Do you recollect visiting the booth of a cutler? In that very booth, the day after the arrest of Jean Charost, might be seen the intelligent countenance of the deformed boy, Petit Jean, peering over the large board on which the wares were exposed, and saluting the passers-by with an arch smile, to which was generally added an invitation to buy some of the articles of his father's manufacture. The racegamin; is of very ancient date in the city of Paris, where witty and mischievous imps are found to have existed in great abundance as far as recorded history can carry us. It must be owned, too, that a touch of thegamin; was to be found in poor Petit Jean, although his corporeal infirmities prevented him from displaying his genius in many of the active quips and cranks in which other boys of his own age indulged. On the present occasion, when he was eager to sell the goods committed to his charge, he refrained, as far as possible, from any of his sharp jests, so long as there was any chance of gaining the good-will of a passing customer, and thegamin; spirit fumed off in a metaphor: but a surly reply, or cold inattention, generally drew from him some tingling jest, which might have procured him a drubbing had not his infirmities proved a safeguard.
"What do you lack, Messire Behue?" he cried, as a good fat currier rolled past the booth. "Sure, with such custom as you have, your knives must be all worn out. Here, buy one of these. They are so sharp, it would save you a crown a day in time, and your customers would not have to wait like a crowd at a morality."
The good-natured currier paused, and bargained for a knife, for flattery will sometimes soften even well-tanned hides; and Petit Jean, contented with his success, assailed a thin, pale, sanctimonious-looking man who came after, in much the same manner.
But this personage scowled at him, saying, "No, no, boy. No more knives from your stall. The last I bought bent double before two days were over."
"That's the fault of your cheese, Peter Guimp," answered the boy, sharply. "It served Don Joachim, the canon of St. Laurent, worse than it served our knife, for it broke all the teeth out of his head. Ask him if it didn't."
"You lie, you little monster!" said the cheesemonger, irritably. "It was as bad iron as ever was sharpened."
"Not so hard as your heart, perhaps," answered Petit Jean; "but it was a great deal sharper than your wit; and if your cheese had not been like a millstone, it would have gone through it."
The monger of cheeses walked on all the faster for two or three women having come up, all of whom but one, an especial friend of his own, were laughing at the saucy boy's repartee.
"Ah, dear Dame Mathurine," cried Petit Jean, addressing the grave lady, "buy a new bodkin for your cloak. It wants one sadly, just to pin it up with a jaunty air."
"Don't Mathurine me, monkey," cried the old woman, walking on after the cheesemonger; and the boy, winking his eye to the other women, exclaimed aloud, "Well, you are wise. A new bodkin would only tear a hole in the old rag. She wore that cloak at her great-grandmother's funeral when she was ten years old, and that is sixty years ago; so it may well fear the touch of younger metal."
"Well, you rogue, what have you to say to me?" said a young and pretty woman, who had listened, much amused.
"Only that I have nothing good enough for your beautiful eyes," answered the boy, promptly; "though you have but to look at the things, to make them shine as if the sun was beaming on them."
This hit told well, and the prettybourgeoise; very speedily purchased two or three articles from the stall. She had just paid her money, when Martin Grille, with a scared and haggard air, entered the booth, and asked the boy where his father was, without any previous salutation.
"Why, what is the matter with you, Martin?" asked Petit Jean, affectionately. "You come in like a stranger, and don't say a word to me about myself or yourself, and look as wild as the devil in a mystery. What is it you want with my father in such a hurry?"
"I am vexed and frightened, Petit Jean," replied poor Martin, with a sigh. "I am quite at my wit's end, who never was at my wit's end before. Your father may help me; but you can't help at all, my boy."
"Oh, you don't know that," answered the other. "I can help more than people know. Why, I have sold more things for my father in three hours, since he went up to the Celestins to see the body of the Duke of Orleans, than he ever sold in three days before."
"Ah, the poor duke! the poor duke!" cried Martin, with a deep sigh.
"Well, well, come sit down," said Petit Jean. "My father will be in presently, and in the mean while, I'll play you a tune on my new violin, and you will see how I can play now."
Martin Grille seated himself with an absent look, leaned his forehead upon his hands, and seemed totally to forget every thing around him in the unwonted intensity of his own thoughts. But the boy, creeping under the board on which the wares were displayed, brought forth an instrument of no very prepossessing appearance, tried its tune with his thumb, as if playing on a guitar, and then seating himself at Martin Grille's knee, put the instrument to his deformed shoulder.
There be some to whom music comes as by inspiration. All other arts are more or less acquired. But those in whom a fine sensibility to harmony is implanted by Nature, not unfrequently leap over even mechanical difficulties, and achieve at once, because they have conceived already. Music must have started from the heart of Apollo, as wisdom from the head of Jove, without a childhood. Little had been the instruction, few, scanty, and from an incompetent teacher, the lessons which that poor deformed boy had received. But now, when the bow in his hand touched the strings, it drew from them sounds such as a De Beriot or a Rhode might have envied him the power of educing; and, fixing his large, lustrous eyes upon his cousin's face, he seemed to speak in music from his own spirit to the spirit of his hearer. Whether he had any design, and, if so, what that design was, I can not tell; perhaps he did not know himself; but certain it is, that the wandering, wavering composition that he framed on the moment seemed to bear a strange reference to Martin's feelings. First came a harsh crash of the bow across all the strings--a broad, bold discord; then a deep and gloomy phrase, entirely among the lower notes of the instrument, simple and melodious, but without any attempt at harmony; then, enriching itself as it went on, the air deviated into the minor, with sounds exquisitely plaintive, till Martin Grille almost fancied he could hear the voices of mourners, and exclaimed, "Don't Jean! don't! I can not bear it!"
