to the Reformed faith.
CHAPTER 7. EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS
The horseman rode down the narrow vennel which led to the St. Denis gate
of Paris, holding his nose like a fine lady. Behind him the city reeked
in a close August twilight. From every entry came the smell of coarse
cooking and unclean humanity, and the heaps of garbage in the gutters
sent up a fog of malodorous dust when they were stirred by prowling dogs
or hasty passengers.
"Another week of heat and they will have the plague here, he muttered.
Oh for Eaucourt--Eaucourt by the waters! I have too delicate a stomach
for this Paris."
His thoughts ran on to the country beyond the gates, the fields about
St. Denis, the Clermont downs. Soon he would be stretching his bay on
good turf.
But the gates were closed, though it was not yet the hour of curfew. The
lieutenant of the watch stood squarely before him with a forbidding air,
while a file of arquebusiers lounged in the archway.
"There's no going out to-night," was the answer to the impatient rider.
"Tut, man, I am the Sieur de Laval, riding north on urgent affairs. My
servants left at noon. Be quick. Open!"
"Who ordered this folly?"
"The Marshal Tavannes. Go argue with him, if your mightiness has the
courage."
The horseman was too old a campaigner to waste time in wrangling. He
turned his horse's head and retraced his path up the vennel. "Now what
in God's name is afoot to-night?" he asked himself, and the bay tossed
his dainty head, as if in the same perplexity. He was a fine animal with
the deep barrel and great shoulders of the Norman breed, and no more
than his master did he love this place of alarums and stenches.
Gaspard de Laval was a figure conspicuous enough even in that city
of motley. For one thing he was well over two yards high, and, though
somewhat lean for perfect proportions, his long arms and deep chest told
of no common strength. He looked more than his thirty years, for his
face was burned the colour of teak by hot suns, and a scar just under
the hair wrinkled a broad low forehead. His small pointed beard was
bleached by weather to the hue of pale honey. He wore a steel back and
front over a doublet of dark taffeta, and his riding cloak was blue
velvet lined with cherry satin. The man's habit was sombre except for
the shine of steel and the occasional flutter of the gay lining. In his
velvet bonnet he wore a white plume. The rich clothing became him well,
and had just a
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