An Enemy to the King | Page 5

corridors in a
great château, from the large thoroughfare, seemed to be altogether
dark.
But, dark as the city had become, I had determined to explore some of
it that night, so charming was its novelty, so inviting to me were its
countless streets, leading to who knows what? I stopped at a large inn
in the Rue St. Denis, saw my tired horse well cared for by an hostler,
who seemed amazed at my rustic solicitude for details, had my
portmanteau deposited in a clean, white-washed chamber, overlooking
the street, ate a supper such as only a Paris innkeeper can serve and a
ravenous youth from the country can devour, and went forth afoot, after
curfew, into the now entirely dark and no longer crowded street, to find
what might befall me.
It had grown colder at nightfall, and I had to draw my cloak closely
around me. A wind had come up, too, and the few people whom I met
were walking with head thrust forward, the better to resist the breeze
when it should oppose them. Some were attended by armed servants
bearing lanterns. The sign-boards, that hung from the projecting stories
of the tall houses, swung as the wind swayed, and there was a continual
sound of creaking. Clouds had risen, and the moon was obscured much
of the time, so that when I looked down some of the narrower streets I
could not see whether they ended within a short distance, turned out of
sight, or continued far in the same direction. Being accustomed to the
country roads, the squares of smaller towns, and the wide avenues of
the little park at La Tournoire, I was at first surprised at the narrowness
of the streets. Across one of them lay a drunken man, peacefully
snoring. His head touched the house on one side of the street, and his
feet pressed the wall on the opposite side. It surprised me to find so
many of the streets no wider than this. But there was more breathing
room wherever two streets crossed and where several of them opened
into some great place. The crookedness and curvature of the streets
constantly tempted me to seek what might be beyond, around the
corner, or the bend; and whenever I sought, I found still other corners

or bends hiding the unknown, and luring me to investigate.
I had started westward from the inn, intending to proceed towards the
Louvre. But presently, having turned aside from one irregular street
into another, I did not know what was the direction in which I went.
The only noises that I heard were those caused by the wind, excepting
when now and then came suddenly a burst of loud talk, mingled mirth
and jangling, as quickly shut off, when the door of some cabaret
opened and closed. When I heard footsteps on the uneven pebble
pavement of the street, and saw approaching me out of the gloom some
cloaked pedestrian, I mechanically gripped the handle of my sword,
and kept a wary eye on the stranger,--knowing that in passing each
other we must almost touch elbows. His own suspicious and cautious
demeanor and motions reflected mine.
At night, in the narrow streets of a great town, there exists in every
footfall heard, every human figure seen emerging from the darkness,
the possibility of an encounter, an adventure, something unexpected. So,
to the night roamer, every human sound or sight has an unwonted
interest.
As I followed the turning of one of the narrowest streets, the darkness,
some distance ahead of me, was suddenly cleft by a stream of light
from a window that was quickly opened in the second story of a tall
house on the right-hand side of the way. Then the window was
darkened by the form of a man coming from the chamber within. At his
appearance into view I stood still. Resting for a moment on his knees
on the window-ledge, he lowered first one leg, then the other, then his
body, and presently he was hanging by his hands over the street. Then
the face of a woman appeared in the window, and as the man remained
there, suspended, he looked up at her inquiringly.
"It is well," she said, in a low tone; "but be quick. We are just in time."
And she stood ready to close the window as soon as he should be out of
the way.
"Good night, adorable," he replied, and dropped to the street. The lady
immediately closed the window, not even waiting to see how the man

had alighted.
Had she waited to see that, she would have seen him, in lurching over
to prevent his sword from striking the ground, lose his balance on a
detached paving-stone, and fall heavily on his right