Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  I have heard it said that blood washes out shame. My father was killed in a skirmish in the Netherlands shortly before the peace of Chateau Cambrésis, and about three months after the events here related. I have no doubt that he died as a brave man should; for he had that virtue. He held no communication with me or with any at Coton End later than that which I have here described; but would appear to have entered the service of Cardinal Granvelle, the governor of the Netherlands, for after his death word came to the Duchess of Suffolk that Mistress Anne Cludde had entered a nunnery at Bruges under the Cardinal’s auspices. Doubtless she is long since dead.

  And so are many others of whom I have spoken — Sir Anthony, the Duchess, Master Bertie, and Master Lindstrom. For forty years have passed since these things happened — years of peaceful, happy life, which have gone by more swiftly, as it seems to me in the retrospect, than the four years of my wanderings. The Lindstroms sought refuge in England in the second year of the Queen, and settled in Lowestoft under the Duchess of Suffolk’s protection, and did well and flourished as became them; nor indeed did they find, I trust, others ungrateful, though I experienced some difficulty in inducing Sir Anthony to treat the Dutch burgher as on an equality with himself. Lord Willoughby de Eresby, the Peregrine to whom I stood godfather in St. Willibrod’s church at Wesel, is now a middle-aged man and my very good friend, the affection which his mother felt for me having descended to him in full measure. She was indeed such a woman as Her Majesty; large-hearted and free-tongued, of masculine courage and a wonderful tenderness. And of her husband what can I say save that he was a brave Christian — and in peaceful times — a studious gentleman.

  But it is not only in vacant seats and gray hairs that I trace the progress of forty years. They have done for England almost all that men hoped they might do in the first dawn of the reign. We have seen great foes defeated, and strong friends gained. We have seen the coinage amended, trade doubled, the Exchequer filled, the roads made good, the poor provided for in a Christian manner, the Church grown strong; all this in these years. We have seen Holland rise and Spain decline, and well may say in the words of the old text, which my grandfather set up over the hall door at Coton, “Frustra, nisi Dominus.”

  THE END

  A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE

  This historical novel was first published in 1893 and is one of Weyman’s best known adventure stories. It was the only one of the author’s novels to be first published in the traditional three-volume format of the Victorian period. Indeed, it was among the last ever novels of the Victorian period to be published in this format, after it was effectively killed off by market forces in 1894 when London’s most popular library announced that it would no longer buy three-volume publications.

  Set in sixteenth century France, the plot concerns Gaston de Bonne, a Huguenot gentleman brought low by the religious wars of the period. Gaston is charged by Henry of Navarre with the task of rescuing a young noblewoman and transporting her to the royal court of the King of France so that she can reveal the treachery of one of the courtiers.

  The novel helped to cement Weyman’s status as an accomplished writer of historical adventure fiction, a successor to Alexandre Dumas – it was one of Robert Louis Stevenson’s favourite books and has been admired by authors as diverse as Oscar Wilde and Graham Greene.

  Title page of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. THE SPORT OF FOOLS.

  CHAPTER II. THE KING OF NAVARRE.

  CHAPTER III. BOOT AND SADDLE.

  CHAPTER IV. MADEMOISELLE DE LA VIRE.

  CHAPTER V. THE ROAD TO BLOIS.

  CHAPTER VI. MY MOTHER’S LODGING.

  CHAPTER VII. SIMON FLEIX

  CHAPTER VIII. AN EMPTY ROOM.

  CHAPTER IX. THE HOUSE IN THE RUELLE D’ARCY.

  CHAPTER X. THE FIGHT ON THE STAIRS.

  CHAPTER XI. THE MAN AT THE DOOR.

  CHAPTER XII. MAXIMILIAN DE BETHUNE, BARON DE ROSNY.

  CHAPTER XIII. AT ROSNY.

  CHAPTER XIV. M. DE RAMBOUILLET.

  CHAPTER XV. VILAIN HERODES.

  CHAPTER XVI. IN THE KING’S CHAMBER.

  CHAPTER XVII. THE JACOBIN MONK.

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE OFFER OF THE LEAGUE.

  CHAPTER XIX. MEN CALL IT CHANCE.

