Agnes Sorel: A Novel

Transcriber's Notes:
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https://books.google.com/books?id=h9ghAAAAMAAJ
(the New York Public Library)

AGNES SOREL.

A Novel

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF
"LIFE OF VICISSITUDES," "PEQUINILLO," "THE FATE," "AIMS AND
OBSTACLES," "HENRY SMEATON," "THE WOODMAN," &c., &c., &c.

NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1864

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, by
GEORGE P. R. JAMES,
in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.

TO

MAUNSELL B. FIELD, ESQ.,

NOT ONLY AS THE COMPANION OF SOME OF MY LITERARY LABORS, BUT
AS MY DEAR FRIEND; NOT ONLY AS A GENTLEMAN AND A MAN
OF HONOR, BUT AS A MAN OF GENIUS AND OF FEELING;
NOT ONLY AS ONE WHO DOES HONOR TO HIS OWN
COUNTRY, BUT AS ONE WHO WOULD DO
HONOR TO ANY,

This Book is Dedicated, with sincere Regard,

BY G. P. R. JAMES.

AGNES SOREL.

CHAPTER I.

How strange the sensation would be, how marvelously interesting the scene, were we to wake up from some quiet night's rest and find ourselves suddenly transported four or five hundred years back--living and moving among the men of a former age!

To pass from the British fortress of Gibraltar, with drums and fifes, red coats and bayonets, in a few hours, to the coast of Africa, and find one's self surrounded by Moors and male petticoats, turbans and cimeters, is the greatest transition the world affords at present; but it is nothing to that of which I speak. How marvelously interesting would it be, also, not only to find one's self brought in close contact with the customs, manners, and characteristics of a former age, with all our modern notions strong about us, but to be met at every turn by thoughts, feelings, views, principles, springing out of a totally different state of society, which have all passed away, and moldered, like the garments in which at that time men decorated themselves.

Such, however, is the leap which I wish the reader to take at the present moment; and--although I know it to be impossible for him to divest himself of all those modern impressions which are a part of his identity--to place himself with me in the midst of a former period, and to see himself surrounded for a brief space with the people, and the things, and the thoughts of the fifteenth century.

Let me premise, however, in this prefatory chapter, that the object of an author, in the minute detail of local scenery and ancient customs, which he is sometimes compelled to give, and which are often objected to by the animals with long ears that browse on the borders of Parnassus, is not so much to show his own learning in antiquarian lore, as to imbue his reader with such thoughts and feelings as may enable him to comprehend the motives of the persons acting before his eyes, and the sensations, passions, and prejudices of ages passed away. Were we to take an unsophisticated rustic, and baldly tell him, without any previous intimation of the habits of the time, that the son of a king of England one day went out alone--or, at best, with a little boy in his company--all covered over with iron; that he betook himself to a lone and desolate pass in the mountains, traversed by a high road, and sat upon horseback by the hour together, with a spear in his hand, challenging every body who passed to fight him, the unsophisticated rustic would naturally conclude that the king's son was mad, and would expect to hear of him next in Bedlam, rather than on the throne of England. I let any one tell him previously of the habits, manners, and customs of those days, and the rustic--though he may very well believe that the whole age was mad--will understand and appreciate the motives of the individual, saying to himself, "This man was not a bit madder than the rest."

However, this book is not intended to be a mere painting of the customs of the fifteenth century, but rather a picture of certain characters of that period, dressed somewhat in the garb of the times, and moved by those springs of action which influenced men in the age to which I refer. It has been said, and justly, that human nature is the same in all ages; but as a musical instrument will produce many different tones, according to the hand which touches it, so will human nature present many different aspects, according to the influences by which it is affected. At all events, I claim a right to play my own tune upon my violin, and what skills it if that tune be an air of the olden times. No one need listen who does not like it.

CHAPTER II.

There was a small, square room, of a very plain, unostentatious appearance, in the turret of a tall house in the city of Paris. The walls were of hewn stone, without any decoration whatever, except where at the four sides, and nearly in the centre of each, appeared a long iron arm, or branch, with a socket at the end of it, curved and twisted in a somewhat elaborate manner, and bearing some traces of having been gilt in a former day. The ceiling was much more decorated than the walls, and was formed by two groined arches of stone-work, crossing each other in the middle, and thus forming, as it were, four pointed arches, the intervals between one mass of stone-work and another being filled up with dark-colored oak, much after the fashion of a cap in a coronet. The spot where the arches crossed was ornamented with a richly-carved pendant, or corbel, in the centre of which was embedded a massive iron hook, probably intended to sustain a large lamp, while the iron sockets protruding from the walls were destined for flambeaux or lanterns. The floor was of stone, and a rude mat of rushes was spread over about one eighth of the surface, toward the middle of the room, where stood a table of no very large dimensions, covered with a great pile of papers and a few manuscript books. No lamp hung from the ceiling; no lantern or flambeau cast its light from the walls as had undoubtedly been the case in earlier times: the tall, quaint-shaped window, besides being encumbered by a rich tracery of stone-work, could not admit even the moonbeams through the thick coat of dust that covered its panes, and the only light which that room received was afforded by a dull oil lamp upon the table, without glass or shade. All the furniture looked dry and withered, as it were, and though solid enough, being balkily formed of dark oak, presented no ornament whatever. It was, in short, an uncomfortable-looking apartment enough, having a ruinous and dilapidated appearance, without any of the picturesqueness of decay. Under the table lay a large, brindled, rough-haired dog, of the stag-hound breed, but cruelly docked of his tail, in accordance with some code of forest laws, which at that time were very numerous and very various in different parts of France, but all equally unjust and severe. Apparently he was sound asleep as dog could be; but we all know that a dog's sleep is not as profound as a metaphysician's dream, and from time to time he would raise his head a little from his crossed paws, and look slightly up toward the legs of a person seated at the table.

Now those legs--to begin at the unusual end of a portrait--were exceedingly handsome, well-shaped legs, indeed, evidently appertaining to a young man on the flowery side of maturity. There was none of the delicate, rather unsymmetrical straightness of the mere boy about them, nor the over-stout, balustrade-like contour of the sturdy man of middle age. Nor did the rest of the figure belie their promise, for it was in all respects a good one, though somewhat lightly formed, except the shoulders, indeed, which were broad and powerful, and the chest, which was wide and expansive. The face was good, though not strictly handsome, and the expression was frank and bright, yet with a certain air of steady determination in it which is generally conferred by the experience of more numerous years than seemed to have passed over that young and unwrinkled brow.

The dress of the young scribe--for he was writing busily--was in itself plain, though not without evident traces of care and attention in its device and adjustment. The shoes were extravagantly long, and drawn out to a very acute point, and the gray sort of mantle, with short sleeves, which he wore over his ordinary hose and jerkin, had, at the collar, and at the end of those short sleeves, a little strip of fur--a mark, possibly, of gentle birth, for sumptuary laws, always ineffectual, were issued from time to time, during all the earlier periods of the French monarchy, and generally broken as soon as issued.

There was no trace of beard upon the chin. The upper lip itself was destitute of the manly mustache, and the hair, combed back from the forehead, and lying in smooth and glossy curls upon the back of the neck, gave an appearance almost feminine to the head, which was beautifully set upon the shoulders. The broad chest already mentioned, however, the long, sinewy arms, and the strong brown hand which held the pen, forbade all suspicion that the young writer was a fair lady in disguise, although that was a period in the world's history when the dames of France were not overscrupulous in assuming any character which might suit their purposes for the time.

There was a good deal of noise and bustle in the streets of Paris, as men with flambeaux in their hands walked on before some great lord of the court, calling "Place! place!" to clear the way for their master as he passed; or as a merry party of citizens returned, laughing and jesting, from some gay meeting; or as a group of night-ramblers walked along, insulting the ear of night with cries, and often with blasphemies; or as lays and songs were trolled up from the corners of the streets by knots of persons, probably destitute of any other home, assembled round the large bonfires, lighted to give warmth to the shivering poor--for it was early in the winter of the great frost of one thousand four hundred and seven, and the miseries of the land were great. Still, the predominant sounds were those of joy and revelry; for the people of Paris were the same in those days that they are even now; and joy, festivity, and frolic, then, as in our own days, rolled and caroled along the highways, while the dust was yet wet with blood, and wretchedness, destitution, and oppression lurked unseen behind the walls. No sounds, however, seemed to disturb the lad at his task, or to withdraw his thoughts for one moment from the subject before him. Now a loud peal of laughter shook the casement; but still he wrote on. Now a cry, as if of pain, rang round the room from without, but such cries were common in those days, and he lifted not his head. And then again a plaintive song floated on the air, broken only by the striking of a clock, jarring discordantly with the mellow notes of the air; but still the pen hurried rapidly over the page, till some minutes after the hour of nine had struck, when he laid it down with a deep respiration, as if some allotted task were ended.

At length the dog which was lying at his feet lifted his head suddenly and gazed toward the door. The youth was reading over what he had written, and caught no sound to withdraw his attention; but the beast was right. There was a step--a familiar step--upon the stair-case, and the good dog rose up, and walked toward the entrance of the room, just as the door was opened, and another personage entered upon the scene.

He was a grave man, of the middle age, tall, well formed, and of a noble and commanding presence. He was dressed principally in black velvet, with a gown of that stuff, which was lined with fur, indeed, though none of that lining was shown externally. On his head he had a small velvet cap, without any feather, and his hair was somewhat sprinkled with gray, though in all probability he had not passed the age of forty.

"Well, Jean," he said, in a deliberate tone, as he entered the room with a firm and quiet tread, "how many have you done, my son?"

"All of them, sir," replied the young man. "I was just reading over this last letter to Signor Bernardo Baldi, to see that I had made no mistake."

"You never mistake, Jean," said the elder man, in a kindly tone; and then added, thoughtfully, "All? You must have written hard, and diligently."

"You told me to have them ready against you returned, sir," said the youth.

"Yes, but I have returned an hour before the time," rejoined his elder companion; and then, as the young man moved away from the chair which he occupied, in order to leave it vacant for himself, the elder drew near the table, and, still standing, glanced his eye over some six or seven letters which lay freshly written, and yet unfolded. It was evident, however, that though, by a process not uncommon, the mind might take in, and even investigate, to a certain degree, all that the eye rested upon, a large part of the thoughts were engaged with other subjects, and that deeper interests divided the attention of the reader.

"There should be a comma there," he said, pointing with his finger, and at the same time seating himself in the chair.

The young man took the letter and added the comma; but when he looked up, his companion's eyes were fixed upon the matting on the floor, and it was apparent that the letters, and all they contained, had passed away from his memory.

The dog rose from the couchant attitude in which he had placed himself, and laid his shaggy head upon the elder man's knee; and, patting him quietly, the newcomer said, in a meditative tone, "It is pleasant to have some one we can trust. Don't you think so, Jean?"

"It is indeed, sir," replied the young man; "and pleasant to be trusted."

"And yet we must sometimes part with those we most trust," continued the other. "It is sad, but sometimes it is necessary."

The young man's countenance fell a little, but he made no reply, and the other, looking toward the wide fire-place, remarked, "You have let the fire go out, Jean, and these are not days in which one can afford to be without warmth."

The young man gathered the embers together, threw on some logs of wood, and both he and his companion mused for several minutes without speaking a word. At length the youth seemed to summon sudden courage, and said, abruptly, "I hope you are not thinking of parting with me, sir. I have endeavored to the utmost to do my duty toward you well, and you have never had occasion to find fault; though perhaps your kindness may have prevented you from doing so, even when there was occasion."

"Not so, not so, my son," replied the other, warmly; "there has been no fault, and consequently no blame. Nay more, I promised you, if you fulfilled all the tasks I set you well, never to part with you but for your own advantage. The time has come, however, when it is necessary to part with you, and I must do so for your own sake."

There was a dead silence for a moment or two, and then the elder man laid his finger quietly on the narrow strip of fur that bordered his companion's dress, saying, with a slight smile, "You are of noble blood, Jean, and I am a mere bourgeois."

"I can easily strip that off, if it offends you, sir," replied the young man, giving him back his smile. "It is soon done away."

"But not the noble blood, Jean," answered his companion; "and this occupation is not fitted for you."

An air of deep and anxious grief spread over the young man's face, and he answered earnestly, "There is nothing derogatory in it, sir. To write your letters, to transact any honorable business which you may intrust to me, can not in any way degrade me, and you know right well that it was from no base or ignoble motive that I undertook the task. My mother's poverty is no stain upon our honorable blood, nor surely can her son's efforts be so to change that poverty into competence."

His companion smiled upon him kindly, saying, "Far from it, Jean; but still, if there be an opportunity of your effecting your object in a course more consonant with your birth and station, it is my duty as your friend to seize it for you. Such an opportunity now presents itself, and you must take advantage of it. It may turn out well; I trust it will; but, should the reverse be the case--for in these strange, unsettled times, those who stand the highest have most to fear a fall--if the reverse should be the case, I say, you will always find a resource in Jacques Cœur; his house, his purse, his confidence will be always open to you. Put on your chaperon, then, and come with me: for Fortune, like Time, should always be taken by the forelock. The jade is sure to kick if we get behind her."

