Gil Blas by Alain-René Lesage (best romance books of all time TXT) 📕

has been at the gaming table, and played with the public money: an extent has issued, and my rent-charge is gone posthaste to the devil.”

“That is a sad affair,” said I; “but may not matters come round again in that quarter?”

“No chance of it,” answered he: “Señor Gómez del Ribero, in plight as destitute as that of his poor bard, is sunk forever; nor can he, as they say, by any possible contrivance be set afloat again.”

“In that case, my good friend,” replied I, “we must look out for some post which may make you amends for the loss of your annuity.”

“I will ease your conscience on that score,” said he: “though you should offer me the wealth of the Indies as a salary in one of your offices, I would reject the boon: clerkships are no object to a partner in the firm of the Muses; a literary berth or absolute starvation for your humble servant! If you must have it plump, I was born to live and die a poet, and the man whose destiny is hanging will never be drowned.

“But do not suppose,” continued he, “that we are altogether forlorn and destitute: besides that we accommodate the requisites of independence to our finances, we do not look far beyond our noses in calculating the average of our fortunes. It is insinuated that we often dine with the most abstemious orders of the religious; but our sanctity in this particular is too credulously imputed. There is not one of my brother wits, without excepting the calculators of almanacs, who has not a plate laid for him at some substantial table: for my own part, I have the run of two good houses. To the master of one I have dedicated a romance; and he is the first commissioner of taxes who was ever associated with the Muses: the other is a rich tradesman in Madrid, whose lust is to get wits about him; he is not nice in his choice, and this town furnishes abundance to those who value wit more by quantity than quality.”

“Then I no longer feel for you,” said I to the poet of the Asturias, “since you are satisfied in your condition. But be that as it may, I assure you once more, that you have a friend in Gil Blas, however you may slight him: if you want my purse, come and take it: it will not fail you at a pinch; and you must not stand between me and my sincere friendship.”

“By that burst of sentiment,” exclaimed Núñez, “I know and thank my friend Santillane: in return, let me give you a salutary caution. While my lord duke is in his meridian, and you are all in all with him, reap, bind, and gather in your harvest: when the sun sets, the gleaners are sent home.”

I asked Fabricio whether his suspicions were surely founded, and he returned me this answer: “My information comes from an old knight of Calatrava, who pokes his nose into secrets of all sorts; his authority passes current at Madrid, much as that of the Pythian newsmongers did through Greece; and thus his oracle was pronounced in my hearing: My lord duke has a host of enemies in battle array against him; he reckons too securely upon his influence with the king; for his majesty, as the report goes, begins to take in hostile representations with patience.” I thanked Núñez for his friendly warning, but without much faith in his prediction: my master’s authority seemed rooted in the court, like the tempest-scoffing firmness of an oak in the native soil of the forest.

VIII

Gil Blas finds that Fabricio’s hint was not without foundation⁠—The king’s journey to Saragossa.

The poet of the Asturias was no bad politician. There was a court plot against the duke, with the queen at the bottom; but their plans were too deeply laid to bubble at the surface. During the space of a whole year, my simplicity was insensible to the brewing of the tempest.

The revolt of the Catalans, with France at their back, and the ill success of the war for their suppression, excited the murmurs of the people, and whetted their tongues against government. A council was held in the royal presence, and the Marquis de Grana, the emperor’s ambassador, was specially requested to assist. The subject in debate was whether the king should remain in Castile, or go and take the command of his troops in Aragón. The minister spoke first, and gave it as his opinion that his majesty should not quit the seat of government. All the members supported his arguments, with the exception of the Marquis de Grana, whose whole heart was with the house of Austria, and the sentiments of his soul on the tip of his tongue, after the homely honesty of his nation. He argued so forcibly against the minister, that the king embraced his opinion from conviction, though contrary to the vote of council, and fixed the day when he would set out for the army.

This was the first time that ever the sovereign had differed from his favorite, and the latter considered it as an inexpiable affront. Just as the minister was withdrawing to his closet, there to bite upon the bridle, he espied me, called me in, and told me with much discomposure what had passed in debate: “Yes, Santillane,” observed he, “the king, who for the last twenty years has spoken only through my mouth, and seen with my eyes, is now to be wheedled over by Grana; and that on the score of zeal for the house of Austria, as if that German had a more Austrian soul in his body than myself.

“Hence it is easy to perceive,” continued the minister, “that there is a strong party against me, with the queen at the head.”

“Heaven forbid it,” said I. “Has not the queen for upwards of twelve years been accustomed to your paramount authority, and have you