But still the boy went on, as if triumphing in the mastery of music over the mind, and gradually his instrument gave forth more cheerful sounds; not light, not exactly gay, for every now and then a flattened third brought back a touch of melancholy to the air, but still one could have fancied the ear caught the distant notes of angels singing hope and peace to man.
The effect on Martin Grille was strange. It cheered him, but he wept; and the boy, looking earnestly in his face, said, with a strange confidence, "Do not tell me I have no power, Martin. Mean, deformed, and miserable as I am, I have found out that I can rule spirits better than kings, and have a happiness within me over which they have no sway. You are not the first I have made weep. So now tell me what it is you want with my father. Perhaps I may help you better than he can."
"It was not you made me weep, you foolish boy," said Martin Grille; "but it was the thought of the bloody death of the poor Duke of Orleans, so good a master, and so kind a man; and then I began to think how his terrible fate might have expiated, through the goodness of the blessed Virgin, all his little sins, and how the saints and the angels would welcome him. I almost thought I could hear them singing, and it was that made me cry. But as to what I want with your father, it was in regard to my poor master, Monsieur De Brecy, a kind, good young man, and a gallant one, too. They have arrested him, and thrown him into prison--a set of fools!--accusing him of having compassed the prince's death, when he would have laid down his life for him at any time. But all the people at the hotel are against him, for he is too good for them, a great deal; and I want somebody powerful to speak in his behalf, otherwise they may put him to the torture, and cripple him for life, just to make him confess a lie, as they did with Paul Laroche, who never could walk without two sticks after. Now I know, your father is one of the Duke of Burgundy's men, and that duke will rule the roast now, I suppose."
"Strong spirits seek strong spirits," said the boy, thoughtfully; "and perhaps my father might do something with the duke. But Martin," he continued, after a short and silent pause, "do not you have any thing to do with the Duke of Burgundy! He will not help you. I do not know what it is puts such thoughts in my head. But the king's brother had an enemy; the king's brother is basely murdered; his enemy still lives heartily; and it is not him I would ask to help a man falsely accused. Stay a little. They took me, three days ago, to play before the King of Navarre, and I am to go to-day, with my instrument, to play before the Queen of Sicily. I think I can help you, Martin, if she will but hear me. This murder, perhaps, may put it all out, for she was fond of the duke, they tell me; but I will send her word, through some of her people, when I go, that I have got a dirge to play for his highness that is dead. She will hear that, perhaps. Only tell me all about it."
Martin Grille's story was somewhat long; but as the reader already knows much that he told in a desultory sort of way to his young cousin, and the rest is not of much importance to this tale, we will pass over his account, which lasted some twenty minutes, and had not been finished five when Caboche himself entered the booth in holiday attire. His first words showed Martin Grille the good sense of Petit Jean's advice, not to speak to his father in favor of Jean Charost.
"Oh ho! Martin," cried Caboche, in a gruff and almost savage tone, "so your gay duke has got his brains knocked out at last for his fine doings."
"For which of his doings has he been so shamefully murdered?" asked Martin Grille, with as much anger in his tone as he dared to evince.
"What, don't you know?" exclaimed Caboche. "Why, it is in every body's mouth that he has been killed by Albert de Chauny, whose wife he carried off and made a harlot of. I say, well done, Albert de Chauny; and I would have done the same if I had been in his place."
"Then Monsieur De Brecy is proved innocent," said Martin Grille, eagerly.
"I know nothing about that," answered Caboche. "He may have been an accomplice, you know; but that's no business of mine. I went up to see the duke lie at the Celestins. There was a mighty crowd there of men and women; but they all made way for Caboche. He makes a handsome corpse, though his head is so knocked about; but he'll not take any more men's wives away, and now we shall have quiet days, I suppose, though I don't see what good quiet does: for whether the town is peaceful or not, men don't buy or sell nowadays half as much as they used to do."
There was a certain degree of vanity in his tone as he uttered the words, "All made way for Caboche," which was very significant; and his description of the appearance of the Duke of Orleans made Martin Grille shudder. He remained not long with his rough uncle, however; but, after having asked and answered some questions, he took advantage of a moment when Caboche himself was busy in rearranging his cutlery and counting his money, to whisper a few words to Petit Jean regarding a meeting in the evening, and then parted from him, saying simply, "Remember!"
There was a great crowd in the court of the Hôtel d'Anjou--lackeys, and pages, and men-at-arms; but the court was a very large one, with covered galleries on either hand, and the number of retainers present was hardly seen. From time to time some great lord of the court arrived, and proceeded at once into the palace, leaving his followers to swell some of the little groups into which the whole body of the people assembled had arranged themselves. To one particular point the eyes of all present were most frequently directed, and it was only when one of the princes of the blood royal, the Dukes of Berri or Bourbon, or the King of Navarre arrived, that the mere spectators of the scene could divert their eyes from a spot where a young and handsome lad, who had not yet seen twenty years, stood in the midst of a group of theprévôt's; guard with fetters on his limbs.
By half past three o'clock, several of the princes and the Royal Council had entered the building, and were conducted at once to a large hall on the ground floor, where every thing was dark and sombre as the occasion of the meeting. The ceiling was much lower than might have been expected in a chamber of such great size; but the decorations which it displayed were rich and costly, showing the rose, an ancient emblem of the house of Anjou, in red, and green, and gold, at the corner of every panel; for the ceiling, like the rest of the room, was covered with dark oak. The walls were richly embellished; but the want of light hid the greater part of the delicate carving, and scarcely allowed a secretary, seated at the table, to see the letters on the paper on which he was writing.
