Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. A Gentleman of France: Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne Sieur de Marsac by - (ereader manga txt) 📖
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In this strenuous haste I covered a mile as a mile has seldom been covered before; and I was growing under the influence of the breeze which whipped my temples somewhat more cool and hopeful, when I saw on a sudden right before me, and between me and Meudon, a handful of men engaged in a MELEE. There were red and white jackets in it—leaguers and Huguenots—and the red coats seemed to be having the worst of it. Still, while I watched, they came off in order, and unfortunately in such a way and at such a speed that I saw they must meet me face to face whether I tried to avoid the encounter or not. I had barely time to take in the danger and its nearness, and discern beyond both parties the main-guard of the Huguenots, enlivened by a score of pennons, when the Leaguers were upon me.
I suppose they knew that no friend would ride for Meudon at that pace, for they dashed at me six abreast with a shout of triumph; and before I could count a score we met. The Cid was still running strongly, and I had not thought to stay him, so that I had no time to use my pistols. My sword I had out, but the sun dazzled me and the men wore corslets, and I made but poor play with it; though I struck out savagely, as we crashed together, in my rage at this sudden crossing of my hopes when all seemed done and gained. The Cid faced them bravely—I heard the distant huzza of the Huguenots—and I put aside one point which threatened my throat. But the sun was in my eyes and something struck me on the head. Another second, and a blow in the breast forced me fairly from the saddle. Gripping furiously at the air I went down, stunned and dizzy, my last thought as I struck the ground being of mademoiselle, and the little brook with the stepping-stones.
CHAPTER XXXV. ‘LE ROI EST MORT!’
It was M. d’Agen’s breastpiece saved my life by warding off the point of the varlet’s sword, so that the worst injury I got was the loss of my breath for five minutes, with a swimming in the head and a kind of syncope. These being past, I found myself on my back on the ground, with a man’s knee on my breast and a dozen horsemen standing round me. The sky reeled dizzily before my eyes and the men’s figures loomed gigantic; yet I had sense enough to know what had happened to me, and that matters might well be worse.
Resigning myself to the prospect of captivity, I prepared to ask for quarter; which I did not doubt I should receive, since they had taken me in an open skirmish, and honestly, and in the daylight. But the man whose knee already incommoded me sufficiently, seeing me about to speak, squeezed me on a sudden so fiercely, bidding me at the same time in a gruff whisper be silent, that I thought I could not do better than obey.
Accordingly I lay still, and as in a dream, for my brain was still clouded, heard someone say, ‘Dead! Is he? I hoped we had come in time. Well, he deserved a better fate. Who is he, Rosny?’
‘Do you know him, Maignan?’ said a voice which sounded strangely familiar.
The man who knelt; upon me answered, ‘No, my lord. He is a stranger to me. He has the look of a Norman.’
‘Like enough!’ replied a high-pitched voice I had not heard before. ‘For he rode a good horse. Give me a hundred like it, and a hundred men to ride as straight, and I would not envy the King of France.’
‘Much less his poor cousin of Navarre,’ the first speaker rejoined in a laughing tone, ‘without a whole shirt to his back or a doublet that is decently new. Come, Turenne, acknowledge that you are not so badly off after all!’
At that word the cloud which had darkened my faculties swept on a sudden aside. I saw that the men into whose hands I had fallen wore white favours, their leader a white plume; and comprehended without more that the King of Navarre had come to my rescue, and beaten off the Leaguers who had dismounted me. At the same moment the remembrance of all that had gone before, and especially of the scene I had witnessed in the king’s chamber, rushed upon my mind with such overwhelming force that I fell into a fury of impatience at the thought of the time I had wasted; and rising up suddenly I threw off Maignan with all my force, crying out that I was alive—that I was alive, and had news.
The equerry did his best to restrain me, cursing me under his breath for a fool, and almost; squeezing the life out of me. But in vain, for the King of Navarre, riding nearer, saw me struggling. ‘Hallo! hallo! ‘tis a strange dead man,’ he cried, interposing. ‘What is the meaning of this? Let him go! Do you hear, sirrah? Let him go!’
The equerry obeyed and stood back sullenly, and I staggered to my feet, and looked round with eyes which still swam and watered. On the instant a cry of recognition greeted me, with a hundred exclamations of astonishment. While I heard my name uttered on every side in a dozen different tones, I remarked that M. de Rosny, upon whom my eyes first fell, alone stood silent, regarding me with a face of sorrowful surprise.
‘By heavens, sir, I knew nothing of this!’ I heard the King of Navarre declare, addressing himself to the Vicomte de Turenne. ‘The man is here by no connivance of mine. Interrogate him yourself, if you will. Or I will. Speak, sir,’ he continued, turning to me with his countenance hard and forbidding. ‘You heard me yesterday, what I promised you? Why, in God’s name, are you here to-day?’
I tried to answer, but Maignan had so handled me that I had not breath enough, and stood panting.
‘Your Highness’s clemency in this matter,’ M. de Turenne said, with a sneer, ‘has been so great he trusted to its continuance. And doubtless he thought to find you alone. I fear I am in the way.’
I knew him by his figure and his grand air, which in any other company would have marked him for master; and forgetting the impatience which a moment before had consumed me—doubtless I was still light-headed—I answered him. ‘Yet I had once the promise of your lordship’s protection,’ I gasped.
‘My protection, sir?’ he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming angrily.
‘Even so,’ I answered. ‘At the inn at Etampes, where M. de Crillon would have fought me.’
He was visibly taken aback. ‘Are you that man?’ he cried.
‘I am. But I am not here to prate of myself,’ I replied. And with that—the remembrance of my neglected errand flashing on me again—I staggered to the King of Navarre’s side, and, falling on my knees, seized his stirrup. ‘Sire, I bring you news! great news! dreadful
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