The young man took down one of the large hoods in which it was still customary, for the bourgeoisie especially, to envelop their heads, when walking in the streets of Paris. Beneath it, however, he placed a small cap, fitting merely the crown of the head, and over the sort of tunic he wore he cast a long mantle, for the weather was very cold. When fully accoutered, he ventured to ask where Maître Cœur was going to take him; but the good merchant answered with a smile, "Never mind, my son, never mind. If we succeed as I expect, you will soon know; if not, there is no need you should. Come with me, Jean, and trust to me."

"Right willingly," replied the young man, and followed him.

The house was a large and handsome house, as things went at that time in Paris; but the stair-case was merely one of those narrow, twisting spirals which we rarely see, except in cathedrals or ruined castles, in the present times. Windows to that stair-case there were none, and in the daytime the manifold steps received light only through a loophole here and there; for in those days it was not at all inconvenient for the owner, even of a very modest mansion, to have the means of ascending and descending from one part of his house to the other, without the danger of being struck by the arrows which were flying somewhat too frequently in the streets of Paris. At night, a lantern, guarded by plates of horn from the cold blasts through the loopholes, shed a faint and twinkling ray, at intervals of ten or twelve yards, upon the steps. But Jacques Cœur and his young companion were both well acquainted with the way, and were soon at the little door which opened into the court-yard. Jean Charost looked round for the merchant's mule, as they issued forth; but no mule was there, nor any attendant in waiting; and Jacques Cœur drawing his cloak more tightly around him, walked straight out of the gates, and along the narrow streets, unlighted by any thing but the pale stars shining dimly in the wintery sky.

The merchant walked fast, and Jean Charost followed a step behind: not without some curiosity: not without some of that palpitating anxiety which, with the young, generally precedes an unexpected change of life, yet with a degree, at least, of external calmness which nothing but very early discipline in the hard school of the world could give. It seemed to him, indeed, that his companion intended to traverse the whole city of Paris; for, directing his course toward the quarter of St. Antoine, he paused not during some twenty minutes, except upon one occasion, when, just as they were entering one of the principal streets, half a dozen men, carrying torches, came rapidly along, followed by two or three on horseback, and several on foot. Jacques Cœur drew back into the shadow, and brought his cloak closer round him; but the moment the cavalcade had passed he walked on again, saying in a whisper, "That is the Marquis de Giac, a favorite of the Duke of Burgundy--or, rather, the husband of the duke's favorite. He owes me a thousand crowns, and, consequently, loves not to see me in his way."

Five minutes more brought them to a large stone wall, having two towers, almost like those of a church, one at either end, and a great gate with a wicket near the centre. Monasteries were more common than bee-hives in Paris in those days, and Jean Charost would have taken no notice of the wall, or of a large, dull-looking building rising up behind it, had it not been that a tall man, clad apparently in a long gray gown, rushed suddenly up to the gate, just as the two men were passing, and rang the bell violently. He seemed to hold something carefully on his left arm; but his air was wild and hurried, and Jacques Cœur murmured, as they passed, "Alas, alas! 'Tis still the same, all over the world."

Jean Charost did not venture to ask the meaning of his comment, but looked up and marked the building well, following still upon the merchant's rapid steps; and a short distance further on the great towers of the Bastile came in sight, looking over the lesser buildings in the front.

Before they reached the open space around the fortress, however, the street expanded considerably, and at its widest point, appeared upon the left a large and massive edifice, surrounded by walls of heavy masonry, battlemented and machicolated, with four small, flanking towers at the corners. In the centre of this wall, as in the case of the monastery, was a large gateway; but the aspect of this entrance was very different from that of the entrance to the religious building. Here was an archway with battlements above, and windows in the masonry looking out on the street. A parapetted gallery, too, of stone-work, from which a porter or warden could speak with any one applying for admission, without opening the gate, ran along just above the arch.

No great precaution, however, seemed to be in force at the moment of Jacques Cœur's approach. The gate was open, though not unguarded; for two men, partly armed, were lolling at the entrance, notwithstanding the coldness of the night. Behind the massy chains, too, which ran along the whole front line of the wall, solidly riveted into strong stone posts, cutting off a path of about five feet in width from the street, were eight or nine men and young lads, some well armed, almost as if for war, and some dressed in gay and glittering apparel of a softer texture. The night, as I have said, was in sooth very cold; but yet the air before the building received some artificial warmth from a long line of torches, blazing high in iron sockets projecting from the walls, which looked grim and frowning in the glare.

At the gates Jacques Cœur stopped short, and let his mantle fall a little, so as to show his face. One of the men under the arch stared at him, and took a step forward, as if to inquire his business, but the other nodded his head, saying, "Good evening, again, Maître Jacques. Pass in. You will find Guillot at the door."

"Come, Jean," said Jacques Cœur, turning to his young companion; and passing under the arch, they entered a small piece of ground laid out apparently as a garden; for the light of some lanterns, scattered here and there, showed a number of trees planted in even rows, in the midst of which rose a palace of a much lighter and more graceful style of architecture than the stern and heavy-looking defenses on the street could have led any one to expect. A flight of steps led up from the garden to a deep sort of open entrance-hall, where a light was burning, showing a door of no very great size, surrounded with innumerable delicate moldings of stone. To the door was fastened, by a chain, a large, heavy iron ring, deeply notched all along the internal circle, and by its side hung a small bar of steel, which, when run rapidly over these notches, produced a loud sound, not altogether unmusical. To this instrument of sound Jacques Cœur applied himself, and the door was immediately opened from within.

"Come in, Maître Jacques," said a man of almost gigantic height. "Come in; the duke is waiting for you in the little hall."

CHAPTER III.

Passing through a small and narrow hall, Jacques Cœur and his companion ascended a flight of six or seven steps, and then entered, by a door larger than that which communicated with the garden, a vestibule of very splendid proportions.

It must be remembered that the arts were at that time just at the period of their second birth in Europe; the famous fifteenth century had just begun, and a true taste for the beautiful, in every thing except architecture, was confined to the breasts of a few. Cimabue, Giotto, Hubert van Eyk, and John of Bruges had already appeared; but the days of Leonardo, of Raphael, of Michael Angelo, of Giorgione, and of Correggio were still to come. Nevertheless, the taste for both painting and sculpture was rapidly extending in all countries, and especially in France, which, though it never produced a great man in either branch of art, had always an admiration of that which is fine when produced by others. It was with astonishment and delight, then, that Jean Charost, who had never in his life before seen any thing that deserved the name of a painting, except a fresco here and there, and the miniature illuminations of missals and psalm books, beheld the vestibule surrounded on every side with pictures which appeared to him perfection itself, and which probably would have even presented to our eyes many points of excellence, unattained or unattainable by our own contemporaries. Though the apartment was well lighted, he had no time to examine the treasures it contained; for Jacques Cœur, more accustomed to such scenes himself, and with his mind fully occupied by other thoughts, hurried straight across to a wide, two-winged stair-case of black oak, at the further end of the vestibule, and ascended the steps at a rapid rate.

The young man followed through a long corridor, plainly furnished, till his guide stopped and knocked at a door on the right hand side. A voice from within exclaimed, "Come in;" and when Jacques Cœur opened the door, Jean Charost found himself at the entrance of a room and in the presence of a person requiring some description.

The little hall, as it was called, was a large vaulted chamber about forty feet in length, and probably twenty-six or twenty-eight in width. It was entirely lined with dark-colored wood, and the pointed arch of the roof, really or apparently supported by highly ornamented wood-work, was of the same material. All along the walls, however, upheld by rings depending from long arms of silver, were wide sheets of tapestry, of an ancient date, but full of still brilliant colors; and projecting from between these, at about six feet from the ground, were a number of other silver brackets supporting sconces of the same metal. Large straight-backed benches were arranged along the walls, touching the tapestry; but there was only one table in the room, on which stood a large candelabra of two lights, each supporting a wax taper or candle, not much inferior in size to those set upon the altar by Roman Catholics, and by those who repudiate the name, but follow the practices, of Rome--the mongrel breed, who have not the courage to confess themselves converted, yet have turned tail upon their former faith, and the faith of their ancestors.

At this table was seated, with paper, and pen, and ink before him--not unemployed even at that moment--a man of the middle age, of a very striking and interesting appearance. As none of the sconces were lighted, and the candelabra before him afforded the only light which the room received, he sat in the midst of a bright spot, surrounded almost by darkness, and, though Heaven knows, no saint, looking like the picture of a saint in glory. His face and figure might well have afforded a subject for the pencil; for not only was he handsome in feature and in form, but there was an indescribable charm of expression about his countenance, and a marvelous grace in his person which characterized both, even when in profound repose. We are too apt to confine the idea of grace to action. Witness a sleeping child--witness the Venus de Medici--witness the Sappho of Dannecker. At all other times it is evanescent, shifting, and changing, like the streamers of the Aurora Borealis. But in calm stillness, thought can dwell upon it; the mind can take it in, read it, and ponder upon its innate meaning, as upon the page of some ever-living book, and not upon the mere hasty word spoken by some passing stranger.

He was writing busily, and had apparently uttered the words, "Come in," without ever looking up; but the moment after Jacques Cœur and his young companion had entered, the prince--for he could be nothing else but a prince, let republicans say what they will--lifted his speaking eyes and looked forward.

"Oh, my friend," he said, seeing the great merchant; "come hither. I have been anxiously waiting for you."

Jacques Cœur advanced to within a few paces, while the other still kept his seat, and Jean Charost followed a step or two behind.

"Well, what news do you bring me?" asked the prince, lowering his tone a little; "good, I hope. Come, say you have changed your resolution! Why should a merchant's resolutions be made of sterner stuff than a woman's, or the moon's, or man's, or any other of the light things that inhabit this earth, or whirl around it? Faith, my good friend, the most beneficent of things are always changing. If the Sun himself stuck obstinately to one point, we should be scorched by summer heat, and blinded by too much light. But come, come; to speak seriously, this is absolutely needful to me--you are a friend--a good friend--a well-wisher to your country and myself. Say you have changed your mind."

All this time he had continued seated, while Jacques Cœur, without losing any of that dignity of carriage which distinguished him, stood near, with his velvet cap in his hand, and with an air of respect and deference. "I have told your highness," he replied, bowing his head reverently, "that I can not do it--that it is impossible."

The other started up from the table with some impetuosity. "Impossible?" he exclaimed. "What, would you have me believe that you, reputed the most wealthy merchant of all these realms, can not yourself, or among your friends, raise the small sum I require in a moment of great need? No, no. Say rather that your love for Louis of Orleans has grown cold, or that you doubt his power of repaying you--that you think fortune is against him--that you believe there is a destiny that domineers over his. But say not that it is impossible."

"My lord duke, I repeat," replied Jacques Cœur, in a tone which had a touch of sorrow in it, "I repeat, that it is impossible; not that my affection for your service has grown cold--not that I believe the destiny of any one in these realms can domineer over that of the brother of my king--not that I have not the money, or could not obtain it in Paris in an hour. Nay, more, I will own I have it, as by your somewhat unkind words, mighty prince, you drive me to tell you how it is impossible. I would have fain kept my reasons in respectful silence; but perhaps, after all, those reasons may be better to you than my gold."

"Odd's life, but not so substantial," replied the Duke of Orleans, with a smile, seating himself again, and adding, "speak on, speak on; for if we can not have one good thing, it is well to have another; and I know your reasons are always excellent, Maître Jacques."

"Suppose, my lord," replied Jacques Cœur, "that this wealth of mine is bound up in iron chests, with locks of double proof, and I have lost the key."

"Heaven's queen, send for a blacksmith, and dash the chests to pieces," said the Duke of Orleans, with a laugh.

"Such, perhaps, is the way his highness of Burgundy would deal with them," replied Jacques Cœur. "But you, sir, think differently, I believe. But let me explain to you that the chests--these iron chests, are conscience--the locks, faith and loyalty--the only key that can open them, conviction. But to leave all allegories, my lord duke, I tell your highness frankly, that did you ask this sum for your own private need, my love and affection to your person would bid me throw my fortune wide before you, and say, 'Take what you will.' But when you tell me, and I know that your object is, with this same wealth of mine, to levy war in this kingdom, and tear the land with the strife of faction, I tell you I have not the key, and say it is impossible. I say it is impossible for me, with my convictions, to let you have this money for such purposes."

"Now look you here," cried the Duke of Orleans; "how these good men will judge of matters that they know not, and deal with things beyond their competence! Here, my good friend, you erect yourself into a judge of my plans, my purposes, and their results--at once testify against me, and pronounce the judgment."