Most of the members of the council had arrived; the Duke of Berri himself was present; but two very important personages had not yet appeared, namely, the Duke of Anjou (titular king of Sicily), and the Duke of Burgundy. The Duke of Berri, nevertheless, gave orders that the business of the day should proceed, while he sent a lackey to summon the Duke of Anjou; and very shortly after, that prince entered the room, inquiring, as he advanced to the table, if theprévôt; had yet arrived.
"No, fair cousin," replied the Duke of Berri; "but we may as well get over the preliminaries. The facts attending the finding of the body must be read, in the first place."
"I have read the whole of theprocès verbal," replied the King of Sicily. "Go on--go on, I will be back immediately."
The Duke of Berri seemed somewhat displeased to see his cousin quit the hall again; but the investigation proceeded. All the facts regarding the assassination of the Duke of Orleans which had been collected were read by the secretary from the papers before him; and when he had done, he added, "I find, my lords, that a young gentleman, the secretary of the late duke, who was not with him at the Hôtel Barbette, was arrested by one of her majesty's servants at the scene of the murder, in very suspicious circumstances, shortly after the crime was perpetrated. Is it your pleasure that he be brought before you?"
"Assuredly," replied the Duke of Berri. "I have seen the young gentleman, and judged well of him. I can not think he had any share in this foul deed. Are there any of my poor nephew's household here who can testify concerning him?"
"Several, your highness," answered the secretary. "They are in the ante-room."
"Let them also be called in," said the Duke of Berri; and in a minute or two, Jean Charost, heavily ironed, was brought to the end of the table, and a number of the Duke of Orleans's officers, the jester, and the chaplain appeared behind them.
The Duke of Berri gazed at the young man sternly; but with Jean Charost, the first feelings of grief, horror, and alarm had now given way to a sense of indignation at the suspicions entertained against him, and he returned the duke's glance firmly and unshrinkingly, with a look of manly confidence which sat well even upon his youthful features.
"Well, young gentleman," said the Duke of Berri, at length, "what have you to say for yourself?"
"In what respect, my lord?" asked Jean Charost, still keeping his eyes upon the duke; for the stare of all around was painful to him.
"In answer to the charge brought against you," answered the Duke of Berri.
"I know of no charge, your highness," answered Jean Charost. "I only know that while proceeding, according to the orders of my late beloved lord, to rejoin him at the Hôtel Barbette. I was seized by some men at one corner of the Rue Barbette, just as I was pausing to look at a house in flames, and at a crowd which I saw further down the street; that then, without almost any explanation, I was hurried to prison, and that this morning I have been brought hither, with these fetters on my limbs, which do not become an innocent French gentleman."
"It is right you should near the charge," answered the duke. "Is the man who first apprehended him here present?"
The tall, stout lackey of the queen, who had been the first to seize the young secretary's bridle, now bustled forward, full of his own importance, and related, not altogether without embellishment, his doings of the preceding night. He told how, on hearing from the flying servants of the Duke of Orleans that their lord had been attacked by armed men in the street, he had snatched up a halbert and run to his assistance; how he arrived too late, and then addressed himself to apprehend the murderers. He said that Jean Charost was not riding in any direction, but sitting on his horse quite still, as if he had been watching from a distance the deed just done; and that a gentleman of good repute, who had hastened, like himself, to give assistance, had pointed out the young secretary as one of the band of assassins, and even aided to apprehend him. He added various particulars of no great importance in regard to Jean Charost's manner and words, with the view of making out a case of strong suspicion against him.
"You hear the charge," said the Duke of Berri, when the man had ended; "what have you to say?"
"I might well answer nothing, your highness," replied Jean Charost; "for, so far as I can see, there is no charge against me, except that I checked my horse for an instant to look at a crowd and a house in flames. Nevertheless, if you will permit me, I will ask this man a question or two, as it may tend to bring some parts of this dark affair to light."
"Ask what you please," answered the duke; and Jean Charost turned to the servant, and demanded, it must be confessed, in a sharp tone, "Was the man who pointed me out to you armed or unarmed?"
"Completely armed, except the head," replied the lackey, looking a little confused.
"What had he in his hand?" demanded Jean Charost.
"A mace, I think," answered the man; "an iron mace."
"Did he tell you how he came completely armed in the streets of Paris at that hour of the night?" asked Jean Charost.
"He said he came forth at the cries," answered the servant.
"How long may it take to arm a man completely, except the head?" asked the young gentleman.
"I don't know," answered the servant; "I don't bear arms."
"I do," answered Jean Charost; "and so do these noble lords; nor is it probable that a man could shuffle on his armor in time to be there on the spot so soon, unless he were well armed before. Now tell me, what was this man's name?"
The man hesitated; but the Duke of Berri thundered from the head of the table, "Answer at once, sir. You have said he was a gentleman of good repute; you must therefore know him. What was his name?"
"William of Courthose," answered the man; "the brother of the king's valet de chambre."
"Where is he?" asked the Duke of Berri, so sternly, that the man became more and more alarmed, judging that his stupid activity might not prove so honorable to himself as he had expected.
"I do not know rightly, your highness," he replied. "His brother told me to-day he had gone to Artois."
There was a silence all through the room at this announcement. Jean Charost asked no more questions. Several of the council looked meaningly in each other's faces, and the Duke of Berri gazed thoughtfully down at the table.
The chaplain of the late Duke of Orleans, however, and Seigneur André, his fool, moved round and got behind the prince's chair.
The former bent his head, and said a few words in a low tone; and the duke instantly looked up, saying, "It seems, Monsieur De Brecy, that there was a quarrel between yourself and my unhappy nephew. You were heard speaking loud and angrily in his apartments; you left him half way to the Hôtel Barbette. Explain all this!"
