

And this proved to be the case, for when I had made the passage of the street with success, and slipped quietly in through the half-open door, I found only his staff and charcoal-pan there to represent him. A single look satisfied me on that point; forthwith, without hesitation, I turned to the stairs and began to mount, assured that if I would effect anything single-handed I must trust to audacity and surprise rather than to caution or forethought.

The staircase was poorly lighted by loopholes looking towards the rear, but it was clean and well-kept. Silence, broken only by the sound of my footsteps, prevailed throughout the house, and all seemed so regular and decent and orderly that the higher I rose the lower fell my hopes of success. Still, I held resolutely on until I reached the second floor and stood before a closed door. The moment had come to put all to the touch. I listened for a few seconds but hearing nothing, cautiously lifted the latch. Somewhat to my surprise the door yielded to my hand, and I entered.

A high settle stood inside, interrupting my view of the room, which seemed to be spacious and full of rich stuffs and furniture, but low in the roof, and somewhat dimly lighted by two windows rather wide than high. The warm glow of a fire shone on the woodwork of the ceiling, and as I softly closed the door a log on the hearth gave way, with a crackling of sparks, which pleasantly broke the luxurious silence. The next moment a low, sweet voice asked, ‘Alphonse, is that you?’

I walked round the settle and came face to face with a beautiful woman reclining on a couch. On hearing the door open she had raised herself on her elbow. Now, seeing a stranger before her, she sprang up with a low cry, and stood gazing at me, her face expressing both astonishment and anger. She was of middling height, her features regular though somewhat childlike, her complexion singularly fair. A profusion of golden hair hung in disorder about her neck, and matched the deep blue of her eyes, wherein it seemed to me, there lurked more spirit and fire than the general cast of her features led one to expect.

After a moment’s silence, during which she scanned me from head to foot with great haughtiness—and I her with curiosity and wonder—she spoke. ‘Sir!’ she said slowly, ‘to what am I to attribute this—visit?’

For the moment I was so taken aback by her appearance and extraordinary beauty, as well as by the absence of any sign of those I sought, that I could not gather my thoughts to reply, but stood looking vaguely at her. I had expected, when I entered the room, something so different from this!

‘Well, sir?’ she said again, speaking sharply, and tapping her foot on the floor.

‘This visit, madame?’ I stammered.

‘Call it intrusion, sir, if you please!’ she cried imperiously. ‘Only explain it, or begone.’

‘I crave leave to do both, madame,’ I answered, collecting myself by an effort. ‘I ascended these stairs and opened your door in error—that is the simple fact—hoping to find a friend of mine here. I was mistaken, it seems, and it only remains for me to withdraw, offering at the same time the humblest apologies,’ And as I spoke I bowed low and prepared to retire.

‘One moment, sir!’ she said quickly, and in an altered tone. ‘You are, perhaps, a friend of M. de Bruhl—of my husband. In that case, if you desire to leave any message I will—I shall be glad to deliver it.’

She looked so charming that, despite the tumult of my feelings, I could not but regard her with admiration. ‘Alas! madame, I cannot plead that excuse,’ I answered. ‘I regret that I have not the honour of his acquaintance.’

She eyed me with some surprise. ‘Yet still, sir,’ she answered, smiling a little, and toying with a gold brooch which clasped her habit, ‘you must have had some ground, some reason, for supposing you would find a friend here?’

‘True, madame,’ I answered, ‘but I was mistaken.’

I saw her colour suddenly. With a smile and a faint twinkle of the eye she said, ‘It is not possible, sir, I suppose—you have not come here, I mean, out of any reason connected with a—a knot of velvet, for instance?’

I started, and involuntarily advanced a step towards her. ‘A knot of velvet!’ I exclaimed, with emotion. ‘Mon Dieu! Then I was not mistaken! I have come to the right house, and you—you know something of this! Madame,’ I continued impulsively, ‘that knot of velvet? Tell me what it means, I implore you!’

She seemed alarmed by my violence, retreating a step or two, and looking at me haughtily, yet with a kind of shame-facedness. ‘Believe me, it means nothing,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I beg you to understand that, sir. It was a foolish jest.’

‘A jest?’ I said. ‘It fell from this window.’

‘It was a jest, sir,’ she answered stubbornly. But I could see that, with all her pride, she was alarmed; her face was troubled, and there were tears in her eyes. And this rendered me under the circumstances only the more persistent.

‘I have the velvet here, madame,’ I said. ‘You must tell me more about it.’

She looked at me with a weightier impulse of anger than she had yet exhibited. ‘I do not think you know to whom you are speaking,’ she said, breathing fast. ‘Leave the room, sir, and at once! I have told you it was a jest. If you are a gentleman you will believe me, and go.’ And she pointed to the door.

But I held my ground, with an obstinate determination to pierce the mystery. ‘I am a gentleman, madame,’ I said, ‘and yet I must know more. Until I know more I cannot go.’

‘Oh, this is insufferable!’ she cried, looking round as if for a way of escape; but I was between her and the only door. ‘This is unbearable! The knot was never intended for you, sir. And what is more, if M. de Bruhl comes and finds you here, you will repent it bitterly.’

I saw that she was at least as much concerned on her own account as on mine, and thought myself justified under the circumstances in taking advantage of her fears. I deliberately laid my cap on the table which stood beside me. ‘I will go madame,’ I said, looking at her fixedly, ‘when I know all that you know about this knot I hold, and not before. If you are unwilling to tell me, I must wait for M. de Bruhl, and ask him.’

She cried out ‘Insolent!’ and looked at me as if in her rage and dismay she would gladly have killed me; being, I could see, a passionate woman. But I held my ground, and after a moment she spoke. ‘What do you want to know?’ she said, frowning darkly.

‘This knot—how did it