"Nay, my good lord, not so," replied Jacques Cœur. "You ask me to do a thing depending on myself; and many a man would call various considerations to counsel before he said yea or nay; would ask himself whether it was convenient, whether there was a likelihood of gain, whether there was a likelihood of loss, whether he affected your side or that of Burgundy. Now, so help me Heaven, as not one of these considerations weighs with me for a moment. I have asked myself but one question: 'Is this for the good of my country? Is it for the service of my king?' Your highness laughs, but it is true; and the answer has been 'No.'"

"Jacques Cœur, thou art a good and honest man," replied the duke, laying his hand upon the merchant's sleeve, and looking in his face gravely; "but you drive me to give you explanations, which I think, as my friend and favorer, you might have spared. The spendthrift gives such explanations, summons plausible excuses, and tells a canting tale of how he came in such a strait, when he goes to borrow money of a usurer; but methinks such things should have no place between Louis of Orleans, the king's only brother, and his friend Jacques Cœur."

"Ah, noble prince," cried the merchant, very much touched. But the duke did not attend to his words; and, rising from his seat, threw back his fine and stately head, saying, "The explanation shall be given, however. I seek not one denier of this money for myself. My revenues are ample, more than ample for my wishes. My court is a very humble one, compared with that of Burgundy. But I seek this sum to enable me to avert dangers from France, which I see coming up speedily, like storms upon the wind. I need not tell you, Jacques Cœur, my brother's unhappy state, nor how he, who has ever possessed and merited the love of all his subjects, is, with rare intervals, unconscious of his kingly duties. The hand of God takes from him, during the greater part of life, the power of wielding the sceptre which it placed within his grasp."

"I know it well, your highness," replied the merchant.

"His children are all young, Jacques Cœur," continued the duke; "and there are but two persons sufficiently near in blood, and eminent in station, to exercise the authority in the land which slips from the grasp of the monarch--the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Orleans. The one, though a peer of France and prince of its blood royal, holds possessions which render him in some sorts a foreigner. Now God forbid that I should speak ill of my noble cousin of Burgundy; but he is a man of mighty power, and not without ambition--honorable, doubtless, but still high-handed and grasping. Burgundy and Flanders, with many a fair estate and territory besides, make up an almost kingly state, and I would ask you yourself if he does not well-nigh rule in France likewise. Hear me out, hear me out! You would say that he has a right to some influence here, and so he has. But I would have this well-nigh, not quite. I pledge you my word that my sole object is to raise up such a power as to awe my good cousin from too great and too dangerous enterprises. Were it a question of mere right--whose is the right to authority here, till the king's children are of an age to act, but the king's brother? Were it a question of policy--in whom should the people rely but in him whose whole interests are identified with this monarchy? Were it a question of judgment--who is so likely to protect, befriend, and direct aright the children of the king as the uncle who has fostered their youth, and loved them even as his own? There is not a man in all France who suspects me of wishing aught but their good. I fear not the Duke of Burgundy so much as to seek to banish him from all power and authority in the realm; but I only desire that his authority should have a counterpoise, in order that his power may never become dangerous. And now tell me, Jacques Cœur, whether my objects are such as you can honestly refuse to aid, remembering that I have used every effort, in a peaceful way, to induce my cousin of Burgundy to content himself with a lawful and harmless share of influence."

"My lord, I stand rebuked," replied Jacques Cœur. "But, if your highness would permit me, I would numbly suggest that efforts might strike others, to bring about the happy object you propose, which may have escaped your attention."

"Name them--name them," cried the Duke of Orleans, somewhat warmly. "By heaven's queen, I think I have adopted all that could be devised by mortal man. Name them, my good friend," he added, in a milder tone.

"Nay, royal sir," replied Jacques Cœur," it is not for one so humble as myself to suggest any remedies in such a serious case; but I doubt not your relatives, the Dukes of Alençon and Berri, and the good King of Sicily, so near and dear to you, might, in their wisdom, aid you with advice which would hold your honor secure, promote the pacification of the realm, and attain the great object that you have in view."

The Duke of Orleans made no reply, but walked once or twice up and down the hall, with his arms folded on his chest, apparently in deep thought. At length, however, he stopped before Jacques Cœur, and laid his finger on his breast, saying, in a grave and inquiring tone, "What would men think of me, my friend, if Louis of Orleans, in a private quarrel with John of Burgundy, were to call in the soft counsels of Alençon, of Berri, and Anjou? Would not men say that he was afraid?"

The slightest possible smile quivered for an instant on the lips of Jacques Cœur, but he replied, gravely and respectfully, "First, I would remark, your highness, that this is not a private quarrel, as I understand it, but a cause solely affecting the good of the realm."

The Duke of Orleans smiled also, with a gay, conscious, half-detected smile; but Jacques Cœur proceeded uninterrupted, saying, "Secondly, I should boldly answer that men would dare say nothing. The prince who boldly bearded Henry the Fourth of Lancaster on his usurped throne, to do battle hand to hand, in the hour of his utmost triumph and success,[^[1]] could never be supposed afraid of any mortal man. Believe me, my lord, the thought of fear has never been, and never can be joined with the name of Louis of Orleans."

"Ah, Jacques Cœur, Jacques Cœur," replied the prince, laughing, "art thou a flatterer too?"

"If so, an honest one," answered the merchant; "and, without daring to dictate terms to your highness, let me add that, should you--thinking better of this case--employ the counsels of the noble princes I have mentioned, and their efforts prove unsuccessful, then, convinced that the last means for peace have been tried and failed, I shall find my duty and my wishes reconciled, and the last livre that I have, should I beg my bread in the streets as a common mendicant, will be freely offered in your just cause."

There was a warmth, a truth, a sincerity in the great merchant's words that seemed to touch his noble auditor deeply. The duke threw himself into his seat again, and covered his eyes for a moment or two; then, taking Jacques Cœur's hand, he pressed it warmly, saying, "Thanks, my friend, thanks. I have urged you somewhat hardly, perhaps, but I know you wish me well. I believe your advice is good. Pride, vanity, whatever it is, shall be sacrificed. I will send for my noble cousins, consult with them, and, if the bloody and disastrous arbitrement of war can be avoided, it shall be so. Many may bless the man who stayed it; and although, in their ignorance, they may not add the name of Jacques Cœur to their prayers, there is a Being who has seen you step between princes and their wrath, and who himself has said, 'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"

The duke then leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into thought again.

All this time, while a somewhat long and interesting conversation had been taking place in his presence, Jean Charost had been standing a few steps behind Jacques Cœur, without moving a limb; and, in truth, so deeply attentive to all that was passing, that he hardly ventured to draw a breath. The whole scene was a lesson to him, however; a lesson never forgot. He saw the condescension and kindness, the familiar friendship which the brother of the King of France displayed toward the simple merchant; but he saw, also, that no familiarity induced Jacques Cœur for one moment to forget respect, or to abate one tittle of the reverence due to the duke's station. He saw that it was possible to be bold and firm, even with a royal personage, and yet to give him no cause of offense, if he were in heart as noble as in name. Both the principal personages in the room, however, in the mighty interests involved in their discourse, seemed to have forgotten his presence altogether; indeed, one of them, probably, had hardly even perceived him. But at length the duke, waking up, as it were, from the thoughts which had absorbed him, with his resolution taken and his course laid out, raised his eyes toward Jacques Cœur, as if intending to continue the conversation with some further announcement of his purposes. As he did so, he seemed suddenly to perceive the figure of Jean Charost, standing in the half light behind, and he exclaimed, quickly and eagerly, "Ha! who is that? Who is that young man? Whence came he? What wants he?"

Jacques Cœur started too; for he had totally forgotten the fact of his having brought Jean Charost there. For an instant he looked confused and agitated, but then recovered himself, and replied, "This is the young gentleman whom I commended to your highness's service. In the importance of the question you first put to me, I totally forgot to present him to you."

The duke gazed in the face of Jean Charost as he advanced a step or two into the light, seeming to question his countenance closely, and for a moment there was a slight look of annoyance and anxiety in his aspect which did not escape the eyes of Jacques Cœur.

"Sir, I have committed a great fault," he said; "but it might have been greater; for, although this young gentleman has heard all that we have said, I will answer for his faith, his honesty, and his discretion with my life."

Ere the words were uttered, however, the Duke of Orleans had recovered himself entirely, and looking up frankly in Jacques Cœur's face, he answered, "As far as I can recollect our conversation, my good friend, it contained not one word which either you or I should fear to have blazoned to the whole realm of France. Come hither, young gentleman. Are you willing to serve me?"

"If not willing before, sir," answered Jean Charost, "what I have heard to-night would make me willing to shed the last drop of my blood for your highness."

The duke smiled upon him kindly. "Good," he said; "good. You are of noble race, my friend tells me."

"On all sides," answered Jean Charost. "Of the nobility of the sword."

"Well, then," said the duke, "we will soon find an office for you. Let me think for a moment--"

But, ere the words had left his lips, there was a sharp rap at the door, and, without waiting for permission, a man, dressed as a superior servant, hurried in, followed by an elderly woman in an extravagantly high hennin--a head-dress of the times--both bearing eagerness and alarm on their countenance.

"I am sorry to tell your highness--" cried the man.

But the duke stopped him, exclaiming, "Hush!" with a look of anxiety and alarm, and then advanced a step or two toward the newcomers, with whom he spoke for a few moments in an eager whisper. He then took several rapid strides toward the door, but paused ere he reached it, and looking back, almost without stopping, exclaimed, "To-morrow, my young friend; be with me to-morrow by nine. I will send for you in the evening, Maître Jacques. I trust then to have news for you. Excuse me now; something has happened."

CHAPTER IV.

For a moment after the Duke of Orleans had quitted the hall, Jacques Cœur and his young companion stood looking at each other in silence; for the agitation which the prince had displayed was far greater than persons in his rank usually suffered to appear. Those were the days when strong passions lay concealed under calm exteriors, and terrible deeds were often meditated and even executed under cover of the most tranquil aspect.

"Come, Jean, my friend." said the merchant, at length; "let us go. We must not pause here with these papers on the table."

As he spoke, he walked toward the door; but, before he quitted the house, he sought diligently in the outer vestibule and the neighboring rooms for some of the domestics. All seemed to be in confusion, however, and though steps were heard moving about in various directions, as if some general search were being made, several minutes elapsed before even a page or a porter could be found. At length a boy of about twelve years of age presented himself, and him Jacques Cœur directed, in a tone of authority, to place himself at the door of the little hall, and neither to go in himself nor let any one enter till he had an opportunity of letting the duke know that he had left the papers he was writing on the table.

"Something has moved his highness very greatly," said Jacques Cœur, as he walked through the streets with his young companion. "He is not usually so careless of what he writes."

"I have always heard him called the gay Duke of Orleans," said Jean Charost, "and I certainly was surprised to find him so grave and thoughtful."

"There are many ways of being thoughtful, my young friend," replied the merchant, "and a light and smiling air, a playful fancy, and a happy choice of words, with many persons--as has been the case with the duke--conceal deep meaning and great strength of mind. He is, indeed, one of the most thoughtful men in France. But his imagination is somewhat too strong, and his passions, alas, stronger still. He is frank, and noble, and generous, however--kind and forgiving; and I do sincerely believe that he deeply regrets his faults, and condemns them as much as any man in France. Many are the resolutions of reformation that he makes; but still an ardent temperament, a light humor, and a joyous spirit carries him away impulsively, and deeds are done, before he well knows they are undertaken, which are bitterly repented afterward."

Jacques Cœur paused, and seemed to hesitate, as if he thought he had almost gone too far with his young companion; but there were more serious considerations pressing upon his mind at that moment than Jean Charost, or even the Duke of Orleans, at all comprehended, though both were affected by them. He was one of the most remarkable men of his age; and although he had not at that time risen to the high point of either honor or wealth which he afterward attained, he was in the high road to distinction and to fortune--a road opened to him by no common means. His vast and comprehensive mind perceived opportunities which escaped the eyes of men more limited in intellect; his energetic and persevering character enabled him to grasp and hold them; and, together with these powers, so serviceable to any man in commercial or political life, he possessed a still higher characteristic--a kindly and a generous spirit, prompting to good deeds as well as to great ones, always under the guidance of prudence and wisdom. He had, moreover, that which I know not whether to call an art or a quality--the capability of impressing almost all men with the truth of his character. Few with whom he was brought in any close connection doubted his judgment or his sincerity, and his true beneficence of heart had the power of attaching others to him so strongly that even persecution, sorrow, and misfortune could not break the bond.

In the present instance, he had two objects in view in placing Jean Charost in the service of the Duke of Orleans; or, rather, he saw at once that two objects might possibly be attained by that kind act. He had provided, apparently, well and happily for a youth to whom he was sincerely attached, and whom he could entirely trust, and he placed near a prince for whom he had a great regard and some admiration, notwithstanding all his faults, one whose character was likely to be not without its influence, even upon a person far higher in station and more brilliant as well as more experienced than himself.