"There was no quarrel, my lord," replied Jean Charost; "there could be no quarrel between an humble man like myself and a prince of the blood royal. His highness reproved me for something I had done amiss, and his voice was certainly loud when he did so. He pardoned me, however, on my apology, took me with him on his way to the Hôtel Barbette, sent me to deliver a letter and receive an answer, and commanded me to rejoin him at her majesty's house, which I was on the way to do when I was arrested."
"What was the cause of his reproving you?" asked the Duke of Berri; "to whom did he send you with a letter, and where did you pass the time from the moment you left him to the moment of your arrest? You had better, Monsieur De Brecy, give a full account of your whole conduct from the time of your arrival in Paris till the time of your apprehension."
Jean Charost looked down thoughtfully, and his countenance changed. To betray the secrets of the dead, to plant a fresh thorn in the heart of the Duchess of Orleans, already torn, as it must be, to explain how and why he had hesitated to obey his lord's commands, was what he would fain escape from at almost any risk; and his confidence in his own innocence made him believe that his refusal could do him no material damage.
"It will be better for yourself, sir, to be frank and candid," said the Duke of Berri; "a few words may clear you of all suspicion."
"I doubt it not, your highness," replied Jean Charost; "for as yet I see no cause for any. Were I myself alone concerned, I would willingly and at once state every act of my own and every word I uttered; but, my lord, in so doing, I should be obliged to give also the acts and words of my noble master. They were spoken to me in confidence, as between a frank and generous prince and his secretary. He is dead; but that absolves me not from the faithful discharge of my duty toward him. What he confided to me--whither he sent me--nay, even more, the very cause of his reproving me, which involves some part of his own private affairs, I will never disclose, be the consequence what it may; and I do trust that noble princes and honorable gentlemen will not require an humble secretary, as I am, to betray the secrets of his lord."
"You are bound, sir, by the law, to answer truly any questions that the king's council may demand of you," said the King of Navarre, sternly; "if not, we can compel you."
"I think not, my lord," replied Jean Charost; "I know of no means which can compel an honorable man to violate a sacred duty."
"Ha, ha!" shouted Seigneur André; "he does not know of certain bird-cages we have in France to make unwilling warblers sing. Methinks one screw of the rack would soon make the pretty creature open its bill."
"I think so too," said the King of Navarre, setting his teeth, and not at all well pleased with Jean Charost's reply. "We give you one more chance, sir; will you, or will you not, answer the Duke of Berri's questions? If not, we must try the extent of your obstinacy."
As he spoke he beckoned up to him theprévôt; of Paris, who had entered the hall a few minutes before, and spoke to him something in a whisper; to which the other replied, "Oh yes, sir, in the other chamber; the screw will do; it has often more power than the rack."
In the mean time, a struggle had been going on in the breast of Jean Charost.
It is often very dangerous to commit one's self by words to a certain course of action. So long as we keep a debate with ourselves within the secret council-chamber of our own bosom, we feel no hesitation in retracting an ill-formed opinion or a rash resolution; but when we have called our fellow-creatures to witness our thoughts or our determinations, the great primeval sin of pride puts a barrier in our way, and often prevents us going back, even when we could do so with honor.
Jean Charost was as faulty as the rest of our race, and perhaps it would be too much to say that pride had no share in strengthening his resolution; but, after a short pause, he replied, "My lord, the Duke of Berri, take it not ill of me, I beg your highness, that I say any questions simply regarding myself I will answer truly and at once; but none in any way affecting the private affairs of my late royal master will I answer at all."
"We can not suffer our authority to be set at naught," said the Duke of Berri, gravely; and the King of Navarre, turning with a heavy frown to theprévôt, exclaimed, "Remove him, Monsieur Tignonville, and make him answer."
Jean Charost turned very pale, but he said nothing; and two of theprévôt's; men laid their hands upon him, and drew him from the end of the table.
At the same moment, however, another young man started forward, with his face all in a glow, exclaiming, "Oh, my lords, my lords! for pity's sake, for your own honor's sake, forbear! He is as noble and as faithful a lad as ever lived--well-beloved of the prince whom we all mourn. Think you that he, who will suffer torture rather than betray his lord's secrets, would conspire his death?"
"It may be his own secrets he will not reveal," said the Duke of Berri.
"Meddle not with what does not concern you," cried the King of Navarre, sternly.
But Jean Charost turned his head as they were taking him from the room, and exclaimed, "Thank you, De Royans--thank you! That is noble and just."
He was scarcely removed when the Duke of Burgundy entered by the great entrance, and the King of Sicily by a small door behind the Duke of Berri. The former was alone, but the latter was followed by several of the officers of his household, and in the midst of them appeared a young girl, leaning on the arm of an elder woman dressed as a superior servant.
"I heard that Monsieur De Brecy was under examination," said Louis of Anjou, looking round, "accused of being accessory to the murder. Is he not here?"
"He has retired with a friend," said Seigneur André, who thought it his privilege to intermeddle with all conversation.
"The truth is, fair cousin," answered the King of Navarre, "we have found him a very obstinate personage to deal with, setting at naught the authority of the council, and refusing to answer the questions propounded to him. We have therefore been compelled to employ means which usually make recusants answer."
"Good God! I hope not," exclaimed the Duke of Anjou. "Here is a young lady who can testify something in his favor."