  CHAPTER XX. THE KING’S FACE.

  CHAPTER XXI. TWO WOMEN.

  CHAPTER XXII. ‘LA FEMME DISPOSE.’

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST VALOIS.

  CHAPTER XXIV. A ROYAL PERIL.

  CHAPTER XXV. TERMS OF SURRENDER.

  CHAPTER XXVI. MEDITATIONS.

  CHAPTER XXVII. TO ME, MY FRIENDS!

  CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CASTLE ON THE HILL.

  CHAPTER XXIX. PESTILENCE AND FAMINE.

  CHAPTER XXX. STRICKEN.

  CHAPTER XXXI. UNDER THE GREENWOOD.

  CHAPTER XXXII. A TAVERN BRAWL.

  CHAPTER XXXIII. AT MEUDON.

  CHAPTER XXXIV. ‘‘TIS AN ILL WIND.’

  CHAPTER XXXV. ‘LE ROI EST MORT!’

  CHAPTER XXXVI. ‘VIVE LE ROI!’

  Henry IV of France, King of Navarre – an important figure in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, who plays a prominent role in the novel

  CHAPTER I. THE SPORT OF FOOLS.

  The death of the Prince of Conde, which occurred in the spring of 1588, by depriving me of my only patron, reduced me to such straits that the winter of that year, which saw the King of Navarre come to spend his Christmas at St. Jean d’Angely, saw also the nadir of my fortunes. I did not know at this time — I may confess it to-day without shame — wither to turn for a gold crown or a new scabbard, and neither had nor discerned any hope of employment. The peace lately patched up at Blois between the King of France and the League persuaded many of the Huguenots that their final ruin was at hand; but it could not fill their exhausted treasury or enable them to put fresh troops into the field.

  The death of the Prince had left the King of Navarre without a rival in the affections of the Huguenots; the Vicomte de Turenne, whose turbulent; ambition already began to make itself felt, and M. de Chatillon, ranking next to him. It was my ill-fortune, however, to be equally unknown to all three leaders, and as the month of December which saw me thus miserably straitened saw me reach the age of forty, which I regard, differing in that from many, as the grand climacteric of a man’s life, it will be believed that I had need of all the courage which religion and a campaigner’s life could supply.

  I had been compelled some time before to sell all my horses except the black Sardinian with the white spot on its forehead; and I now found myself obliged to part also with my valet de chambre and groom, whom I dismissed on the same day, paying them their wages with the last links of gold chain left to me. It was not without grief and dismay that I saw myself thus stripped of the appurtenances of a man of birth, and driven to groom my own horse under cover of night. But this was not the worst. My dress, which suffered inevitably from this menial employment, began in no long time to bear witness to the change in my circumstances; so that on the day of the King of Navarre’s entrance into St. Jean I dared not face the crowd, always quick to remark the poverty of those above them, but was fain to keep within doors and wear out my patience in the garret of the cutler’s house in the Rue de la Coutellerie, which was all the lodging I could now afford.

  Pardieu, ’tis a strange world! Strange that time seems to me; more strange compared with this. My reflections on that day, I remember, were of the most melancholy. Look at it how I would, I could not but see that my life’s spring was over. The crows’ feet were gathering about my eyes, and my moustachios, which seemed with each day of ill-fortune to stand out more fiercely in proportion as my face grew leaner, were already grey. I was out at elbows, with empty pockets, and a sword which peered through the sheath. The meanest ruffler who, with broken feather and tarnished lace, swaggered at the heels of Turenne, was scarcely to be distinguished from me. I had still, it is true, a rock and a few barren acres in Brittany, t
he last remains of the family property; but the small small sums which the peasants could afford to pay were sent annually to Paris, to my mother, who had no other dower. And this I would not touch, being minded to die a gentleman, even if I could not live in that estate.

  Small as were my expectations of success, since I had no one at the king’s side to push my business, nor any friend at Court, I nevertheless did all I could, in the only way that occurred to me. I drew up a petition, and lying in wait one day for M. Forget, the King of Navarre’s secretary, placed it in his hand, begging him to lay it before that prince. He took it, and promised to do so, smoothly, and with as much lip-civility as I had a right to expect. But the careless manner in which he doubled up and thrust away the paper on which I had spent so much labour, no less than the covert sneer of his valet, who ran after me to get the customary present — and ran, as I still blush to remember, in vain — warned me to refrain from hope.