Although he had full confidence in Jean Charost--although he knew that there was an integrity of purpose, and a vigor of determination in the youth, well fitted to stand all trials, he nevertheless thought that some warning, some knowledge, at least of the circumstances in which he was about to be placed, might be serviceable to himself, and give a beneficial direction to any influence he might obtain with the duke. To give this, was his object in turning the conversation at once to the character of Louis of Orleans; but yet the natural delicacy of his mind led him to hesitate, when touching upon the failings of his princely friend. The higher purpose, however, predominated at length, and he went boldly forward.

"It is necessary, Jean," he said, "to prepare you in some degree for the scenes in which you will have to mingle, and especially to afford you some information of the character of the prince you are about to serve. I will mention no names, as there are people passing in the street; but you will understand of whom I speak. He is habitually licentious. The courts of kings are very generally depraved; and impressions received in early life, however reason and religion may fight against them at after periods, still leave a weak and assailable point in the character not easily strengthened for resistance. Man's heart is as a fortress, my young friend; a breach effected in the walls of which is rarely, if ever, repaired with as much firmness as at first. I do not wish to palliate his errors, for they are very great, but merely to explain my anxiety to have good counsels near him."

"It is very necessary, indeed, sir," replied Jean Charost, simply, never dreaming that his counsels could be those to which Jacques Cœur alluded. "I have heard a good deal of the duke since we have been here in Paris, and although all must love and admire his great and noble qualities, yet it is sad to hear the tales men tell of him."

"Age and experience," replied Jacques Cœur, "may have some effect; nay, are already having an effect in rendering good resolutions firmer, and the yielding to temptation less frequent. It is only required now that some person having influence over him, and constantly near him, should throw that influence into the scale of right. I know not, my dear lad, whether you may or may not obtain influence with him. He has promised me to treat you with all favor, and to keep you as near his person as possible, and I feel quite sure that if any opportunities occur of throwing in a word in favor of virtue and good conduct, or of opposing vice and licentiousness, you will not fail to seize it. I do not mean to instigate you to meddle in the affairs of this prince, or to intrude counsels upon him. To do so would be impertinent and wrong in one of your position; but he himself may furnish opportunity. Consult you he will not; but converse with you often, he probably will; and it is quite possible in a calm, quiet, unobtrusive course, to set good counsel before him, without appearing to advise, or pretending to meddle."

"I should fear," replied Jean Charost, "that he would converse very little with a boy like me, certainly not attend much to my opinions."

"That will greatly depend upon the station you obtain in his household," replied Jacques Cœur. "If you are very much near his person, I doubt not that he will. Those who give way to their passion, Jean, and plunge into a sea of intrigue, are often in situations of difficulty and anxiety, where they can find no counsel in their own breasts, no comfort in their own hearts. It is then that they will fly to any one who may happen to be near for help and resource. I only say such things may happen, not that they will; but if they do, I trust to you, Jean Charost, to use them to good purpose."

The conversation proceeded much in the same tone till they reached the lodging of the merchant, and ascended once more to the small chamber in which Jean Charost had been writing. By this time, according to the notions of Jacques Cœur, it was too late for any one to be out of bed, and he and his young companion separated for the night. On the following morning, however, when Jean descended to the counting-room, or office, at an early hour, he found Jacques Cœur already there, and one or two of his servants with him. He heard orders given about horses, and equipments of various kinds, before the great merchant seemed aware of his presence. But when the servants were all dispatched upon their various errands, Jacques turned and greeted him kindly.

"Let us talk of a little business, my son," he said; "for in an hour's time we shall have to part on our several ways; you to the Hôtel d'Orleans, I back again to Bourges; for I am weary of this great city, Jean, and besides, business calls me hence. Now let us, like good merchants, reckon what it is I am in your debt."

"Nay, sir," answered Jean Charost, "it is I that am altogether in yours; I do not mean alone for kindness, but even in mere money. I have received more from you, I believe, than you promised to give me."

"More than the mere stipend, Jean," replied Jacques Cœur; "but not more than what was implied. I promised your mother, excellent lady, God bless her, that I would give you a hundred crowns of the sun by the year, and, moreover, whatever I found your assistance was worth to me besides. I deal with it merely as a matter of account, Jean; and I find that by the transactions with Genoa, partly carried on by yourself in the last year, I have made a profit of sixteen per cent, on invested money; on the business of Amalfi, transacted altogether by yourself nineteen per cent.; on other business of a similar kind, with which I and my ordinary clerks have had to do alone, an average of fifteen per cent. Thus, in all affairs that you have dealt with, there has been a gain over ordinary gains of somewhere between three and four per cent. Now this surplus is to be divided between you and me, according to my view of the case. I have looked into it closely, to do justice to both, and I find that, as the transactions of this year have been somewhat large, I am a debtor to you a sum of two thousand seven hundred and forty-three crowns, two livres Parisis, and one denier. There is a note of the account; I think you will find it correct."

Poor Jean Charost was astonished and overcome. The small patrimony of his father--just sufficient to maintain a man of gentle blood within that narrow limit thronged with petty cares, usually called moderate competence--a sort of myth, embellished by the poets--a kind of economical Arcadia, in which that perfect happiness represented, is as often found as the Arcadian shepherds and shepherdesses in plum-colored velvet coats and pink ribbons are found in the real pastoral--this small estate, I say, had been hypothecated to the amount of three thousand crowns, to enable his father to serve and die for his sovereign on the battle-field; and the great first object of Jean Charost's ambition had been to enable his poor mother to pay off a debt which, with its interest, was eating into the core of the estate. Hitherto the prospect of success had seemed far, far away; he had thought he could see it in the distance; but he had doubted, and feared, and the long journey to travel had seemed to dim even the sunrise of hope. But now the case was reversed; the prospect seemed near, the object well-nigh attained, and for an instant or two he could hardly believe his ears.

"Oh, sir," he exclaimed, after some murmured thanks, "take it to my mother--take it all to my mother. It will make her heart leap for joy. I shall want no money where I am going."

Jacques Cœur gazed at him with the faint, rueful smile of age listening to inexperience. "You will need more than you know, my good youth," he answered. "Courts are very different places from merchant's houses; and if great openings are there found, there are openings of the purse likewise. But I know your object, my dear boy. It is a worthy one, and you can gratify it to a certain extent, while you yet retain the means of appearing as you should in the household of the Duke of Orleans. I will take two thousand crowns to your mother. Then only a thousand will remain to be paid upon the mortgage, which I will discharge; and you shall repay me when your economy and your success, in both of which I have great confidence, shall make it light for you to do so."

Such was the kindly plan proposed by the merchant, and Jean Charost acceded joyfully. It must not be denied that to be in possession of seven hundred crowns seemed, in his young and untaught eyes, to put him among the wealthy of the land. It must not be denied, either, that the thought rose up of many things he wanted, of which he had never much felt the want before. Among the rest, a horse seemed perfectly indispensable but the kindness of Jacques Cœur had beforehand deprived him of all excuse for this not unreasonable expense. He found that a fine horse, taken in payment of a debt from Spain, with bridle and housings all complete, had been destined for his use by the great merchant; and certainly well mounted, and, as he thought, well equipped with all things, Jean Charost set out for the Hôtel d'Orleans, at about half past eight o'clock, carrying a message from Jacques Cœur to the duke, to account for and excuse the sudden departure of the merchant.

CHAPTER V.

To retrace one's steps is always difficult; and it may be as well, whenever the urgency of action will permit it, in life, as in a tale that is told, to pause a little upon the present, and not to hurry on too rapidly to the future, lest the stern Irrevocable follow us too closely. I know nothing more difficult, or more necessary to impress upon the mind of youth, than the great and important fact, that every thing, once done, is irrevocable; that Fate sets its seal upon the deed and upon the word; that it is a bond to good or evil; that though sometimes we may alter the conditions in a degree, the weightier obligations of that bond can never be changed; that there is something recorded in the great Book against us, a balance for, or adverse to us, which speeds us lightly onward, or hampers all our after efforts.

No, no. There is no going back. As in the fairy tale, the forest closes up behind us as we pass through, and in the great adventure of life our only way is forward.

Life, in some of its phases, should always be the model of a book, and to avoid the necessity of even trying to go far back, it may be as well to pause here, and tell some events which had occurred even within the space of time which our tale has already occupied.

In a chamber, furnished with fantastic splendor, and in a house not far from the palace of the Duke of Orleans, stood a richly-decorated bed. It was none of those scanty, parsimonious, modern contrivances, in which space to turn seems grudged to the unhappy inmate, but a large, stately, elaborate structure, almost a room in itself. The four posts, at the four corners, were carved, and gilt, and ornamented with ivory and gold. Groups of cupids, or cherubim, I know not well which, supported the pillars, treading gayly upon flowers; and, as people were not very considerate of harmony in those days, the sculptor of this bed, for so I suppose we must call him, had added Corinthian capitals to the posts, and crowned the acanthus of dark wood with large plumes of real ostrich feathers. Round the valance, and on many parts of the draperies, which were of a light crimson velvet, appeared numerous inscriptions, embroidered in gold. Some were lines from poets of the day, or old romances of the Langue d'oc, or Langue d'oil, while, strange to say, others were verses from the Psalms of David.

On this bed lay a lady sweetly asleep, beautiful but pale, and bearing traces of recent illness on her face; and beside her lay a babe which seemed ten days or a fortnight old, swathed up according to the abominable custom of the day, in what was then called en mailotin. A lamp was on a table near, a vacant chair by the bedside, from which a heedless nurse had just escaped to take a little recreation during her lady's slumbers. All was still and silent in the room and throughout the house. The long and narrow corridors were vacant; the lower hall was far off. The silver bell, which was placed nigh at hand, might have rang long and loud without calling any one to that bedside; but the nurse trusted to the first calm slumber of the night, and doubtless promised herself that her absence would not be long. It proved long enough--somewhat too long, however.

The door opened almost without a sound, and a tall, gray figure entered, which could hardly have been seen from the bed, in the twilight obscurity of that side of the room, even had any eyes been open there. It advanced stealthily to the side of the bed, with the right hand hidden in the breast; but there, for a moment, whatever was the intent, the figure paused, and the eyes gazed down upon the sleeping woman and the babe by her side. Oh, what changes of expression came, driven like storm-clouds, over that countenance, by some tempest of passions within, and what a contrast did the man's face present to that of the sleeping girl. It might be that the wronger and the wronged were there in presence, and that calm, peaceful sleep reigned quietly, where remorse, and anguish, and repentance should have held their sway; while agony, and rage, and revenge were busy in the heart which had done no evil.

Whether it was doubt, or hesitation, or a feeling of pity which produced the pause, I can not tell; but whatever was the man's purpose--and it could hardly be good--he stopped, and gazed for more than one minute ere he made the intent a deed. At length, however, he withdrew the right hand from his bosom, and something gleamed in the lamp-light.

It is strange: the lady moved a little in her sleep, as if the gleam of the iron had made itself felt, and she murmured a name. Her hand and arm were cast carelessly over the bed-clothes; her left side and breast exposed. The name she murmured seemed to act like a command; for instantly one hand was pressed upon her lips, and the other struck violently her side. The cry was smothered; the hands clutched the air in vain: a slight convulsive effort to rise, an aguish shudder, and all was still.

The assassin withdrew his hand, but left the dagger in the wound. Oh, with what bitter skill he had done the deed! The steel had pierced through and through her heart!

There he stood for a moment, and contemplated his handiwork. What was in his breast--who can tell? But suddenly he seemed to start from his dark revery, took the hand he had made lifeless in his own, and withdrew a wedding ring from the unresisting finger.

Though passion is fond of soliloquy, he uttered but few words. "Now let him come and look," he murmured; and then going rapidly round to the other side of the bed, he snatched up the infant, cast part of his robe around it, and departed.

Oh, what an awful, dreadful thing was the stillness which reigned in that terrible chamber after the murderer was gone. It seemed as if there were something more than silence there--a thick dull, motionless air of death and guilt. It lasted a long while--more than half an hour; and then, walking on tip-toe, came back the nurse. For a moment or two she did not perceive that any thing had happened. All was so quiet, so much as she had left it, that she fancied no change had taken place. She moved about stealthily, arranged some silver cups and tankards upon a dressoir, and smoothed out the damask covering with its fringe of lace.

Presently there was a light tap at the door, and going thither on tip-toe, she found one of the Duke of Orleans's chief servants come to inquire after the lady's health.

"Hush!" said the nurse, lifting up her finger, "she is sleeping like an angel."

"And the baby?" asked the man.

"She is asleep too," replied the nurse; "she has not given a cry for an hour."

"That's strange!" said the man. "I thought babies cried every five minutes."

Upon second thoughts, the nurse judged it strange too; and a certain sort of cold dread came upon her as she remembered her long absence, and combined it with the perfect stillness.