He turned as he spoke toward the young girl who had followed him into the hall, and who has more than once appeared upon the scene already. She was deadly pale, but those energies which afterward saved France failed her not now. She loosed her hold of the old servant's arm, on which she had been leaning, took a step forward, and, with her hands clasped, exclaimed, "In God's name, mighty princes, forbear! Send a messenger, if you would save your own peace, and countermand your terrible order. I know not why you have doomed an innocent man to torture, but right sure I am that somehow he has brought such an infliction on his head by honesty, and not by crime; by keeping his faith, not by breaking it."
"They are made for each other," said the King of Navarre, coldly. "They both speak in the same tone. Who is she, cousin of Sicily?"
"Mademoiselle De St. Geran--Agnes Sorel," answered the Duke of Anjou, in a low tone. "One of the maids of honor to my wife."
But Agnes took no notice of their half-heard colloquy, and, turning at once with quick decision and infinite grace toward the Duke of Burgundy, who sat with his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed upon the table, she exclaimed, "My lord the Duke of Burgundy, I beseech you to interfere. You know this young man--you know he is faithful and true--you know he refused to betray the secret of his lord, even at your command, and dared your utmost anger. You know he is not guilty."
"I do," said the Duke of Burgundy, rising, and speaking in a hoarse, hollow tone. "My lords, he is not guilty--I am sure. Suspend your order, I beseech you. Send off to the Châtelet, and let him--"
A deep groan, which seemed almost a suppressed cry, appeared to proceed from a door half way down the hall, and swell through the room, like the note of an organ.
"He is not far off, as you may hear," said the King of Navarre, with an indifferent manner. "Tell them to stop, if you please, fair cousin."
The Duke of Burgundy had waited to ask no permission, but was already striding toward the door. He threw it sharply open, and entered a small room having no exit, except through the hall; but he paused, without speaking, for a moment, although before his eyes lay poor Jean Charost strapped down upon a sort of iron bedstead, and one of theprévôt's; men stood actually turning a wheel at the head, which elongated the whole frame, and threatened to tear the unfortunate sufferer to pieces. For an instant, the duke continued to gaze in silence, as if desirous of seeing how much the unhappy young man could bear. But Jean Charost uttered not a word. That one groan of agony had burst from him on first feeling thepeine forte et dure. But now his resolution seemed to have triumphed over human weakness, and, with his teeth shut and his eyes closed, he lay and suffered without a cry.
"Hold!" exclaimed the duke, at length. "Hold, Messire Prévôt. Unbind the young man. He is not guilty!"
The duke then slowly moved toward the door, and closed it sharply, while Jean Charost was removed from his terrible couch, and a little water given him to drink. He sat up, and leaned his head upon his hand, with his eyes still closed, and not even seeming to see who had come to deliver him. Theprévôt's; men approached, and attempted, somewhat rudely, to place upon him his coat and vest, which had been taken off to apply the torture.
"Patience--patience, for a moment!" he said.
In the mean while, the Duke of Burgundy had approached close to him, and stood gazing at him with his arms crossed on his broad chest. "Can you speak, young man?" he said, at length.
Jean Charost inclined his head a little further.
"What was it you refused to tell the council?" asked the duke.
"Where the Duke of Orleans sent me last night," answered the young man, faintly.
"Faithful and true, indeed!" said the Duke of Burgundy; and then, laying his broad hand upon the youth's aching shoulder, he said, in a low tone, "If you seek new service, De Brecy, join me at Mons in a week. I will raise you to high honor; and remember--this you have suffered was not my doing. I came to deliver you. Now bring him in,prévôt, as soon as he can bear it."
When the duke returned to the hall, he found Agnes Sorel standing by the side of the Duke of Berri, although a chair had been placed for her by one of the gentlemen near; for in those days there was the brilliant stamp of chivalrous courtesy on all French gentlemen, in external things at least, though since blotted out by the blood of Lamballe and Marie Antoinette.
"Your testimony as to his general character and uprightness, my fair young lady," said the Duke of Berri, in a kindly tone, "will have the weight that it deserves with the council, but we must have something more definite here. We find that he was absent more than an hour from the duke's suite, when my poor nephew had ordered him to rejoin him immediately, and that this fearful assassination was committed during that period. He refuses to answer as to where he was, or what he was doing during that time. We will put the question to him again," he continued, looking toward the door at which Jean Charost now appeared, supported by two of theprévôt's; men, and followed by that officer himself. "Has he made any answer, Monsieur De Tignonville?"
"Not a word, your highness," replied theprévôt.
"Noble lad!" said Agnes Sorel, in a low voice, as if to herself; and then continued, raising her tone, "My lord the duke, I will tell you where he was, and what he was doing."
The Duke of Burgundy started, and looked suddenly up; but Agnes went on. "Although there be some men to whose characters certain acts are so repugnant that to suppose them guilty of them would be to suppose an impossibility, and though I and the mighty prince there opposite can bear witness that such is the case even in this instance, yet, lest he should bring himself into danger by his faithfulness, I will tell you what he will not speak, for I am bound by no duty to refrain. He was at the house of Madame De Giac, sent thither with a note by the Duke of Orleans. She told me so herself this morning, and lamented that a foolish trick she caused her servants to play him--merely to see how he, in his inexperience, would escape from a difficulty--had prevented him from rejoining his princely master, though, as she justly said, her idle jest had most likely saved the young man's life."
"Skillfully turned," muttered the Duke of Burgundy between his teeth, and he looked up with a relieved expression of countenance.
"If my lords doubt me," continued the young girl, "let them send for Madame De Giac herself."
"Nay, nay, we doubt you not," said the Duke of Burgundy; "and so sure am I of the poor lad's innocence--although he offended me somewhat at Pithiviers--that I propose he should be instantly liberated, and allowed to retire."
