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

‘is the stream which flows between us and separates us; and I know of but one stepping-stone that can bridge it.’

She looked aside, toying with a piece of thorn-blossom she had picked. It was not redder than her cheeks.

‘That one stepping-stone,’ I said, after waiting vainly for any word or sign from her, ‘is Love. Many weeks ago, mademoiselle, when I had little cause to like you, I loved you; I loved you whether I would or not, and without thought or hope of return. I should have been mad had I spoken to you then. Mad, and worse than mad. But now, now that I owe you my life, now that I have drunk from your hand in fever, and, awaking early and late, have found you by my pillow—now that, seeing you come in and out in the midst of fear and hardship, I have learned to regard you as a woman kind and gentle as my mother—now that I love you, so that to be with you is joy, and away from you grief, is it presumption in me now, mademoiselle, to think that that stream may be bridged?’

I stopped, out of breath, and saw that she was trembling. But she spoke presently. ‘You said one stepping-stone?’ she murmured.

‘Yes,’ I answered hoarsely, trying in vain to look at her face, which she kept averted from me.

‘There should be two,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘Your love, sir, and—and mine. You have said much of the one, and nothing of the other. In that you are wrong, for I am proud still. And I would not cross the stream you speak of for any love of yours!’

‘Ah!’ I cried in sharpest pain.

‘But,’ she continued, looking up at me on a sudden with eyes that told me all, ‘because I love you I am willing to cross it—to cross it once for ever, and to live beyond it all my life—if I may live my life with you.’

I fell on my knee and kissed her hand again and again in a rapture of joy and gratitude. By-and-by she pulled it from me. ‘If you will, sir,’ she said, ‘you may kiss my lips. If you do not, no man ever will.’

After that, as may be guessed, we walked every day in the forest, making longer and longer excursions as my strength came back to me, and the nearer parts grew familiar. From early dawn, when I brought my love a posy of flowers, to late evening, when Fanchette hurried her from me, our days were passed in a long round of delight; being filled full of all beautiful things—love, and sunshine, and rippling streams, and green banks, on which we sat together under scented limes, telling one another all we had ever thought, and especially all we had ever thought of one another. Sometimes—when the light was low in the evening—we spoke of my mother; and once—but that was in the sunshine, when the bees were humming and my blood had begun to run strongly in my veins—I spoke of my great and distant kinsman, Rohan. But mademoiselle would hear nothing of him, murmuring again and again in my ear, ‘I have crossed, my love, I have crossed.’

Truly the sands of that hour-glass were of gold. But in time they ran out. First M. Francois, spurred by the restlessness of youth, and convinced that madame would for a while yield no further, left us, and went back to the world. Then news came of great events that could not fail to move us. The King of France and the King of Navarre had met at Tours, and embracing in the sight of an immense multitude, had repulsed the League with slaughter in the suburb of St. Symphorien. Fast on this followed the tidings of their march northwards with an overwhelming army of fifty-thousand men of both religions, bent, rumour had it, on the signal punishment of Paris.

I grew—shame that I should say it—to think more and more of these things; until mademoiselle, reading the signs, told me one day that we must go. ‘Though never again,’ she added with a sigh, ‘shall we be so happy.’

‘Then why go?’ I asked foolishly.

‘Because you are a man,’ she answered with a wise smile, ‘as I would have you be, and you need something besides love. To-morrow we will go.’

‘Whither?’ I said in amazement.

‘To the camp before Paris,’ she answered. ‘We will go back in the light of day—seeing that we have done nothing of which to be ashamed—and throw ourselves on the justice of the King of Navarre. You shall place me with Madame Catherine, who will not refuse to protect me; and so, sweet, you will have only yourself to think of. Come, sir,’ she continued, laying her little hand in mine, and looking into my eyes, ‘you are not afraid?’

‘I am more afraid than ever I used to be,’ I said trembling.

‘So I would have it,’ she whispered, hiding her face on my shoulder. ‘Nevertheless we will go.’

And go we did. The audacity of such a return in the face of Turenne, who was doubtless in the King of Navarre’s suite, almost took my breath away; nevertheless, I saw that it possessed one advantage which no other course promised—that, I mean, of setting us right in the eyes of the world, and enabling me to meet in a straightforward manner such as maligned us. After some consideration I gave my assent, merely conditioning that until we reached the Court we should ride masked, and shun as far as possible encounters by the road.