"Stay a moment: I'll just take a peep and tell you more;" and she advanced noiselessly to the side of the bed. The moment she gazed in, she uttered a fearful shriek. Nature was too strong for art or policy. There lay the mother dead; the infant gone; and she screamed aloud, though she knew that the whole must be told, and her own negligence exposed.

The man darted in from the door, and rushed to the side of the bed. The bloody evidences of the deed which had been done were plain before him, and catching the nurse by the arm, he questioned her vehemently.

She was a friend of his, however--indeed, I believe, a relation--and first came a confession, and then a consultation. She declared she had not been absent five minutes, and that the deed must have been done within that short time; that somebody must have been concealed in the room at the time she left, for she had been so close at hand that she must have seen any one pass. She went on to declare that she believed it must have been done by sorcery; and as sorcery was in great repute at that time, the man might have been of her opinion, if the gore and the wound had not plainly shown a mortal agency.

Then came the question of what was to be done. The duke must be told--that was clear; and it was agreed by both the man and the woman that it would be better for them to bear their own tale.

"Do not let us tell him all at once," said the good lady, for horror and grief had by this time been swallowed up in more personal considerations; "he would kill us both on the spot, I do believe. Tell him, at first, that she is very ill; then, when he is going to see her, that she is dying; then that she is dead. And then--and then--let him find out himself that she has been murdered. Good gracious! I should not wonder if the murderer was still in the room. Did you not think you saw the curtain move?" and she gave a fearful glance toward the bed.

The man unsheathed his sword, and for the first time they searched the room, which they had never thought of before.

Nothing, however, could be found--not a vestige of the murderer--the very dagger that had done the deed was now gone; and after some further consultation, and some expressions of horror and regret, they set out to bear the intelligence to the Duke of Orleans, neglecting, in the fear of any one forestalling them, to give any directions for pursuit of the murderer.

The house lay close to the Orleans palace, with an entrance from it into the gardens of the latter. Through that door they passed, walked down a short avenue of trees and vases, crossed a walk, and entered the palace by a side door. The man made his way straight toward the little hall, closely followed by the woman, and found the duke, as I have shown, in conversation with Jacques Cœur and Jean Charost. As had been agreed, the prince was at first informed that the lady was very ill, and even that intelligence caused the agitation which I have depicted. But how can I describe his state of mind when the whole truth was known, the fire of his rage, the abyss of his sorrow, and more, far more than all, the depth--the poignancy of his remorse? When he looked upon that beautiful and placid face, lying there in the cold, dull sleep of death--when he saw the fair bosom deluged in purple gore--when he remembered that, for the gratification of his light love, he had torn her from the arms of a husband who doted on her, from peaceful happiness and tranquil innocence, if not from joy and splendor--when he thought he had made her an adulteress--had brought disgrace upon her name--that he had been even, as he felt at that moment, accessory to her death, the worm that never dies seemed to fix itself upon his heart, and, casting himself down beside the bed, he cursed the day that he was born, and invoked bitterer maledictions on his own head than his worst enemy would have dared to pile upon him.

True, in his anguish he did not altogether forget his energy. Instant orders were given to search for and pursue the murderer; and especial directions to beset all the doors of a small hotel in the neighborhood of the Temple, and to mark well who went out or came in. But this done, he fell again into the dark apathy of despair, and, seated in the chamber of death, slept not, took no refreshment throughout the livelong night. Priests came in, tall tapers were set in order, vases of holy water, and silver censers, and solemn voices were raised in holy song. But the duke sat there unmoved; his arms crossed upon his chest; his eyes fixed with a stony glare upon the floor. No one dared to speak to him or to disturb him; and the dark, long night of winter waned away, and the gray morning sunlight entered the chamber, ere he quitted the side of her he had loved and ruined.

CHAPTER VI.

Hope is nothing but a bit of cork floating on the sea of life, now tossed up into the sky, now sunk down into the abyss, but rising, rising again over the crest of the foamy wave, and topping all things even unto the end.

Joyous and hopeful, Jean Charost presented himself at the gates of the Duke of Orleans's palace; but the heavy door under the archway was closed, and some minutes elapsed ere he obtained admission. The tall man who opened for him seemed doubtful whether he would let him in or not; and it was not till Jean had explained that the duke had appointed him, and that he was the person who had accompanied Jacques Cœur on the preceding night, that the man would let him pass the wicket. He then told him, however, to go on to the house and inquire for the master of the pages.

Jean Charost was not very well satisfied with this reply; for, to his mind, it seemed to indicate that the duke had made up his mind to place him among his pages, and had given orders accordingly. Now the position of a page in a great household was not very desirable in the eyes of Jean Charost; besides, he had passed the age, he thought, when such a post was appropriate. He had completed his seventeenth year, and looked much older than he really was.

As he walked on, however, he heard a step behind him, and, looking round, saw a man following him. There was nothing very marvelous in this, and he proceeded on his way till he found himself in the vestibule before described, and asked, as he had been directed, for the master of the pages. The man to whom he addressed himself said, "I'll send you to him. You were here last night, were you not, young gentleman?"

Jean Charost answered in the affirmative, and the man made a sign to the person who had followed the youth across the garden and had entered the vestibule with him. Immediately Jean felt his arm taken hold of, somewhat roughly, by the personage behind him, and, ere he well knew what was taking place, he was pulled into a small room on one side of the vestibule, and the door closed upon him. The room was already tenanted by three or four persons of different conditions. One seemed an old soldier, with a very white beard, and a scar across his brow; one was dressed as a mendicant friar; and one, by his round jacket, knee-breeches, and blue stockings, with broad-toed shoes and a little square cap, was evidently a mechanic. The old soldier was walking up and down the room with a very irritable air; the mendicant friar was telling his beads with great rapidity; the mechanic sat in a corner, twisting his thumbs round and round each other, and looking half stupefied. The scene did not explain itself at all, and Jean stood for a moment or two, not at all comprehending why he was brought there, or what was to happen next.

"By Saint Hubert, this is too bad!" exclaimed the old soldier, at length; and approaching the door, he tried to open it, but it was locked.

"Pray, what is the matter?" asked Jean Charost, simply.

"Why, don't you know?" exclaimed the old man. "On my life, I believe the duke is as mad as his brother."

"The fact is, my son," said the friar, "some offense was committed here last night, a robbery or a murder; and the duke has given orders that every body who was at the house after the hour of seven should be detained till the matter is investigated."

"He does not suppose I committed a murder!" exclaimed the old soldier, in a tone of great indignation.

"I can't tell that," replied the friar, with a quiet smile; "gentlemen of your profession sometimes do."

"I never murdered any body in my life," whined the mechanic.

"Happy for you," said the friar; "and happier still if you get people to believe you."

He then addressed himself to his beads again, and for nearly an hour all was silence in the room, except the low muttering of the friar's paters and aves. But the gay hopes of Jean Charost sunk a good deal under the influence of delay and uncertainty, although, of course, he felt nothing like alarm at the situation in which he was placed. At length a man in a black gown and a square black cap was introduced, struggling, it is true, and saying to those who pushed him in, "Mark, I resist! it is not with my own consent. This incarceration is illegal. The duke is not a lord high justiciary on this ground; and for every minute I will have my damages, if there be honesty in the sovereign courts, and justice in France."

The door was closed upon him, however, unceremoniously; for the servants of great men in those days were not very much accustomed to attend to punctilios of law; and the advocate, for so he seemed, turned to his fellow-prisoners, and told them in indignant terms how he had been engaged to defend the steward of the prince in a little piece of scandal that had arisen in the Marais; how he had visited him to consult the night before, and had been seized on his return that day, and thrust in there upon a pretense that would not bear an argument.

"I thought," said the old soldier, bitterly, "that you men of the robe would make any thing bear an argument. I know you argued me out of all my fortune among you."

The little petulant man of law had not time to reply, when the door was opened, and the whole party were marched into the presence of the Duke of Orleans, under the escort of half a dozen men-at-arms.

The duke was seated in the little hall where Jean Charost had seen him on the preceding night, with his hair rough and disheveled, and his apparel neglected. His eyes were fixed upon the table before him, and he only raised them once or twice during the scene that followed; but a venerable-looking man who sat beside him, and who was, in fact, one of the judges of the Châtelet, kept his eyes fixed upon the little party which now entered with one of those cold, fixed, but piercing looks that seem to search the heart by less guarded avenues than the lips.

"Ah, Maître Pierrot le Brun," he said, looking at the advocate, "I will deal with you, brother, first. Pray what was it brought you hither last night, and again this morning?"

The advocate replied, but in a tone greatly subdued, as compared with that which he had used in the company of his fellow-prisoners. His case was soon proved, and he was suffered to depart, offering somewhat humiliating thanks for his speedy dismissal.

The old soldier, however, maintained his surly tone, and when asked what brought him thither the night before and again that day, replied boldly, "I came to see if the Duke of Orleans would do something for a man-at-arms of Charles the Fifth. I fought for his father, and was one half ruined by my services to my king, the other half by such men as the one who has just gone out. I can couch a lance, or wield a sword as well as ever, and I don't see why, being a gentleman of name and arms, I should be thrown on one side like a rusty plastron."

The Duke of Orleans suddenly raised his head, asked the old man's name, wrote something on a bit of paper, and gave it to him, seeming to raise no small emotions of joy and satisfaction; for the soldier caught his hand and kissed it warmly, as if his utmost wishes were gratified.

The judge was for asking some more questions, but the duke interfered, saying, "I know him--let him pass. He had no share in this."

The mendicant friar was next examined, and, to say truth, his account of himself did not seem, to the ears of Jean Charost at least, to be quite as satisfactory as could be desired. His only excuse for being twice in the palace of the duke within four-and-twenty hours was, that he came to beg an alms for his convent, and there was a look of shrewd meaning in his countenance while he replied, which to one who did not know all the various trades exercised by gentry of his cloth, seemed exceedingly suspicious. The duke and the magistrate, however, appeared to be satisfied, and the former then turned his eyes upon Jean Charost, while the judge called up the mechanic and put some questions to him.

"Who are you, young gentleman?" said the Duke of Orleans, motioning Jean to approach him. "I have seen your face somewhere--who are you?"

"I waited upon your highness last night," replied Jean Charost, with the rear-guard of all his hopes and expectations routed by the discovery that the duke did not even recollect him. "I was brought hither by Monsieur Jacques Cœur; and by your own command, I returned this morning at nine o'clock."

"I remember," said the duke, "I remember;" and, casting down his eyes again, he fell into a fit of thought which had not come to an end when the judge concluded his examination of the poor mechanic. That examination had lasted longer than any of the others; for it seemed that the man had been working till a late hour on the previous evening on the bolts of some windows which looked from a neighboring house into the gardens of the Orleans palace, and that shortly before the hour at which the murder was committed he had seen a tall man pass swiftly along the corridor, near which he was employed. He could not describe his apparel, the obscurity having prevented his remarking the color; but he declared that it looked like the costume of a priest or a monk, and was certainly furnished with a hood, much in the shape of a cowl. This was all that could be extracted from him, and, indeed, it was evident that he knew no more; so, in the end, he was suffered to depart.

The judge then turned to Jean Charost, who remained standing before the Duke of Orleans, in anxious expectation of what was to come next. The duke was still buried in thought; for the young man's reply to his question had probably revived in his mind all the painful feelings first produced by the intelligence which had interrupted his conversation with Jacques Cœur on the preceding night.

"What is your name, your profession, and what brought you to the Orleans palace last night, young man?" asked the judge, in a grave, but not a stern tone.

"My name is Jean Charost de Brecy," replied the young man, "a gentleman by name and arms; and I came hither last night--"

But the Duke of Orleans roused himself from his revery, and waved his hand, saying, "Enough--enough, my good friend. I know all about this young man. He could have no share in the dark deed: for he was with me when it was done. I forgot his face for a moment; but I remember him well now, and what I promised him."

"Suffer me, your highness," said the judge. "We know not what he may have seen in coming or going. Things which seem trifles often have bearings of great weight upon important facts--at what time came you hither, young gentleman? Were you alone, and, if not, who was with you?"

Jean Charost answered briefly and distinctly, and the judge then inquired, "Did you meet any one, as you entered this house, who seemed to be quitting it?"

"No," replied Jean Charost, "several persons were lingering about the gate, and in front, between the walls and the chain; but nobody seemed quitting the spot."

"No one in a long flowing robe and cowl, the habit of a priest or a friar?" asked the judge.

"No," replied Jean Charost; "but we saw, a few moments before, a man such as you describe, seeking admission at the gates of a large house like a monastery. He seemed in haste, too, from the way he rang the bell."

The judge questioned him closely as to the position of the house he described; and when he had given his answer, turned to the duke, saying, "The Celestins."

"They have had naught to do with it," replied the duke, at once. "The good brethren love me too well to inflict such grief upon me."

"They have cause, my lord," replied the judge; "but we do not always find that gratitude follows good offices. By your permission, I will make some inquiry as to who was the person who entered their gates last night at the hour named."