"Open the door, but first clip the bird's wings," said Seigneur André. "He won't fly far, I fancy, after the trimming he has had."
The proposal of the Duke of Burgundy, however, was at once acceded to; and Louis of Anjou, whose heart was a kindly one, notwithstanding some failings, leaned across the table toward Agnes Sorel, saying, "Take him with you, pretty maid, and try what you and the rest can do to comfort him till I come."
Agnes frankly held out her hand to Jean Charost, saying, "Come, Monsieur De Brecy, you need rest and refreshment. Come; you shall have the sweetest music you have ever heard to cheer you, and may have to thank the musician too."
With feeble and wavering steps, the young gentleman followed her from the room; and the moment the door was closed behind them, the King of Sicily turned to theprévôt, saying, "This young man is clearly innocent, Monsieur De Tignonville. Do you not think so?"
"I have never thought otherwise, my lord," replied theprévôt.
"Well, then, sir," said the Duke of Berri, "you have doubtless used all diligence, as we commanded this morning, to trace out those who have committed so horrible a crime as the assassination of the king's own brother."
"All diligence have I used, noble lords and mighty princes," said De Tignonville, advancing to the edge of the table, and speaking in a peculiarly stern and resolute tone of voice; "but I have yet apprehended none of the assassins or their accomplices. Nevertheless, such information have I received as leads me to feel sure that I shall be able to place them before you ere many hours are over, if you will give me the authority of the council to enter and examine the houses of all the servants of the king and those of the princes--even of the blood royal; which, as you know, is beyond my power without your especial sanction."
"Most assuredly," replied the King of Sicily. "Begin with mine, if you please. Search it from top to bottom. There are none of us here who would stand upon a privilege that might conceal the murderer of Louis of Orleans."
"There can be no objection," said the Duke of Berri. "Search mine, when you please, Monsieur le Prévôt."
"And mine," said the Duke of Bourbon.
"And mine--and mine," said several of the lords of the council.
The Duke of Burgundy said nothing; but sat at the table, with his face pale, and his somewhat harsh features sharpened, though motionless. At length he started up from the table, and exclaimed, in a sharp, quick tone, "Come hither, Sicily--come hither, my fair uncle of Berri. I would I speak a word with you;" and he strode toward the great door, followed by the two princes whom he had selected.
Between the great door and that of an outer hall was a small vestibule, with a narrow stair-case on one side, on the lower steps of which some attendants were sitting, when the duke appeared suddenly among them.
"Avoid!" he said, in a tone so loud and harsh as to scatter them at once like a flock of frightened sheep. He then closed both the doors, looked up the stair-case, and drew the Duke of Berri toward him, whispering something in his ear in a low tone.
The venerable prince started back, and gazed at him with a look of horror. "It was a suggestion of the great enemy," said Burgundy, "and I yielded."
"What does he say--what does he say?" exclaimed the King of Sicily.
"That he--he ordered the assassination," answered the Duke of Berri, in a sad and solemn tone. "I have lost two nephews in one night!"
The Duke of Anjou drew back with no less horror in his face than that which had marked the countenance of the Duke of Berri; but he gave more vehement way to the feeling of reprobation which possessed him, expressing plainly his grief and indignation. He was brief, however, and soon laid his hand upon the lock to open the door of the council-chamber again.
"Stay, stay, Louis," said the Duke of Berri. "Let us say nothing of this terrible truth till we have well considered what is to be done."
"Done!" repeated the Duke of Burgundy, gazing at them both with a look of stern surprise, as if he had fully expected that his acknowledgment of the deed was to make it pass uninvestigated and unpunished; and passing between his two relations, he too approached the door as if to go in.
But the Duke of Berri barred the way. "Go not into the council, fair nephew," he said. "It would not please me, nor any other person there, to have you among us now."
The Duke of Burgundy gave him one glance, but answered nothing; and, passing through the opposite door and the outer hall, mounted his horse and rode away, followed by his train.
"Let us break up the council, Louis," said the Duke of Berri, "and summon it for to-morrow morning. I will hie me home, and give the next hours to silent thought and prayer. You do the same; and let us meet to-morrow before the council reassembles."
"My thoughts are all confused," said the King of Sicily. "Is it a dream, noble kinsman--a bloody and terrible dream? Well, go you in. I dare not go with you. I should discover all. Say I am sick--God knows it is true--sick, very sick at heart."
Thus saying, he turned toward the stair-case, and while the Duke of Berri returned to those he had left, and broke up the council abruptly, the other prince proceeded slowly and gloomily toward his wife's apartments. When he reached the top of the stairs, however, and opened the door at which they terminated, a strain of the most exquisite music met his ear, sweet, slow, and plaintive, but yet not altogether melancholy.
Oh, how inharmonious can music sometimes be to the spirits even of those who love it best!
There are moments in life when even kindness and tenderness have no balm--when all streams are bitter because the bitterness is in us--when the heart is hardened to the nether millstone by the Gorgon look of despair--when happiness is so utterly lost that unhappiness has no degrees. There are such moments; but, thank God, they are few.
Heavy in heart and spirit, indignant at the treatment he had received, with his mind full of grief and horror at the dreadful death of a prince he had well loved, and with a body weary and broken with the torture he had undergone, still Jean Charost found comfort and relief in the soothing tenderness of Agnes Sorel, and of two or three girls somewhat older than herself, who lavished kindness and attention upon him as soon as they learned what had just befallen him. Some wine was brought, and fair hands gave it to him, and all that woman's pity could do was done. But Agnes had that morning learned the power of music, and, running away into an ante-room, she exclaimed, "Where is our sweet musician? Here, boy--here! Bring your instrument, and try and comfort him for whom you pleaded so hard just now. He needs it much."
