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

short that I could not stretch my legs, though none of the longest. Besides, there was neither mattress nor feather bed, but merely a little straw sewed up in a sheet folded double, which was laid down clean for every hundredth traveller, and served the other ninety-nine, one after another, without washing. Nevertheless, in such a bed, with a stomach distended to a surfeit by fricaseed cat, and then raked by sour wine, thanks to youth and a good constitution, I slept soundly, and passed the night without being disturbed.

“On the following day, when I had breakfasted, and paid the reckoning, as I had been treated like a lord, I made but one stage to Segovia. On my arrival, I had the good fortune to find a shop, where they took me in for my board and lodging; but I stayed there only six months; a journeyman barber, with whom I got acquainted, was going to Madrid, and drew me in to set off with him. I had no difficulty in procuring a situation on the same footing as at Segovia. I got into a shop of the very best custom. It is true, it was near the church of the Holy Cross, and that the neighborhood of the Prince’s Theatre brought a great deal of business. My master, two stirring fellows and myself, could scarcely lather the chins of the people who came to be shaved. They were of all trades and conditions; among the rest, players and authors. One day, two persons of the last description happened to meet. They began conversing about the poets and pieces in vogue, when one of them mentioned my uncle’s name: a circumstance which drew my attention more particularly to their discourse. ‘Don Juan de Zavaleta,’ said one, ‘will never do any good as an author. A man of a cold genius, without a spark of fancy! he has written himself down at a terrible rate by his last publication. And Louis Vélez de Guevara, said the other, what has he done? A fine work to bring before the public! Was there ever anything so wretched?’ They mentioned, I know not how many poets besides, whose names I have forgotten: I only recollect that they said no good of them. As for my uncle, they made a more honorable mention of him, agreeing that he was a personage of merit. ‘Yes,’ said one, ‘Don Pedro de la Fuenta is an excellent author; there is a sly humor in his compositions, blended with solid sense, which communicates an attic poignancy to their general effect. I am not surprised at his popularity, both in court and city, nor at the pensions settled on him by the great. For many years past, said the other, he has enjoyed a very large income. He lives at the Duke de Medina Celi’s table, and has an apartment in his house, so that he is at no expense; he must be very well in the world.’

“I lost not a syllable of what these poets were saying about my uncle. We had learned in the family, that he made a noise in Madrid by his works; some travellers, passing through Olmédo, had told us so; but as he took no notice of us, and seemed to have weaned himself from all natural ties, we on our side lived in a state of perfect indifference about him. Yet nature will prevail: as soon as I had heard that he was in a fair way, and had learned where he lived, I was tempted to go and call upon him. One thing staggered me a little; the literati had styled him Don Pedro. This don was an awkward circumstance: I had my doubts whether he might not be some other poet of the name, and not my uncle. Yet that apprehension did not damp my ardor. I thought he might have been ennobled for his wit, and determined to pay him a visit. For this purpose, with my master’s leave, I tricked myself out one morning as well as I could, and sallied from our shop, a little proud of being nephew to a man who had gained so high a character by his genius. Barbers are not the most diffident people in the world. I began to conceive no mean opinion of myself; and riding the high horse with all the arrogance of greatness, enquired my way to the Duke de Medina Celi’s palace. I rang at the gate, and said, I wanted to speak with Señor Don Pedro de la Fuenta. The porter pointed with his finger to a narrow staircase at the fag end of the court, and answered⁠—‘Go up there, then knock at the first door on your right.’ I did as he directed me; and knocked at a door. It was opened by a young man, whom I asked if those were the apartments of Señor Don Pedro de la Fuenta.

“ ‘Yes,’ answered he, ‘but you cannot speak to him at present.’

“ ‘I should be very glad,’ said I, ‘just to say, How are you? I bring him news of his family.’

“ ‘And you brought him news of the pope,’ replied he, ‘I could not introduce you just now. He is writing, and while his wits are at work, he must not be disturbed. He will not be able to receive company till noon; take a turn, and come back about that time.’

“I departed, and walked about town all the morning, incessantly meditating on the reception my uncle would give me. ‘I think,’ said I within myself, ‘he will be overjoyed to see me.’ I measured his feelings by my own, and prepared myself for a very affecting discovery. I returned punctually to the appointed hour.

“ ‘You are just in time,’ said the servant; ‘my master was going out. Wait here a moment: I will announce you.’ With these words, he left me in the antechamber. He returned almost immediately, and showed me into his master’s room. The face struck