"As you will," replied the duke, shaking his head; "but I repeat, there is something within me which tells me better than the clearest evidence, who was the man that did this horrid act; and he is not at the Celestins. Inquire, if you please; but it is vain, I know. He and I will meet, however, ere our lives end. My conscience was loaded on his account. He has well balanced the debt; and when we meet--"

He added no more, but clasped his hands tight together, and set his teeth bitterly.

"Nevertheless, I will inquire," said the judge, who seemed somewhat pertinacious in his own opinions. "It is needful that this should be sifted to the bottom. Such acts are becoming too common."

As he spoke, he rose and took his leave, bidding the artisan follow him; and Jean Charost remained alone in the presence of the Duke of Orleans, though two or three servants and armed men passed and repassed from time to time across the further end of the hall.

For several minutes the duke remained in thought; but at length he raised his eyes to Jean Charost's face, and gazed at him for a few moments with an absent air. Then rising, he beckoned him to follow, saying, "Come with me. There is a weight in this air; it is heavy with sorrow."

Thus saying, he led the way through a small door at the end of the hall--opposite to that by which the young gentleman had entered--into a large, square, inner court of the palace, round three sides of which ran an arcade or cloister.

"Give me your arm," said the duke, as they issued forth; and, leaning somewhat heavily on his young companion, he continued to pace up and down the arcade for more than an hour, sometimes in silence--sometimes speaking a few words--asking a question--making some observation on the reply--or giving voice to the feelings of his own heart, in words which Jean Charost did not half understand.

More than once a page, a servant, or an armed officer would come and ask a question, receive the duke's answer, and retire. But in all instances the prince's reply was short, and made without pausing in his walk. It was evidently one of those moments of struggle when the mind seeks to cast off the oppression of some great and heavy grief, rousing itself again to resist, after one of all the many stunning blows which every one must encounter in this mortal career. And it is wonderful how various is the degree of elasticity--the power of action--shown by the spirits of different men in the same circumstances. The weak and puny, the tender and the gentle fall, crushed, as it were, probably never to recover, or crawl away from a battle-field, for which they are not fitted, to seek in solitude an escape from the combat of life. The stern and hardy warrior, accustomed to endure and to resist, may be cast down for a moment by the shock, but starts on his feet again, ready to do battle the next instant; and the light and elastic leaps up with the very recoil of the fall, and mingles in the melee again, as if sporting with the ills of the world. In the character of the Duke of Orleans there was something of both the latter classes of mind. From his very infancy he had been called upon to deal with the hard things of life. Strife, evil, sorrow, care, danger, had been round his cradle, and his youth and his manhood had been passed in contests often provoked by himself, often forced upon him by others.

It was evident that, in the present case, the prince had suffered deeply, and we have seen that he yielded, more than perhaps he had ever done before, to the weight of his sorrow. But he was now making a great effort to cast off the impression, and to turn his mind to new themes, as a relief from the bitterness of memory. He was in some degree successful, although his thoughts would wander back, from time to time, to the painful topic from which he sought to withdraw them; but every moment he recovered himself more and more. At first, his conversation with Jean Charost consisted principally of questions, the replies to which were hardly heard or noticed; but gradually he began to show a greater interest in the subject spoken of, questioned the young man much, both in regard to Jacques Cœur and to his own fate and history, and though he mused from time to time over the replies, yet he soon returned to the main subject again, and seemed pleased and well satisfied with the answers he received.

Indeed, the circumstances attending both the first introduction and second interview of Jean Charost with the duke were of themselves fortunate. He became associated, as it were, in the prince's mind with moments sanctified by sorrow, and filled with deep emotion. A link of sympathy seemed to be established between them, which nothing else could have produced, and the calm, graceful, thoughtful tone of the young man's mind harmonized so well with the temporary feelings of the prince, that, in the hour which followed, he had made more progress in his regard than a gayer, a lighter, a more brilliant spirit could have done in double the time.

Still, nothing had been said of the position which Jean Charost was to occupy in the prince's household, when a man bearing a long white wand entered, and informed the duke that the Duke de Berri was coming that way to visit him. Orleans turned, and advanced a few steps toward a door leading from the court into the interior of the building, as if to meet his noble relation. But before he was half down the arcade, the Duke de Berri was marshaled in, with some state, by the prince's officers.

"Leave us," said the Duke of Orleans, speaking to the attendants, as soon as he had embraced his relation; and Jean Charost, receiving the command as general, was about to follow. But the prince stopped him, beckoning him up, and presented him to the Duke de Berri, saying, "This is my young secretary, noble uncle; given to me by my good friend Jacques Cœur. I have much to say to you; some part of which it may be necessary to reduce to writing. We had better, therefore, keep him near us."

The Duke de Berri merely bowed his head, gazing at Jean Charost thoughtfully; and the prince added, "But the air is shrewd and keen, even here, notwithstanding the sunshine. Let us go into the octagon chamber. No, not there, it overlooks that dreadful room. This way, my uncle."

CHAPTER VII.

"This is beautiful writing," said the Duke of Orleans, laying one hand upon Jean Charost's shoulder, and leaning over him as he added the few last words to a proposal of accommodation between the prince and the Duke of Burgundy. "Can the hand that guides a pen so well wield a sword and couch a lance?"

"It may be somewhat out of practice, sir," replied Jean Charost, "for months have passed since it tried either; but, while my father lived, it was my pastime, and he said I should make a soldier."

"He was a good one himself, and a good judge," replied the duke. "But we will try you, Jean--we will try you. Now give me the pen. I can write my name, at least, which is more than some great men can do."

Jean Charost rose, and the duke, seating himself, signed his name in a good bold hand, and folded up the paper. "There, my uncle," he continued, "you be the messenger of peace to the Hôtel d'Artois. I must go to Saint Pol to see my poor brother. He was in sad case yesterday; but I have ever remarked that his fury is greatest on the eve of amendment. Would to God that we could but have an interval of reason sufficiently long for him to settle all these distracting affairs himself, and place the government of the kingdom on a basis more secure. Gladly would I retire from all these cares and toils, and pass the rest of my days--"

"In pleasure?" asked the Duke de Berri, with a faint smile.

A cloud came instantly over the face of the Duke of Orleans. "Nay, not so," he replied, in a tone of deep melancholy. "Pleasure is past, good uncle. I would have said--and pass the rest of my days in thought, in sorrow, and perhaps in penitence."

"Would that it might be so," rejoined the old man; and he shook his head with a sigh and a doubtful look.

"You know not what has happened here," said the Duke of Orleans, laying his hand gloomily upon his relation's arm. "An event fearful enough to awaken any spirit not plunged in utter apathy. I can not tell you. I dare not remember it. But you will soon hear. Let us go forth;" and, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he walked slowly out of the room, accompanied by the Duke de Berri, without taking any further notice of Jean Charost, who followed, a step or two behind, to the outer court, where the horses and attendants of both the princes were waiting for them.

Some word, some indication of what he was to do, of what was expected from him, or how he was to proceed, Jean Charost certainly did look for. But none was given. Wrapped in dark and sorrowful meditations, the duke mounted and rode slowly away, without seeming to perceive even the groom who held his stirrup, and the young man remained in the court, a complete stranger among a crowd of youths and men, each of whom knew his place and had his occupation. His heart had not been lightened; his mind had not been cheered by all the events of the morning; and the gloomy, mysterious hints which he had heard of a dark and terrible crime having been committed within those walls, brooded with a shadowy horror over the scene. But those who surrounded him seemed not in the least to share such sensations. Death tenanted a chamber hard by; the darkened windows of the house that flanked the garden could be seen from the spot where they stood, and yet there appeared no heavy heart among them. No one mourned, no one looked sad. One elderly man turned away whistling, and re-entered the palace. Two squires, in the prime of life, began to spar and wrestle with rude jocularity, the moment their lord's back was turned; and many a monkey-trick was played by the young pages, while three or four lads, some older, some younger than Jean Charost himself, stood laughing and talking at one side of the court, with their eyes fixed upon him.

He felt his situation growing exceedingly unpleasant, and, after some consideration, he made up his mind to turn back again into the house, and ask to see the master of the pages, to whom he had been first directed; but, just as he was about to put this purpose in execution, a tall, gayly-dressed young man, with budding mustache, and sword and dagger by his side, came from the little group I have mentioned, and bowed low to the young stranger, with a gay but supercilious air. "May I inquire," he said, using somewhat antiquated phrases, and all the grimace of courtesy, "May I inquire, Beau Sire, who the Beau Sire may be, and what may be his business here?"

Jean Charost was not apt to take offense; and though the tone and manner were insolent, and his feelings but little in harmony with a joke, he replied, quietly enough, "My name is Jean Charost de Brecy, and my business, sir, is certainly not with you."

"How can the Beau Sire tell that?" demanded the other, while two or three more from the same youthful group gathered round, "seeing that he knows not my name. But on that score I will enlighten him. My name is Juvenel de Royans."

"Then, Monsieur Juvenel de Royans," replied the young man, growing a little angry, "I will in turn inform you how I know that my business is not with you. It is simply because it lies with his highness, the Duke of Orleans, and no one else."

"Oh, ho!" cried the young man, "we have a grand personage to deal with, who will not take up with pages and valets, I warrant; a chanticleer of the first crow! Sir, if you are not a cock of the lower court, perhaps it might be as well for you to vacate the premises."

"I really don't know what you mean, good youth," answered Jean Charost. "You seem to wish to insult me. But I will give you no occasion. You shall make one, if you want one; and I have only simply to warn you that his highness last night engaged me in his service."

"As what? as what?" cried a dozen voices round him.

Jean Charost hesitated; and Juvenel de Royans, seeing that he had gained some advantage, though he knew not well what, exclaimed, in a solemn and reproving tone, "Silence, messieurs. You are all mistaken. You think that every post in this household is filled, and therefore that there is nothing vacant for this young gentleman. But there is one post vacant, for which he is, doubtless, eminently qualified, namely, the honorable office of Instructor of the Monkeys."

"The first that I am likely to begin with is yourself," answered Jean Charost, amid a shout of laughter from the rest; "and I am very likely to give you the commencing lesson speedily, if you do not move out of my way."

"I am always ready for instruction," replied the other, barring the passage to the house.

Jean Charost's hand was upon his collar in a moment; but the other was as strong as himself, and a vehement struggle was on the point of taking place, when a middle-aged man, who had been standing at the principal door of the palace, came out and thrust himself between the two youths, exclaiming, "For shame! for shame! Ah, Master Juvenel, at your old tricks again. You know they have cost you the duke's favor. Take care that they do not cost you something more."

"The young gentleman offered me some instruction," said Juvenel de Royans, in a tone of affected humility. "Surely you would not have me reject such an offer, although I know not who he is, or what may be his capability for giving it."

"He is the duke's secretary, sir," said the elder man, "and may have to give you instruction in more ways than you imagine."

"I cry his reverence, and kiss the toe of his pantoufle," said the other, nothing daunted, adding, as he looked at Jean Charost's shoes, which were cut in a somewhat more convenient fashion than the extravagant and inconvenient mode of Paris, "His cordovanier; has been somewhat penurious in regard to those same pantoufle toes, but my humility is all the greater."

"Come with me, sir; come with me, and never mind the foolish boy," said the elder gentleman, taking Jean Charost's arm, and drawing him away. "I will take you to the maître d'hôtel, who will show you your apartments. The duke will not be long absent, and if his mind have a little recovered itself, he will soon set all these affairs to rights for you."

"Perhaps there may be some mistake," said Jean Charost, hesitating a little. "I think that you are the gentleman who introduced the Duke de Berri about half an hour ago; but, although his highness gave me the name of his secretary in speaking to that duke, he has in no way intimated to me personally that I am to fill such an office, and it may be better not to assume that it is so till I hear further."

"Not so, not so," cried the gentleman, with a smile. "You do not know the duke yet. He is a man of a single word: frank, and honest in all his dealings. What he says, he means. He may do more, but never less; and it were to offend him to doubt any thing he has said. He called you his secretary in your presence; I heard him, and you are just as much his secretary as if you had a patent for the place. Besides, shortly after Maître Jacques Cœur left him yesterday evening--the first time, when he was here alone, I mean--he gave orders concerning you. I am merely a poor écuyer de la main, but tolerably well with his highness. The maître d'hôtel, however, knows all about it."

By this time they had reached the vestibule of the palace, and Jean Charost was conducted by his new friend through a number of turning and winding passages, which showed him that the house was much larger than he had at first believed, to a large room, where they found an old man in a lay habit of black, but with the crown of his head shaved, immersed in an ocean of bundles of papers, tied up with pack-thread.

"This is the young gentleman of whom the duke spoke to you, signor," said Jean's conductor; "his highness's new secretary. You had better let him see his rooms, and take care of him till the duke comes, for I found young Juvenel de Royans provoking him to quarrel in the outer court."