Petit Jean rose instantly, paused for one moment to screw up a little one of the strings of his violin, and then followed into the inner room, giving a timid glance around over the fair young faces which were gathered about Jean Charost. But his eyes soon settled upon the sufferer with an inquiring look, which put the question as plainly as in words, "What is the matter with him?"
"They have put him to the torture," whispered Agnes; and the boy, after a moment's pause, raised his instrument to his shoulder and drew from it those sweet tones which the Duke of Anjou had heard. A short time before, he had played a dirge for the Duke of Orleans in the presence of the Queen of Sicily--I can hardly call it one of his own compositions, but rather one of his inspirations. It had been deep, solemn, almost terrible; but now the music was very different, sweet, plaintive, and yet with a mingling of cheerfulness every now and then, as if it would fain have been gay, but that something like memory oppressed the melody. It was like a spring day in the country--a day of early spring--when winter is still near at hand, though summer lies on before.
To enjoy fine and elaborate music aright, we require some learning, a disciplined and practiced ear; but those, I believe, who have heard the least music are more deeply affected by simple melodies. The sensations which Jean Charost experienced are hardly to be described, and when the boy ceased, he held out his hand to him, saying, "Thank you, thank you, my young friend. You have done me more good than ever did leech to sick man."
"You have more to thank him for than that," said Agnes, with a smile, which brought out upon her face, not then peculiarly handsome, that latent, all-captivating beauty which was afterward her peril and her power. "Had it not been for him, neither the Queen of Sicily nor I would ever have heard of your danger."
"How can that be?" asked Jean Charost. "I do not know him--I never saw him."
"Nor I you," replied the boy; "but 'tis the story of the lion and the mouse that my grandmother told me. You have a lackey called Martin Grille. He is my cousin. You have been kind to him; he has been kind to me; and so the whole has gone in a round. He gave me the first crown he could spare; that helped me to buy this thing that speaks so sweetly when I tell it. It said to that young lady, and to the queen, to have pity; and they had pity on you; and so that went in a round too. But I must go now, for I have to meet Martin on the parvis, and I shall be too late."
"Stay a moment," said Agnes. "You have had no reward."
"Oh yes, I have," replied the boy. "Reward enough in setting him free."
"Nay, that was but justice," she answered. "Stay but a moment, and I will tell the queen you are going."
One of the other girls accompanied her, and two more dropped away before she returned. Another, who was elder, remained talking with Petit Jean, and asking him many questions as to how he had acquired such skill in music. The boy said, God sent it; that from his infancy he had always played upon any instrument he could get; that one of the chanters of Nôtre Dame had taught him a little, and a blind man, who played on the cornemuse, had given him some instruction. That was all that he could tell; but yet, though he showed no learning, he spoke of his beautiful art with a wild confidence and enthusiasm that the young denizen of an artificial court could not at all comprehend. At length Agnes returned alone, bearing a small silk purse in her hand, which she gave to the boy, saying, "The queen thanks you, Petit Jean; and bids you come to her again on Sunday night. To-day she can hear nothing that is not sad; but she would fain hear some of your gayer music."
"Tell Martin that I will be home soon," said Jean Charost. "Indeed, I see not why I should not go with you now. Methinks I could walk to the hotel."
"Nay," said Agnes, kindly; "you shall not go yet. The king has given me charge of you, and I will be obeyed. It will be better that he tell your servant to come hither, and inquire for Madame De Busserole, our superintendent. Then, when you have somebody with you, you can go in more safety. Tell him so, Petit Jean. I must let Madame De Busserole know, however, lest the young man be sent away."
"I will tell her," said the other maid of honor. "You stay with your friend, Agnes; for I have got that rose in my embroidery to finish. Farewell, Monsieur De Brecy. If I were a king, I would hang all the torturers and burn all the racks, with the man who first invented them in the middle of them." And she tripped gayly out of the room.
The boy took his departure at the same time; and Jean Charost and Agnes were left alone together, or nearly so--for various people came and went--during well-nigh an hour. The light soon began to fade, and a considerable portion of their interview passed in twilight; but their conversation was not such as to require any help from the looks. It was very calm and quiet. Vain were it, indeed, to say that they did not take much interest in each other. But both were very young, and there are different ways of being young. Some are young in years--some in mind--some in heart. Agnes and Jean Charost were both older than their years in mind, but perhaps younger than their years in heart; and nothing even like a dream of love came over the thoughts of either.
They talked much of the late Duke of Orleans, and Jean Charost told her a good deal of the duchess. They talked, too, of Madame De Giac; and Agnes related to him all the particulars of that lady's visit to her in the morning.
"Why she came, I really do not know," said the young girl. "Although she is a distant cousin of my late father's, there was never any great love between us, and we parted with no great tenderness two days after I saw you at Pithiviers. Her principal object seemed to be to tell me of your having visited her yesterday night, and to mention the foolish trick she played upon you. That she seemed very eager to explain--I know not why."
Jean Charost mused somewhat gloomily. There were suspicions in his breast he did not like to mention; and the conduct and demeanor of Madame De Giac toward himself were not what he could tell to her beside him.
"I love not that Madame De Giac," he said, at length.
"I never loved her," answered Agnes. "I can remember her before her marriage, and I loved her not then; but still less do I esteem her now, after having been more than ten days in her company. It is strange, Monsieur De Brecy, is it not, what it can be that gives children a sort of feeling of people's characters, even before they have any real knowledge of them. She was always very kind to me, even as a child; but I thought of her then just as I think of her now, though perhaps I ought to think worse; for since then she has said many things to me which I wish I had never heard."
