There are periods in the life of every man daring which accidents, misadventures, annoyances even, if they be not of too great magnitude, are of service to him. When, from within or from without, some dark vapor has risen up, clouding the sunlight, and casting the soul into darkness--when remorse, or despair, or bitter disappointment, or satiety, or the dark pall of grief, has overshadowed all things, and left us in a sort of twilight, where we see every surrounding object in gloom, we bless the gale, even though it be violent, that arises to sweep the tempest-cloud from our sky. Still greater is the relief when any thing of a gentler and happier kind comes along with the breeze that dispels the mists and darkness, like a sun-gleam through a storm; and the little accident which had occurred, and the escape from danger, did a great deal to rouse the Duke of Orleans from a sort of apathetic heaviness which had hung upon him for the last two or three days.
Dinner had been prepared for him at the great inn at Juvisy; but, with one of those whims in which high and mighty princes indulged frequently in those days, he paused before the gates of the old abbey, on the left hand side of the road, saying, in a low tone, to Jean Charost, but with a gay smile, "We will go in and dine with the good fathers. They are somewhat famous for their cheer, and it must be about the dinner hour."
The little crowd of attendants had followed; slowly behind their princely master, leaving the distance of a few paces between him and them, for reverence' sake; and he now beckoned up Lomelini, and told him to go forward and let the household dine, adding, "We will dine at the abbey."
"How many shall remain with your highness?" asked Lomelini, with a profound bow.
"None, signor," replied the duke; "none but Monsieur De Brecy. Go on--I would be incognito;" and turning up the path, he struck the bell at the gates with the iron hammer that hung beside it.
"Now, De Brecy," he said, in a light and careless tone, very different from any his young companion had ever heard him use before, "here we forget our names and dignities. I am Louis Valois, and you Jean Charost, and there are no titles of honor between us. Some of the good friars may have seen me, and perhaps know me; but they will take the hint, and forget all about me till I am gone. I would fain see them without their frocks for awhile. It will serve to divert my thoughts from sadder things."
With a slow and faltering step, and mumbling something, apparently not very pleasant, as he came, an old monk walked down to thegrille; or iron gate of the convent, with the keys in his hand indeed, but an evident determination not to use them, except in case of necessity. Seeing two strangers standing at the gate, he first spoke with them through the bars, and it required some persuasion to induce him to open and let them pass, although, to say sooth, the duke's announcement that he came to ask the hospitality of the refectory, was spoken more as a command than a petition, notwithstanding the air of easy familiarity which he sought to give it.
"Well, well; come in," he said, at length; "I have nothing to do with it, but to open and shut the door. The people within will tell you whether you can eat with them or not. They eat enough themselves, God wot, and drink too; but they are not over-fond of sharing with those they don't know, except through the buttery hole or the east wicket; and there it is only what they can't eat themselves. Ay, we had different times of it when Abbot Jerome was alive."
Before the long fit of grumbling was at an end, the Duke of Orleans and his young companion were at the inner door of the building; and a little bell, ringing from a distant corner, gave notice that the mid-day meal of the monks was about to begin.
"Come along--come along, Jean," said the duke, seeming to participate in the eagerness with which several monks were hurrying along in one direction; "they say the end of a feast is better than the beginning of a fray; but, to say truth, the beginning is the best part of either."
On they went; no one stopped them--no one said a word to them. The impulse of a very voracious appetite was upon the great body of the monks, and deprived them of all inclination to question the strangers, till they were actually at the door of the refectory, where a burly, barefooted fellow barred the way, and demanded what they wanted. "A dinner," answered the Duke of Orleans, with a laugh. "You are hospitable friars, are you not?"
The man gazed at him for a moment without reply, but with a very curious expression of countenance, ran his eye over the duke's apparel, which, though by no means very splendid, was marked by all the peculiar fopperies of high station; then gave a glance at Jean Charost, and then replied, in a much altered tone, "We are, sir. But it so happens that to-day my lord abbot has visitors who dine here. Doubtless he will not refuse you hospitality, if you let him know who it is demands it. He has with him Monsieur and Madame Giac, and their train, high persons at the court of Burgundy. Who shall I say are here?"
"Two poor simple gentlemen in need of a dinner," replied the duke, in a careless tone--"Louis Valois and Jean Charost by name. But make haste, good brother, or the pottage will be cold."
The man retired into the refectory, the door of which was continually opening and shutting as the monks passed in; and Jean Charost, who stood a little to the right of the duke, could see the monk hurry forward toward a gay party already seated at the head of one of the long tables, with the abbot in the midst.
He returned in a few seconds with another monk, and ushered the duke and his young companion straight up to the table of the abbot, an elderly man of jovial aspect, who seemed a little confused and embarrassed. He rose, sat down again, rose, once more, and advanced a step or two.
The Duke of Orleans met him half way with a meaning smile, and a few words passed in a low tone, the import of which Jean Charost did not hear. The duke, however, immediately after, moved to a vacant seat some way down the table, and beckoned Jean Charost to take a place beside him. The young secretary obeyed, and had a full opportunity, before a somewhat long grace was ended, of scanning the faces of the guests who sat above him.
