bringing me to the house I sought. It stood on the outskirts of the St. Honoré Faubourg, in a quarter sufficiently respectable, and a street marked neither by extreme squalor nor extravagant ostentation--from one or other of which all desperate enterprises, in my opinion, take their rise. The house, which was high and narrow, presented only two windows to the street, but the staircase was sweet and clean, and it was impossible to cross the threshold without feeling a prepossession in Felix's favor. Already I began to think I had come on a fool's errand.
"Which floor?" I asked La Font.
"The highest. Monsieur," he answered.
I went up softly and he followed me. Under the tiles I found a door, and heard some one moving beyond it. Bidding La Font remain on guard outside, and come to my aid only if I called him, I knocked boldly. A gentle voice bade me enter, and I did so.
There was only one person in the room, a young woman with fair, waving hair, a pale face, and blue eyes, who,
A story about plotters trying to assassinate King Henry of France in the 1600s. It appears to be part of a memoir of one of the king's ministers--a middle part, in that it refers to things that the reader already knows about.
It isn't exactly edge-of-the-seat stuff, and, from this piece by itself, it's hard to tell if the reader should want the king assassinated or not. I didn't care one way or the other.
The writing is good, but the story is a bit hard to decipher.