"How so!" asked Jean Charost, eagerly. "What has she said?"
"Oh, much that I can not tell--that I forget," answered Agnes, with the color mounting in her cheek. "But her general conversation, with me at least, does not please me. She speaks of right and wrong, honesty and dishonesty, as if there were no distinctions between them but those made by priests and lawyers. Every thing, to her mind, depends upon what is most advantageous in the end; and that is the most advantageous, in her mind, which gives the most pleasure."
"She may be right," answered Jean Charost, "if she takes the next world into account as well as this. But still I think her doctrines dangerous ones, and would not have any one to whom I wish well listen to them."
"I never do," answered Agnes; "but she laughs at me when I tell her I would rather not hear; and tells me that all these things, and indeed the whole world, will appear to me as differently ten years hence as the world now does compared with what it seemed to me as an infant. I do not think it; do you?"
"I can not tell," replied Jean Charost, gravely; "but I hope not; for I believe it would be better for us all could we always see the world with the eyes of childhood. True, it has changed much to my own view within the last few months; but it has changed sadly, and I wish I could look upon it as I did before. That can not be, however; and I suppose we are all--though men more than women--destined to see these changes, and to pass through them."
"Men can bear them better than women," answered Agnes. "A storm that breaks a flower or kills a butterfly, does not bend an oak or scare an eagle. Well, we must endure whatever be our lot; but I often think, Monsieur De Brecy, that, had the choice been mine, I would rather have been a peasant girl--not a serf, but a free farmer's daughter--with a tall, white cap, and a milk-pail on my arm, than a lady of the court, with all these gauds and jewels about me. If my poor mother had lived, I should never have been here."
Thus they rambled on for some time, till at length it was announced that Martin Grille was in waiting; and Jean Charost took his leave of his fair companion, pouring forth upon her at the last moment his thanks for all she had done to serve and save him. He was still stiff and weak, feeling as if every bone in his body had been crushed, and every muscle riven; but he contrived to reach the Hôtel d'Orleans, with the assistance of Martin Grille.
It was now quite dark; but in the vestibule, which has been often mentioned, a number of the unfortunate duke's servants and retainers were assembled, among whom Jean Charost perceived at once, by the dim light of the lanterns, the faces of the chaplain and Seigneur André. As soon as the latter saw him leaning feebly on his servant, he cried out, with an exulting laugh, "Ah, here comes the lame sparrow who was once so pert."
"Silence, fool!" cried a loud voice, "or I will break your head for you." And Juvenel de Royans came forward, holding out his hand to Jean Charost. "Let us be friends, De Brecy," he said. "I have done you some wrong--I have acted foolishly--like a boy; but this last fatal night, and this day, have made a man of me, and I trust a wiser one than I have ever shown myself. Forget the past, and let us be friends."
"Most willingly," replied Jean Charost. "But I must get to my chamber, De Royans, for, to say the truth, I can hardly drag my limbs along."
"Curses upon them!" replied De Royans "the cruel monsters, to torture a man for faithfulness to his lord! Let me help you, De Brecy." And, putting his strong arm through that of Jean Charost, he aided him to ascend the stairs, and with rough kindness laid him down upon his bed.
Here, during the evening, the young secretary was visited by various members of the household, though, to say truth, he was in no very fit state to entertain them. Lomelini came, with his soft and somewhat cunning courtesy, to ask what he could do for the young gentleman--doubting not that he would take a high place in the favor of the duchess. The chaplain came to excuse himself for having suggested certain questions to the king's counsel, and did it somewhat lamely.
Old Monsieur Blaize visited him, to express warm and hearty applause of the young man's conduct in all respects. "Do yourdevoir; as knightly in the field, my young friend," he said, "as you have done it before the council, and you will win your golden spurs in the first battle that is stricken."
Several of the late duke's knights, with whom Jean Charost had formed no acquaintance, came also to express their approbation; but praise fell upon a faint and heavy ear; for all he had passed through was not without consequences more serious than were at first apparent.
Martin Grille overflowed with joy and satisfaction so sincere and radiant at the escape of his master, that Jean Charost could not help being touched by the good valet's attachment. But, as a true Frenchman, he was full of his own part in the young gentleman's deliverance, attributing to himself and his own dexterity all honor and praise for the result which had been attained. He perceived not, for some time, in his self-gratulations, that Jean Charost could neither smile nor listen; that a red spot came in his cheek; that his eyes grew blood-shot, and his lip parched. At length, however, a few incoherent words alarmed him, and he determined to sit by his master's bedside and watch. Before morning he had to seek a physician; and then began all the follies of the medical art, common in those times.
For fourteen days, however, Jean Charost was utterly unconscious of whether he was treated well or ill, kindly or the reverse; and at the end of that time, when the light of reason returned, it was but faint and feeble. When first he became fully conscious, he found himself lying in a small room, of which he thought he recollected something. The light of an early spring day was streaming in through an open window, with the fresh air, sweet and balmy; and the figure of a middle-aged man, in a black velvet gown, was seen going out of the door.
The eyes of the young man turned from one object around him to another. There was a little writing-table, two or three wooden settles, a brazen sconce upon the wall, a well-polished floor of brick, an ebony crucifix, with a small fountain of holy water beneath it--all objects to which his eyes had been accustomed five or six months before. The figure he had seen going out, with its quiet, firm carriage, and easy dignity, was one that he recollected well; and he asked himself, "Was he really still in the house of Jacques Cœur, and was the whole episode of Agnes, and Juvenel de Royans, and the imprisonment, and the torture, and the Duke of Orleans nothing but a dream?"