  In this, however, having little save hope left, I failed so signally as to spend the next day and the day after in a fever of alternate confidence and despair, the cold fit following the hot with perfect regularity. At length, on the morning of the third day — I remember it lacked but three of Christmas — I heard a step on the stairs. My landlord living in his shop, and the two intervening floors being empty, I had no doubt the message was for me, and went outside the door to receive it, my first glance at the messenger confirming me in my highest hopes, as well as in all I had ever heard of the generosity of the King of Navarre. For by chance I knew the youth to be one of the royal pages; a saucy fellow who had a day or two before cried ‘Old Clothes’ after me in the street. I was very far from resenting this now, however, nor did he appear to recall it; so that I drew the happiest augury as to the contents of the note he bore from the politeness with which he presented it to me.

  I would not, however, run the risk of a mistake, and before holding out my hand, I asked him directly and with formality if it was for me.

  He answered, with the utmost respect, that it was for the Sieur de Marsac, and for me if I were he.

  ‘There is an answer, perhaps?’ I said, seeing that he lingered.

  ‘The King of Navarre, sir,’ he replied, with a low bow, ‘will receive your answer in person, I believe.’ And with that, replacing the hat which he had doffed out of respect to me, he turned and went down the stairs.

  Returning to my room, and locking the door, I hastily opened the missive, which was sealed with a large seal, and wore every appearance of importance. I found its contents to exceed all my expectations. The King of Navarre desired me to wait on him at noon on the following day, and the letter concluded with such expressions of kindness and goodwill as left me in no doubt of the Prince’s intentions. I read it, I confess, with emotions of joy and gratitude which would better have become a younger man, and then cheerfully sat down to spend the rest of the day in making such improvements in my dress as seemed possible. With a thankful heart I concluded that I had now escaped from poverty, at any rate from such poverty as is disgraceful to a gentleman; and consoled myself for the meanness of the appearance I must make at Court with the reflection that a day or two would mend both habit and fortune.

  Accordingly, it was with a stout heart that I left my lodgings a few minutes before noon next morning, and walked towards the castle. It was some time since I had made so public an appearance in the streets, which the visit of the King of Navarre’s Court; had filled with an unusual crowd, and I could not help fancying as I passed that some of the loiterers eyed me with a covert smile; and, indeed, I was shabby enough. But finding that a frown more than sufficed to restore the gravity of these gentry, I set down the appearance to my own self-consciousness, and, stroking my moustachios, strode along boldly until I saw before me, and coming to meet me, the same page who had delivered the note.

  He stopped in front of me with an air of consequence, and making me a low bow — whereat I saw the bystanders stare, for he was as gay a young spark as maid-of-honour could desire — he begged me to hasten, as the king awaited me in his closet.

  ‘He has asked for you twice, sir,’ he continued importantly, the feather of his cap almost sweeping the ground.

  ‘I think,’ I answered, quickening my steps, ‘that the king’s letter says noon, young sir. If I am late on such an occasion, he has indeed cause to complain of me.’

  ‘Tut, tut!’ he rejoined waving his hand with a dandified ‘It is no matter. One man may steal a horse when another may not look over the wall, you know.’

  A man may be gray-haired, he may be sad-complexioned, and yet he may retain some of the freshness of youth. On receiving this indication of a favour exceeding all expectation, I remember I felt the blood rise to my face, and experienced the most lively gratitude. I wondered who had spoken in my behalf, who had befriended me; and concluding at last that my part in the affair at Brouage had come to the king’s ears, though I could not conceive through whom, I passed through the castle gates with an air of confidence and elation which was not unnatural, I think, under the circumstances. Thence, following my guide, I mounted the ramp and entered the courtyard.