"Ah, that youth, that youth," cried the maître d'hôtel, with a strong foreign accent. "He will get himself into trouble, and Heaven knows the trouble he has given me. But can not you, good Monsieur Blaize, just show the young gentleman his apartments? Here are the keys. I know it is not in your office; but I am so busy just now, and so sad too, that you would confer a favor upon me. Then bring him back, as soon as he knows his way, and we three will dine snugly together in my other room. It is two hours past the time; but every thing has been in disorder this black day, and the duke has gone out without any dinner at all. Will you favor me, Monsieur Blaize?"

"With pleasure, with pleasure, my good friend," replied the old écuyer, taking the two keys which the other held out to him, and saying, in an inquiring tone, "The two rooms next to the duke's bed-room, are they not?"

"No, no. The two on this side, next the toilet-chamber," answered the other. "You will find a fire lighted there, for it is marvelous cold in this horrid climate;" and Monsieur Blaize, nodding his head, led the way toward another part of the palace.

Innumerable small chambers were passed, their little doors jostling each other in a long corridor, and Jean Charost began to wonder when they would stop, when a sharp turn brought them to a completely different part of the house. A large and curiously-constructed stair-case presented itself, rising from the sides of a vestibule, in two great wings, which seemed all the way up as if they were going to meet each other at the next landing-place, but yet, taking a sudden turn, continued separate to the top of the five stories through which they ascended, without any communication whatsoever between the several flights. Quaint and strange were the ornaments carved upon the railings and balustrades: heads of devils and angels, cherubims with their wings extended, monkeys playing on the fiddle, dragons with their snaky tails wound round the bones of a grinning skeleton, and Cupid astride upon a goose. In each little group there was probably some allegory, moral or satirical; but, though very much inclined, Jean Charost could not pause to inquire into the conceit which lay beneath, for his companion led the way up one of the flights with a rapid step, and then carried him along a wide passage, in which the doors were few and large, and ornamented with rich carvings, but dimly seen in the ill-lighted corridor. At the end, a little flight of six broad steps led them to another floor of the house, more lightsome and cheerful of aspect, and here they reached a large doorway, with a lantern hanging before it and some verses carved in the wood-work upon the cornice.

Here Monsieur Blaize paused for a moment to look over his shoulder, and say, "That is the duke's bed-chamber, and the door beyond his toilet-chamber, where he receives applicants while he is dressing; and now for the secretary's room."

As he spoke, he approached a little door--for no great symmetry was observed--and, applying a key to the lock, admitted his young companion into the apartments which were to be his future abode. The first room was a sort of antechamber to the second, and was fitted up as a sort of writing-chamber, with tables, and chairs, and stools, ink-bottles and cases for paper, while a large, open fire-place displayed the embers of a fire, which had been sufficiently large to warm the whole air within. Within this room wat another, separated from it by a partition of plain oak, containing a small bed, very handsomely decorated, a chair, and a table, but no other furniture, except three pieces of tapestry, representing, somewhat grotesquely, and not very decently, the loves of Jupiter and Leda. The two chambers, which formed one angle of the building, and received light from two different sides, had apparently been one in former times, but each was large enough to form a very convenient room; and there was an air of comfort and habitability, if I may use the term, which seemed to the eye of Jean Charost the first cheerful thing he had met with since his entrance into the palace.

On the table, in the writing-room, were spots of ink of no very old date; and one article, belonging to a former tenant had been left behind, in the shape of a sword hanging by one of the rings of the scabbard from a nail driven into the oaken partition. In passing through, Jean Charost paused to look at it, and the old écuyer exclaimed, "Ah, poor fellow! he will never use it again. That belonged to Monsieur De Gray, the duke's late secretary, who was killed in a rencounter near Corbeil. Master Juvenel de Royans thought to get the post, but he had so completely lost the duke's favor by his rashness and indiscretion, that it was flatly refused him.

"Then probably he will be no great friend of mine," said Jean Charost, with a faint smile; "and perhaps his conduct just now had as much of malice in it as of folly."

Monsieur Blaize paused and meditated for a moment. He was at that age when the light tricks and vagaries of sportive youth are the most annoying--not old enough to dote upon the reflected image of regretted years, nor young enough to feel any sympathy with the follies of another age. He was, nevertheless, a very just man, and, as Jean Charost found afterward, just in small things as well as great; in words as well as deeds.

"No," he said, thoughtfully; "no; I do not think he is one to bear malice--at all events, not long. His nature is a frank and generous one, though overlaid by much conceit and vanity, and carried away by a rash, unbridled spirit. It is probable he neither cared who or what you were, and merely resolved, in order to make the foolish boys round him laugh, that he would have what he called some sport with the stranger, without at all considering how much pain he might give, or where an idle jest might end. There are multitudes of such men in the world, and they gain, good lack! the reputation of gallant, daring spirits, simply because they put themselves and every one else in danger, as if the continual periling of a hard head were really any sign of being a brave man. But we must not keep the signor's dinner waiting. It is one of his little foibles to love his meat well done, and never drink bad wine. Your eyes seem seeking something. What is it you require?"

"I thought, perhaps," replied Jean Charost, "that my baggage might have been brought up here, as the apartment, it seems, was prepared for me. It must have come some time ago, I think. My horse, too, I left at the gates, and Heaven knows what has become of him."

"We will inquire--we will inquire as we go," said the écuyer; "but no great toilet is required here at the dinner hour. At supper we sometimes put on our smart attire; but, in these hazardous times, one never knows how, or how soon, the mid-day meal may be brought to an end."

Thus saying, he turned to the door, and, taking a different way back from that which he had followed in leading Jean Charost to his apartments, he paused for a moment at a little dark den, shut off from one of the lower halls by a half door, breast high, and spoke a few words to some invisible person within.

"Stall number nineteen," growled a voice from within. "But who's to dress him? No groom--no horse-boy, even!"

"We will see to that presently," replied the écuyer; and then seeing a man pass along the other side of the hall, he crossed over, spoke to him for a moment or two, and returning, informed Jean Charost that his baggage had arrived, and would be carried up to the door of his apartments before dinner was over.

On returning to the rooms of the maître d'hôtel, they found that high functionary emerged from his accounts, and ready to conduct them into his own private dining-room, where, by especial privilege, he took his meals with a select few, and certainly did not fare worse than his lord and master. There might be more gold on the table of the Duke of Orleans, but probably less good cheer. The maître d'hôtel himself was a sleek, quiet specimen of Italian humanity, always exceedingly full of business, very accurate, and even very faithful; by birth a gentleman; nominally an ecclesiastic; fond of quiet, if not of ease, and loving all kinds of good things, without the slightest objection to a sly joke, even if the whiskers of decency, morality, or religion were a little singed thereby. He was an exceedingly good man, nevertheless, a hater of all strife and quarreling, though in this respect he had fallen upon evil days; and his appearance and conduct, with his black beard, his tonsure, his semi-clerical dress, and his air of grave suavity, generally assured him respect from all members of the duke's household.

Two other officers, besides himself and the écuyer, formed the party at dinner with Jean Charost, and every thing passed with great decorum, all parties seeming to enjoy themselves among fat capon, snipes, rich Burgundy, and other delicacies, far too much to waste the precious moments in idle conversation.

Jean Charost thought the dinner very dull indeed, and wondered, with a feeling of some apprehension, if his meals were always to be taken in such solemn assembly. Peals of laughter, too, which he heard from a hall not far off, gave the gravity of the proceedings all the effect of contrast. But the young gentleman soon found that when that serious passion, hunger, was somewhat appeased, his companions could unbend a little. With the second course, a few quiet jokes began to fly about, staid and formal enough, indeed; but the gravity of the party was soon restored by Monsieur Blaize starting a subject of importance, in which Jean Charost was deeply interested. He announced to the maître d'hôtel that their young companion, not knowing the customs of the duke's household, had brought no servant with him, and it was agreed upon all hands that this was a defect to be remedied immediately.

Jean was a little puzzled, and a little alarmed at the idea of expense about to be incurred; for his education had been one of forced economy, and the thought of entertaining a servant for his own especial needs had never entered into his mind. He could only protest, however, in a subdued and somewhat anxious tone, that he knew not where or how to procure a person suitable; but, on that score, immediate assistance was offered him by the maître d'hôtel himself.

"I have more than a hundred and fifty names on my books," he said, "of lads all eager to be entered upon the duke's household in any capacity. I will look through the list by-and-by."

But, without giving him time to do so, every one of the gentlemen at the table hastened to mention some one whom he would be glad to recommend, leading Jean Charost to say to himself, "If the post of lackey to the duke's secretary be so desirable, how desirable must be the post of secretary itself!"

The discussion continued during the whole of the second course, each having a good deal to say in favor of his nominee, and each a jest to launch at the person recommended by any other.

"There is Pierre Crouton," said one elderly gentleman. "He was born upon my estate, near Charenton, and a brisker, more active lad never lived. He has had good instruction, too, and knows every corner of Paris from the Bastile to the Tour de Nesle."

"Well acquainted with the little Châtelet, likewise," said Monsieur Blaize. "I have heard that the jailer's great dogs will not even bark at him. But there is Matthew Borne, the son of old James Borne, who died in the duke's service long ago."

"Ay," said another, "poor James, when he was old, and battered to pieces, married the pretty young grisette, and this was her son. It's a wise son that knows his own father. Pray, what has become of her, Monsieur Blaize? You should know, if any one does."

"I know nothing about her," said the écuyer, somewhat sharply. "Her son came to me, asking a recommendation. I have given him that, and that's all I know."

"Trust to me, trust to me, my young friend," said the maître d'hôtel, in a whisper, to Jean Charost. "I will find the lad to suit you before nightfall. Come to me in half an hour, and you shall have a choice."

Jean Charost promised to follow his counsels, and soon after the little party broke up.

Strange is the sensation with which a young man encounters the first half hour of solitary thought in a new situation. Have you forgotten it, dear reader? Yes--perhaps entirely; and yet you must have experienced it at some time. When you first went to join your regiment; when, after all the bustle, and activity, and embarrassment, and a little sheepishness, and a little pride, and a little awkwardness perhaps, and perhaps all the casualties of the first mess dinner, you sat down in your barrack-room, not so much to review the events of the day, as to let the mind settle, and order issue out of chaos: you have felt it then. Or, when you have joined a squad of lawyer's clerks, or entered a merchant's counting-house, or plunged into a strange city, or entered a new university, and passed through all the initiations, and sat down in the lull of the evening or the dead of night, to find yourself alone--separate not only from familiar faces, and things associated with early associations, but from habitual thoughts and sensations, from family customs and domestic habits: you must have felt it then, and experienced a solitude such as a desert itself can hardly give.

Seated in his writing-room, without turning a thought or a look to his baggage, which had been placed at the door for himself to draw in, Jean Charost gave himself up to thought--I believe I might better say to sensation. He felt his loneliness, more than thought of it, and Memory, with one of those strange vagaries, in which she delights as much as Fancy, skipped at once over a period of fourteen or fifteen months, and carried him back at once to the small château of Brecy, and to the frugal table in his mother's hall. The quaint, long windows, with one pointed arch within another, and two or three pale yellow warriors of stained glass, transmitting the discolored rays upon the floor. The high-backed chair, never used since his father's death, standing against the wall, with a knob in the centre, resting against the iron chausses of an antiquated suit of armor, the plain oaken board in the middle of the room, and his mother and the two maids spinning in the sunniest nook, came up before his eyes almost as plainly as they had appeared the year and a half before. He heard the hound howling in the court-yard, and the song of the milk-maid bringing home the pail upon her head, and the song of the bird, which used to sit in March mornings on the topmost bough of an ash-tree, which had rooted itself on an inner tower, somewhat neglected and dilapidated. For a moment or two he was at home again. His paternal dwelling-place formed a little picture apart in his room in the Parisian palace, and the cheerful sunshine, pouring from early associations, formed a strange and striking contrast with the sort of dark isolation which he felt around him.

The contrast, perhaps, might have been as great if he had compared the present with days more recently passed; for in the house of Jacques Cœur he had been, from the first, at home; but still his mind did not rest upon it. It reverted to those earlier days; and he sat gazing on the floor, and wishing himself--notwithstanding the eagerness of youthful hope, the buoyancy of youthful spirits, the impetuosity of youthful desires--wishing himself once more in the calm and happy bosom of domestic life, and away from splendid scenes devoid of all warm and genial feelings, where gold and jewels might glitter and shine, but where every thing was cold as the metal, and hard as the stone.

It was a boy's fancy. It was the fancy of an hour. He knew that the strangeness would soon pass away. Young as he was, he was aware that the spirit, spider-like, speedily spins out threads to attach itself to all the objects that surround it, however different to its accustomed haunts, however strange, and new, and rough may be the points by which it is encompassed.

At length he started up, saying to himself, "Ah, ha! the half hour must be past;" and quitting the room without locking the door behind him, he threaded his way through the long passage to the office of the maître d'hôtel.

