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. Devereux — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best free novels txt) 📖
Book online «Devereux — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best free novels txt) 📖». Author Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
“Louis the Great?” said a sullen-looking man,—“Louis the persecutor!”
“Ah, he’s a Huguenot!” cried another with haggard cheeks and hollow eyes, scowling at the last speaker. “Never mind what he says: the King was right when he refused protection to the heretics; but was he right when he levied such taxes on the Catholics?”
“Hush!” said a third—“hush: it may be unsafe to speak; there are spies about; for my part, I think it was all the fault of the noblesse.”
“And the Favourites!” cried a soldier, fiercely.
“And the Harlots!” cried a hag of eighty.
“And the Priests!” muttered the Huguenot.
“And the Tax-gatherers!” added the lean Catholic.
We rode slowly on. My comrade was evidently and powerfully affected.
“So, he is dead!” said he. “Dead!—well, well, peace be with him! He conquered in Holland; he humbled Genoa; he dictated to Spain; he commanded Conde and Turenne; he—Bah! What is all this!—” then, turning abruptly to me, my companion cried, “I did not speak against the King, did I, Sir?”
“Not much.”
“I am glad of that,—yes, very glad!” And the old man glared fiercely round on a troop of boys who were audibly abusing the dead lion.
“I would have bit out my tongue rather than it had joined in the base joy of these yelping curs. Heavens! when I think what shouts I have heard when the name of that man, then deemed little less than a god, was but breathed!—and now—why do you look at me, Sir? My eyes are moist; I know it, Sir,—I know it. The old battered broken soldier, who made his first campaigns when that which is now dust was the idol of France and the pupil of Turenne,—the old soldier’s eyes shall not be dry, though there is not another tear shed in the whole of this great empire.”
“Your three sons?” said I; “you did not weep for them?”
“No, Sir: I loved them when I was old; but I loved Louis when I was young!”
“Your oppressed and pillaged country?” said I, “think of that.”
“No, Sir, I will not think of it!” cried the old warrior in a passion. “I will not think of it—to-day, at least.”
“You are right, my brave friend: in the grave let us bury even public wrongs; but let us not bury their remembrance. May the joy we read in every face that we pass—joy at the death of one whom idolatry once almost seemed to deem immortal—be a lesson to future kings!”
My comrade did not immediately answer; but, after a pause and we had turned our backs upon the town, he said, “Joy, Sir,—you spoke of joy! Yes, we are Frenchmen: we forgive our rulers easily for private vices and petty faults; but we never forgive them if they commit the greatest of faults, and suffer a stain to rest upon—”
“What?” I asked, as my comrade broke off.
“The national glory, Monsieur!” said he.
“You have hit it,” said I, smiling at the turgid sentiment which was so really and deeply felt. “And had you written folios upon the character of your countrymen, you could not have expressed it better.”
CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH THERE IS REASON TO FEAR THAT PRINCES ARE NOT INVARIABLY FREE FROM HUMAN PECCADILLOES.
ON entering Paris, my veteran fellow-traveller took leave of me, and I proceeded to my hotel. When the first excitement of my thoughts was a little subsided, and after some feelings of a more public nature, I began to consider what influence the King’s death was likely to have on my own fortunes. I could not but see at a glance that for the cause of the Chevalier, and the destiny of his present exertions in Scotland, it was the most fatal event that could have occurred.
The balance of power in the contending factions of France would, I foresaw, lie entirely between the Duke of Orleans and the legitimatized children of the late king: the latter, closely leagued as they were with Madame de Maintenon, could not be much disposed to consider the welfare of Count Devereux; and my wishes, therefore, naturally settled on the former. I was not doomed to a long suspense. Every one knows that the very next day the Duke of Orleans appeared before Parliament, and was proclaimed Regent; that the will of the late King was set aside; and that the Duke of Maine suddenly became as low in power as he had always been despicable in intellect. A little hubbub ensued: people in general laughed at the Regent’s finesse; and the more sagacious admired the courage and address of which the finesse was composed. The Regent’s mother wrote a letter of sixty-nine pages about it; and the Duchess of Maine boxed the Duke’s ears very heartily for not being as clever as herself. All Paris teemed with joyous forebodings; and the Regent, whom every one some time ago had suspected of poisoning his cousins, every one now declared to be the most perfect prince that could possibly be imagined, and the very picture of Henri Quatre in goodness as well as physiognomy. Three days after this event, one happened to myself with which my public career may be said to commence.
I had spent the evening at a house in a distant part of Paris, and, invited by the beauty of the night, had dismissed my carriage, and was walking home alone and on foot. Occupied with my reflections, and not very well acquainted with the dangerous and dark streets of Paris, in which it was very rare for those who have carriages to wander on foot, I insensibly strayed from my proper direction. When I first discovered this disagreeable fact, I was in a filthy and obscure lane rather than street, which I did not remember having ever honoured with my presence before. While I was pausing in the vain hope and anxious endeavour to shape out some imaginary chart—some “map of the mind,” by which to direct my bewildered course—I heard a confused noise proceed from another lane at right angles with the one in which I then was. I listened: the sound became more distinct; I recognized human voices in loud and angry altercation; a moment more and there was a scream. Though I did not attach much importance to the circumstance, I thought I might as well approach nearer to the quarter of noise. I walked to the door of the house from which the scream proceeded; it was very small and mean. Just as I neared it, a window was thrown open, and a voice cried, “Help! help! for God’s sake, help!”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Whoever you are, save us!” cried the voice, “and that instantly, or we shall be murdered;” and, the moment after, the voice ceased abruptly, and was succeeded by the clashing of swords.
I beat loudly at the door; I shouted out,—no answer; the scuffle within seemed to increase. I saw a small blind alley to the left; one of the unfortunate
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