  A number of grooms and valets were lounging here, some leading horses to and fro, others exchanging jokes with the wenches who leaned from the windows, while their fellows again stamped up and down to keep their feet warm, or played ball against the wall in imitation of their masters. Such knaves are ever more insolent than their betters; but I remarked that they made way for me with respect, and with rising spirits, yet a little irony, I reminded myself as I mounted the stairs of the words, ‘whom the king delighteth to honour!’

  Reaching the head of the flight, where was a soldier on guard, the page opened the door of the antechamber, and standing aside bade me enter. I did so, and heard the door close behind me.

  For a moment I stood still, bashful and confused. It seemed to me that there were a hundred people in the room, and that half the eyes which met mine were women’s, Though I was not altogether a stranger to such state as the Prince of Conde had maintained, this crowded anteroom filled me with surprise, and even with a degree of awe, of which I was the next moment ashamed. True, the flutter of silk and gleam of jewels surpassed anything I had then seen, for my fortunes had never led me to the king’s Court; but an instant’s reflection reminded me that my fathers had held their own in such scenes, and with a bow regulated rather by this thought than by the shabbiness of my dress, I advanced amid a sudden silence.

  ‘M. de Marsac!’ the page announced, in a tone which sounded a little odd in my ears; so much so, that I turned quickly to look at him. He was gone, however, and when I turned again the eyes which met mine were full of smiles. A young girl who stood near me tittered. Put out of countenance by this, I looked round in embarrassment to find someone to whom I might apply.

  The room was long and narrow, panelled in chestnut, with a row of windows on the one hand, and two fireplaces, now heaped with glowing logs, on the other. Between the fireplaces stood a rack of arms. Round the nearer hearth lounged a group of pages, the exact counterparts of the young blade who had brought me hither; and talking with these were as many young gentlewomen. Two great hounds lay basking in the heat, and coiled between them, with her head on the back of the larger, was a figure so strange that at another time I should have doubted my eyes. It wore the fool’s motley and cap and bells, but a second glance showed me the features were a woman’s. A torrent of black hair flowed loose about her neck, her eyes shone with wild merriment, and her face, keen, thin, and hectic, glared at me from the dog’s back. Beyond her, round the farther fireplace, clustered more than a score of gallants and ladies, of whom one presently advanced to me.

  ‘Sir,’ he said politely — and I wished I could match his bow— ‘you wished to see — ?’

  ‘The King of Navarre,’ I answered, doing my best.

  He turned to the group behind him, and said, in a peculiarly even, placid tone, ‘He wishes to see the King of Navarre.’ Then
in solemn silence he bowed to me again and went back to his fellows.

  Upon the instant, and before I could make up my mind how to take this, a second tripped forward, and saluting me, said, ‘M. de Marsac, I think?’

  ‘At your service, sir,’ I rejoined. In my eagerness to escape the gaze of all those eyes, and the tittering which was audible behind me, I took a step forward to be in readiness to follow him. But he gave no sign. ‘M. de Marsac to see the King of Navarre’ was all he said, speaking as the other had close to those behind. And with that he too wheeled round and went back to the fire.

  I stared, a first faint suspicion of the truth aroused in my mind. Before I could act upon it, however — in such a situation it was no easy task to decide how to act — a third advanced with the same measured steps. ‘By appointment I think, sir?’ he said, bowing lower than the others.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied sharply, beginning to grow warm, ‘by appointment at noon.’

  ‘M. de Marsac,’ he announced in a sing-song tone to those behind him, ‘to see the King of Navarre by appointment at noon.’ And with a second bow — while I grew scarlet with mortification he too wheeled gravely round and returned to the fireplace.

  I saw another preparing to advance, but he came too late. Whether my face of anger and bewilderment was too much for them, or some among them lacked patience to see the end, a sudden uncontrollable shout of laughter, in which all the room joined, cut short the farce. God knows it hurt me: I winced, I looked this way and that, hoping here or there to find sympathy and help. But it seemed to me that the place rang with gibes, that every panel framed, however I turned myself, a cruel, sneering face. One behind me cried ‘Old Clothes,’ and when I turned the other hearth whispered the taunt. It added a thousandfold to my embarrassment that there was in all a certain orderliness, so that while no one moved, and none, while I looked at them, raised their voices, I seemed the more singled out, and placed as a butt in the midst.