An Enemy to the King | Page 4

well, then, if you rode on a little faster. It is my
intention to proceed at a much slower pace than will be agreeable to
you."
And he reined in his horse.
I reined in mine likewise. I was boiling with wrath at his superior tone,
and his consideration for my youth, but I imitated his coolness as well
as I could.
"Monsieur," said I, "whether or not I ever see Paris is not a matter to
concern you. I cannot allow you to consider my youth. You wish to be
obliging; then consider that nothing in the world would be a greater
favor to me than an opportunity to maintain with my sword my opinion
of Henri de Guise."
The man smiled gently, and replied without passion:
"Then, as we certainly are not going to fight, let my refusal be, not on
account of your youth, but on account of my necessity of reaching Paris
without accident."
His horse stood still. His lackeys also had stopped their horses, which
stood pawing and snorting at a respectful distance. It was an awkward
moment for me. I could not stand there trying to persuade a perfectly
serene man to fight. So with an abrupt pull of the rein I started my
horse, mechanically applied the spur, and galloped off. A few minutes
later I was out of sight of this singularly self-controlled gentleman, who
resented my description of the Duke of Guise. I was annoyed for some
time to think that he had had the better of the occurrence; and I gave
myself up for an hour to the unprofitable occupation of mentally
reenacting the scene in a manner more creditable to myself.
"I may meet him in Paris some day," I said to myself, "and find an
occasion to right myself in his estimation. He shall not let my youth

intercede for me again."
Then I wished that I had learned his name, that I might, on reaching
Paris, have found out more about him. Having in his suite no gentlemen,
but several lackeys, he was, doubtless, not himself an important
personage, but a follower of one. Not wishing to meet him again until
circumstances should have changed, I passed the next inn to which I
came, guessing that he would stop there. He must have done so, for he
did not come up with me that day, or at any time during my journey.
It was at sunset on a clear, cold evening that, without further adventure,
I rode into Paris through the Porte St. Michel, and stared, as I
proceeded along the Rue de la Harpe, at the crowds of people hurrying
in either direction in each of the narrow, crooked streets, each person so
absorbed in his own errand, and so used to the throng and the noise,
that he paid no heed to the animation that so interested and stirred me.
The rays of the setting sun lighted up the towers of the colleges and
abbeys at my right, while those at my left stood black against the purple
and yellow sky. I rode on and on, not wishing to stop at an inn until I
should have seen more of the panorama that so charmed me. At last I
reached the left bank of the Seine, and saw before me the little Isle of
the City, the sunlit towers of Notre Dame rising above the wilderness
of turrets and spires surrounding them. I crossed the Pont St. Michel,
stopping for a moment to look westward towards the Tour de Nesle,
and then eastward to the Tournelle, thus covering, in two glances, the
river bank of the University through which I had just come. Emerging
from the bridge, I followed the Rue de la Barillerie across the Isle of
the City, finding everywhere the same bustle, the same coming and
going of citizens, priests, students, and beggars, all alert, yet not to be
surprised by any spectacle that might arise before them. Reaching the
right arm of the Seine, I stopped again, this time on the Pont-au-Change,
and embraced, in a sweeping look from left to right, the river bank of
the town, the Paris of the court and the palaces, of the markets and of
trade, the Paris in which I hoped to find a splendid future, the Paris into
which, after taking this comprehensive view from the towers of the
Louvre and the Tour de Bois away leftward, to the Tour de Billy away
right ward, I urged my horse with a jubilant heart. It was a quite dark

Paris by the time I plunged into it. The Rue St. Denis, along which I
rode, was beginning to be lighted here and there by stray rays from
windows. The still narrower streets, that ran, like crooked