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.
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 calleden 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 adressoir, 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.
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."