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

Henry, whose tenderness for the cowl was well known, darted an angry glance at him, but contented himself with saying sharply to M. d’Agen, ‘Now, sir, what do you know about the matter?’

‘One moment, sire,’ M. Rambouillet cried, interposing before Francois could answer. ‘Craving your Majesty’s pardon, you have heard M. de Bruhl’s account. May I, as a favour to myself, beg you, sire, to permit us also to hear it?’

‘What?’ Marshal Retz exclaimed angrily, ‘are we to be the judges, then, or his Majesty? Arnidieu!’ he continued hotly, ‘what, in the fiend’s name, have we to do with it? I protest ‘fore Heaven—’

‘Ay, sir, and what do you protest?’ my champion retorted, turning to him with stern disdain.

‘Silence!’ cried the king who had listened almost bewildered. ‘Silence! By God, gentlemen,’ he continued, his eye travelling round the circle with a sparkle of royal anger in it not unworthy of his crown, ‘you forget yourselves. I will have none of this quarrelling in my presence or out of it. I lost Quelus and Maugiron that way, and loss enough, and I will have none of it, I say! M. de Bruhl,’ he added, standing erect, and looking for the moment, with all his paint and frippery, a king, ‘M. de Bruhl, repeat your story.’

The feelings with which I listened to this controversy may be imagined. Devoured in turn by hope and fear as now one side and now the other seemed likely to prevail, I confronted at one moment the gloom of the dungeon, and at another tasted the air of freedom, which had never seemed so sweet before. Strong as these feelings were, however, they gave way to curiosity at this point; when I heard Bruhl called, and saw him come forward at the king’s command. Knowing this man to be himself guilty, I marvelled with what face he would present himself before all those eyes, and from what depths of impudence he could draw supplies in such an emergency.

I need not have troubled myself, however, for he was fully equal to the occasion. His high colour and piercing black eyes met the gaze of friend and foe alike without flinching. Dressed well and elegantly, he wore his raven hair curled in the mode, and looked alike gay, handsome, and imperturbable. If there was a suspicion of coarseness about his bulkier figure, as he stood beside M. d’Agen, who was the courtier perfect and point devise, it went to the scale of sincerity, seeing that men naturally associate truth with strength.

‘I know no more than this, sire,’ he said easily; ‘that, happening to cross the Parvis at the moment of the murder, I heard Father Antoine scream. He uttered four words only, in the tone of a man in mortal peril. They were’—and here the speaker looked for an instant at me—‘Ha! Marsac! A moi!’

‘Indeed!’ M. de Rambouillet said, after looking to the king for permission. ‘And that was all? You saw nothing?’

Bruhl shook his head. ‘It was too dark,’ he said.

‘And heard no more?’

‘No.’

‘Do I understand, then,’ the Marquis continued slowly, ‘that M. de Marsac is arrested because the priest—God rest his soul!—cried to him for help?’

‘For help?’ M. de Retz exclaimed fiercely.

‘For help?’ said the king, surprised. And at that the most; ludicrous change fell upon the faces of all. The king looked puzzled, the Duke of Nevers smiled, the Duke of Mercoeur laughed aloud. Crillon cried boisterously, ‘Good hit!’ and the majority, who wished no better than to divine the winning party, grinned broadly, whether they would or no.

To Marshal Retz, however, and Bruhl, that which to everyone else seemed an amusing retort had a totally different aspect; while the former turned yellow with chagrin and came near to choking, the latter looked as chapfallen and startled as if his guilt; had been that moment brought home to him. Assured by the tone of the monk’s voice—which must, indeed, have thundered in his ears—that my name was uttered in denunciation by one who thought me his assailant, he had chosen to tell the truth without reflecting that words, so plain to him, might; bear a different construction when repeated.

‘Certainly the words seem ambiguous,’ Henry muttered.

‘But it was Marsac killed him,’ Retz cried in a rage.

‘It is for some evidence of that we are waiting,’ my champion answered suavely.

The Marshal looked helplessly at Nevers and Mercoeur, who commonly took part with him; but apparently those noblemen had not been primed for this occasion. They merely shook their heads and smiled. In the momentary silence which followed, while all looked curiously at Bruhl, who could not conceal his mortification, M. d’Agen stepped forward.

‘If your Majesty will permit me,’ he said, a malicious simper crossing his handsome face—I had often remarked his extreme dislike for Bruhl without understanding it—‘I think I can furnish some evidence more to the point than that; to which M. de Bruhl has with so much fairness restricted himself.’ He then went on to state that he had had the honour of being in my company at the time of the murder; and he added, besides, so many details as to exculpate me to the satisfaction of any candid person.

The king nodded. ‘That settles the matter,’ he said, with a sigh of relief. ‘You think so, Mercoeur, do you not? Precisely. Villequier, see that the order respecting M. de Marsac is cancelled.’

M. de Retz could not control his wrath on hearing this direction given. ‘At this rate,’ he cried recklessly, ‘we shall have few priests left here! We have got a bad name at Blois, as it is!’

For a moment all in the circle held their breath, while the king’s eyes flashed fire at this daring allusion to the murder of the Duke de Guise, and his brother the Cardinal. But it was Henry’s misfortune to be ever indulgent in the wrong place, and severe when severity was either unjust or impolitic. He recovered himself with an effort, and revenged himself only by omitting to invite the Marshal, who was now trembling in his shoes, to join his riding-party.

The circle broke up amid some excitement. I stood on one side with M. d’Agen, while the king and his immediate following passed out, and, greatly embarrassed as I was by the civil congratulating of many who would have seen me hang with equal goodwill, I was sharp enough to see that something was brewing between Bruhl and Marshal Retz, who stood back conversing in low tones. I was not surprised, therefore, when the former made his way towards me through the press which filled the antechamber, and with a lowering brow requested a word with me.

‘Certainly,’ I said, watching him narrowly, for I knew him to be both treacherous and a bully. ‘Speak on, sir.’

‘You have balked me once and again,’ he rejoined, in a voice which shook a little, as did the fingers with which he stroked his waxed moustache. ‘There is no need of words between us. I, with one sword besides, will to-morrow at noon keep the bridge at Chaverny, a league from here.