The Italian seemed to have got through the labors of the day, and seated in a large chair, with his feet in velvet slippers, extended to the fire, was yielding after the most improved method to the process of digestion. He was neither quite awake, nor quite asleep, and in that benign state of semi-somnolence which succeeds a well considered meal happily disposed of. The five or ten minutes which Jean Charost was behind his time had been favorable, by enabling him to prolong his comfortable repose, and he received the young gentleman with the utmost benevolence, seating him by him, and talking to him in a quiet, low, almost confidential tone, but not at first touching upon the subject which brought his young visitor there. On the contrary, his object in inviting him seemed to have been rather to give him a general idea of the character of those by whom he was surrounded, and of what would be expected from him by the duke himself, than to recommend him a lackey.

Of the duke he spoke in high terms, as in duty bound, but of the duchess in higher terms still; mingling his commendations, however, with expressions of compassion, which led Jean Charost to believe that her married life was not as happy as her virtue merited. The young listener, however, discovered that the good signor had accompanied the duchess from her father's court at Milan, and had a hereditary right to love and respect her.

All the principal officers of the duke's household were passed one by one in review by the good maître d'hôtel, and although the prince and his lady were both spoken of with profound respect, none of the rest escaped without some satirical notice, couched in somewhat sharp, though by no means bitter terms. Even Monsieur Blaize himself was not exempt. "He is the best, the most upright, and the most prudent man in the whole household," said the signor; "just in all his proceedings, with a little sort of worldly wisdom, not the slightest tincture of letters, a great deal of honest simplicity, and is, what we call in Italy, 'an ass.'"

Such a chart of the country, when we can depend upon its accuracy, is very useful to a young man in entering a strange household; but, nevertheless, Jean Charost, though grateful for the information he received, resolved to use his own eyes, and judge for himself. To say the truth, he was not at all sorry to find the good maître d'hôtel in a communicative mood; for the curiosity of youth had been excited by many of the events of the morning, and especially by the detention and examination which he had undergone immediately after his arrival. That some strange and terrible event had occurred, was evident; but a profound and mysterious silence had been observed by every one he had seen in the palace regarding the facts. The subject had been carefully avoided, and no one had even come near it in the most unguarded moment. With simple skill he endeavored to bring round the conversation to the point desired, and at length asked, straightforwardly, what had occurred to induce the the duke's officers to put him and several others in a sort of arrest, as soon as he had entered the gates. He gained nothing by the attempt, however. "Ah, poor lady! ah, sweet lady!" exclaimed the master of the hotel, in a sad tone. "But we were talking, my young friend, of a varlet fitted for your service. I have got just the person to suit you. He is as active as a squirrel, as gay as a lark, understands all points of service for horse or man, and never asks any questions about what does not concern him--a most invaluable quality in a prince's household. If he has any fault, he is too chaste; so you must mind your morals, my young friend. His wages are three crowns a month, and your cast-off clothes, with any little gratuity for good service you may like to bestow. He will be rated on the duke's household, and nourished at his expense; but you will need a horse for him, which had better be provided as soon as possible. I advise you strongly to take him; but, nevertheless, see him first, and judge for yourself. He will be with you some time to-day; and now I must to work again. Ah, ha! It is a laborious life. Good-day, my son--good-day."

Jean Charost took his leave, and departed; but he could not help thinking that his instructive conversation with the maître d'hôtel had been brought to a somewhat sudden close by his own indiscreet questions.

CHAPTER VIII.

Great silence pervaded the palace of the Duke of Orleans, or, at least, that part of it in which Jean Charost's rooms were situated, during the rest of the day. He thought he heard, indeed, about half an hour after he had left the maître d'hôtel, some distant sounds in the same building, and the blast of a trumpet; but whether the latter noise proceeded from the streets or from the outer court, he could not tell. Every thing was still, however, in the corridor hard by. No one was heard passing toward the apartments of the duke, and the young man was somewhat anxious in regard to the prince's long delay. What were to be his occupations, what was expected of him, he knew not; and although he was desirous of purchasing another horse, in accordance with the hint given him by Signor Lomelini, the maître d'hôtel, he did not like to venture out, lest his royal employer should arrive, and require his presence.

The unpacking and arrangement of his baggage afforded him some occupation, and when that was completed, he took out a book--a rare treasure, possessed by few in those days--and continued to read till the crooked letters of the copyist's hand began to fade upon the vellum, as early night approached. He was just closing the page, when there was a tap at the door, and a short, slight young man presented himself, some four or five-and-twenty years of age, but not much taller than a youth of fourteen or fifteen. He was dressed very plainly, in a suit of gray cloth, and the light was not sufficient to show much more; but every thing he had on seemed to have a gay and jaunty air, and his cap, even when he held it in his hand, exhibited a sort of obliquity of direction, which showed it to be impossible ever to keep it straight upon his head.

There was no need of asking his name or business, for both were related in the fewest possible words before he had been an instant in the room.

"I am Martin Grille," he said, "and I have come to be hired by your lordship."

"Then I suppose you take it for granted that I will hire you?" said Jean Charost, with a smile.

"Signor Lomelini sent me," replied the young man, in a confident tone.

"He sent you to see if you suited me," replied Jean Charost.

"Of course," replied the young man. "Don't I?"

Jean Charost laughed. "I can not say," he answered. "You must first tell me what you can do."

"Every thing," replied the other.

Jean Charost mused, thinking to himself that a person who could do every thing was exactly the one to suit him, in a situation in which he did not know what to do. He answered, however, still half meditating, "Then I think, my good friend Martin, you are just the man for me."

"Thank your lordship," replied Martin Grille, without waiting for any addition to the sentence; but, before Jean Charost could put in a single proviso, or ask another question, the door opened, and, by aid of the light from the window in the corridor behind it, the young gentleman saw a tall, dark figure entering the room. The features he could not distinguish; but there was something in the air and carriage of the newcomer which made him instantly rise from his seat, and the moment after, the voice of the Duke of Orleans said, "What in darkness, my young friend! My people have not taken proper care of you. Who is that?"

The question applied to Martin Grille, who was retreating out of the room as fast as his feet could carry him; and Jean Charost replied, placing a chair for the duke, "Merely a servant, your highness, whom I have been engaging--an appendage which, coming from humbler dwellings, I had forgotten to provide myself with till I was here."

"Ah! these people--these people!" said the duke; "so they have forced a servant upon you already, though there are varlets enough in this house to do double the work that is provided for them. However, perhaps it is as well. But I will see to these affairs of yours for the future. Take no such step without consulting me, and do so freely; for Jacques Cœur has interested me in you, and I look upon it that he has rather committed you to my charge, than placed you in my service. Come hither with me into a place where there is more light. Heaven knows, my thoughts are dark enough."

Thus saying, he turned to the door, and Jean Charost followed him along the corridor till they reached what had been pointed out as his toilet-chamber, at the entrance of which stood two of the duke's attendants, who threw open the door at his approach. Followed by Jean Charost, he passed silently between them into a large and well-lighted room, and seating himself, fell into a deep fit of thought, which lasted for several minutes. At length he raised his head, and looked up in the young man's face for a moment or two without speaking; but then said, "I can not to-night. I wished to give you information and directions as to your conduct and occupations here; but my mind is very heavy, and can only deal with weighty things. Come to me to-morrow, after mass, and you shall have some hints that may be serviceable to you. At present sit down at that table, and draw me up a paper, somewhat similar to that which I dictated this morning, but more at large. The terms of accommodation have been accepted as to general principles, but several particulars require explanation. You will find the notes there--in that paper lying before you. See if you can put them in form without reference to me."

Jean Charost seated himself, and took up the pen; but, on perusing the notes, he found his task somewhat difficult. Had it been merely a letter on mercantile business to some citizen of Genoa or Amalfi that he was called upon to write, the matter would have been easy; but when it was a formal proposal, addressed to "The High and Mighty Prince John, Duke of Burgundy," he found himself more than once greatly puzzled. Twice he looked up toward the Duke of Orleans; but the duke remained in profound thought, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and his eyes bent upon a distant spot on the floor; and Jean Charost wrote on, striving to do his best, but not certain whether he was right or wrong.

For more than half an hour the young man continued writing, and then said, in a low voice, "It is done, your highness."

The duke started, and held out his hand for the paper, which he read carefully twice over. It seemed to please him, for he nodded his head to his young companion with a smile, saying, "Very well--better than I expected. But you must change that word--and that. Choose me something more forcible. Say impossible, rather than difficult; and positively, rather than probably. On these points there must be no doubts left. Then make me a fair copy. It shall go this very night."

Jean Charost resumed his seat, and executed this task also to the full satisfaction of the Duke of Orleans. When all was complete, and the letter sealed and addressed, the duke rang the little clochette, or silver bell upon his table, and one of the attendants immediately entered. To him he gave the epistle, with directions for its transmission by a proper officer, and the man departed in silence. For a moment or two the duke remained without speaking, but gazing in the face of Jean Charost, as if considering something he saw there attentively; and at length he said to himself, "Ay--it is as well. Get your cloak, M. de Brecy," he continued. "I wish you to go a few steps with me. Bring sword and dagger with you. There, take a light, as there is none in your chamber."

The young secretary hurried away, and in two minutes returned to the duke's door; but the attendant would not suffer him to enter till he had knocked and asked permission. When admitted, he found the duke equipped for going forth, his whole person enveloped in a large, plain mantle, and his head covered with a chaperon or hood, which concealed the greater part of his face. "Now follow me," he said; and passing the attendant, to whom he gave some orders in a low voice, he led the way through that corridor and another, then descended a flight of steps, and issued out by a small door into the gardens. Taking his way between two rows of trees, he made direct for the opposite wall, opened a door in it with a key which he carried with him, and, in a moment after, Jean Charost found himself in a narrow street, along which a number of persons were passing. "Keep close," said the Duke of Orleans, after he had closed the door; and then advancing with a quick pace between the wall and the houses opposite, he led the way direct into the Rue St. Antoine. The night was clear and bright, though exceedingly cold, and the Parisian world were all abroad in the streets; but the duke and his young companion passed unnoticed in the crowd.

At length they reached the gate of that large building at which the young secretary had seen the man apply for admission on the preceding night, and there the duke stopped, and rang the same bell. A wicket door was immediately opened by a man in the habit of a monk, with a lantern in his hand, and the duke, slightly lifting his cornette, or chaperon, passed in without speaking, followed by his young secretary. Taking his way across a long, stone-paved court to the main building, he entered a large vestibule where a light was burning, and in which was found an old man busily engaged in painting, with rich hues of blue, and pink, and gold, the capital letters in a large vellum book. To him the duke spoke for a moment or two in a low tone, and the monk immediately took a lantern, and led the way into the interior of the monastery, which was much more silent and quiet than such abodes were usually supposed to be. At the end of the second passage, the little party issued forth upon a long cloister forming one side of a quadrangle, and separated from the central court by an open screen of elaborately carved stone work. Here the old monk turned, and gave a sidelong glance at Jean Charost, lifting his lantern a little, as if to see him more distinctly, and the Duke of Orleans, seeming to take this as a hint, paused for an instant, saying, "Wait for me here, M. De Brecy; I will not be long." He then walked on, and Jean Charost was left to perambulate the cloister in solitude, and nearly in darkness. The stars, indeed, were out, and the rising moon was pouring her silvery rays upon the upper story on the opposite side of the quadrangle, peeping in at the quaint old windows, and illuminating the rich tracery of stone. There seemed something solemn, and yet fanciful, in the picture she displayed. The cold shadows of the tall, fine pillars, and their infinitely varied capitals; the spouts sticking out in strange forms of beasts and dragons; the heads of angels and devils in various angles, and at the ends of corbels, with the fine fret-work of some tall arches at one corner of the court, gave ample materials for the imagination to work with at her will; while the general aspect of the whole was gloomy, if not actually sad. The mass of buildings around, and the distance of that remote quadrangle from the street, deadened the noises of the great city, so that nothing was heard for some time but an indistinct murmur, like the softened roar of the sea.

In the building itself all was still as death, till the slow footfall of a sandal was heard approaching from the side at which the Duke of Orleans had disappeared. A moment or two after, the old monk came back with a lantern, and paused to speak a few words with the young man from the world without. "It is a bitter cold night, my son," he said, "and the duke tells me he has come hither with you alone. He risks too much in these evil times, methinks."

"I trust not," replied Jean Charost. "A good prince should have nothing to fear in the streets of his brother's capital."

"All men have enemies, either within or without," replied the monk; "and no man can be called good till he is in heaven. Have you been long with the duke, my son? He says you are his secretary."

"I have been in his highness's service but a few hours," replied Jean Charost.

"He trusts you mightily," answered his ancient companion. "You should be grateful for his great confidence."

"I am so, indeed, father," replied Jean Charost; "but I owe his confidence to the kind recommendations of another, rather than to any merits of my own."