On the abbot's right hand was a gentleman of some forty years of age, gayly dressed, but of a countenance by no means prepossessing, cold, calculating, yet harsh; and next to him was placed a young girl of some thirteen or fourteen years of age, not at that time particularly remarkable for her beauty, but yet with an expression of countenance which, once seen, was not easily to be forgotten. That expression is difficult to be described, but it possessed that which, as far as we can judge from very poor and not very certain portraits, was much wanting in the countenances of most French women of the day. There was soul in it--a look blending thought and feeling--with much firmness and decision even about the small, beautiful mouth, but a world of soft tenderness in the eyes.
On the other side of the abbot sat a gay and beautiful lady, in the early prime of life, with her face beaming with witching smiles; and Jean Charost could not help thinking he saw a very meaning glance pass between the Duke of Orleans and herself. No one at the table, indeed, openly recognized the prince; and, although the young secretary had little doubt that his royal master was known to more than one there present, it was clear the great body of the monks were ignorant that he was among them.
The fare upon the table did not by any means belie the reputation of the convent. Delicate meats, well cooked; fish in abundance, and of various kinds; game of every sort the country produced; and wine of exceedingly delicate flavor, showed how completely field, forest, tank, and vineyard were laid under tribute by the good friars of Juvisy. Nor did the monks seem to mortify their tongues more than the rest of their bodies. Merriment, revelry--sometimes wit, sometimes buffoonery--and conversation, often profane, and often obscene, ran along the table without any show of reverence for ears that might be listening. The young man had heard of such things, but had hardly believed the tale; and not a little scandalized was he, in his simplicity, at all he saw and heard. That which confounded him more than all the rest, however, was the demeanor of the Duke of Orleans. He did not know how often painful feelings and sensations take refuge in things the most opposite to themselves--how grief will strive to drown itself in the flood of revelry--how men strive to sweeten the cup of pain with the wild honey-drops of pleasure. From the first moment of his introduction to the duke up to that hour, he had seen him under but one aspect. He had been grave, sad, thoughtful, gloomy. Health itself had seemed affected by some secret sorrow; and now every thing was changed in a moment. He mingled gayly, lightly in the conversation, gave back jest for jest with flashing repartee, encouraged and shared in the revelry around him, and drank liberally, although there was a glowing spot in his cheek which seemed to say there was a fire within which wanted no such feeding.
The characters around would bear a long description; for monastic life--begun generally when habits of thought were fixed--had not the power ascribed by a great orator to education, of dissolving the original characters of men, and recrystallizing them in a different form. At one part of the table there was the rude broad jester, rolling his fat body within his wide gown, and laughing riotously at his own jokes. At a little distance sat the keen bright satirist, full of flashes of wit and sarcasm, but as fond of earthly pleasures as all the rest; and a little nearer was the man of sly quiet humor, as grave as a judge himself, but causing all around him to roar with laughter. The abbot, overflowing with the good things of this life, and enjoying them still with undiminished powers, notwithstanding the sixty years and more which had passed over his head, was evidently well accustomed to the somewhat irreverent demeanor of his refectory, and probably might not have relished his dinner without the zest of its jokes. Certain it is, at all events, though his own parlor was a more comfortable room, and universal custom justified his dining in solitude, he was seldom absent at the hour of dinner, and only abstained from being present at supper likewise, lest he should hear and see more than could be well passed over in safety.
When the meal was at an end, however, the abbot rose, and, inviting his lay guests to his own particular apartments, left his monks to conduct the exercises of the afternoon as they might think fit. With his cross-bearer before him, he led the way, followed by the rest in the order which the narrowness of the passages compelled them to take; and Jean Charost found himself coupled, for the time, with the young girl he had seen on the opposite side of the table. He was too much of a Frenchman to hesitate for a moment in addressing her; for, in that country, silence in a woman's society is generally supposed to proceed either from awkwardness or rudeness. She answered with as little constraint; and they were in the full flow of conversation when they entered a well-tapestried room, which, though large in itself, seemed small after the great hall of the refectory.
The abbot, and the nobleman who had sat by his side, in whom Jean Charost recognized the Monsieur De Giac whom he had seen by torch-light in the streets of Paris, were already talking to each other with some eagerness, while the Duke of Orleans followed a step or two behind, conversing in low tones with the beautiful lady who had sat upon the abbot's other hand.
Gay and light seemed their conference; and both laughed, and both smiled, and both whispered, but not apparently from any reverence for the persons or place around them. But no one took any notice. Monsieur De Giac was very blind to his wife's coquetry, and the abbot was well accustomed to the feat of shutting his eyes without dropping his eyelids. Nay, he seemed to think the merriment hardly sufficient for the occasion; for he ordered more wines to be brought, and those the most choice and delicate of his cellar, with various preserved fruits, gently to stimulate the throat to deeper potations.
"Not very reverend," said Jean Charost, in answer to some observation of the young lady, shortly after they entered, while the rest remained scattered about in different groups. "I wonder if every monastery throughout France is like this."
"Very like, indeed," answered his fair companion, with a smile. "Surely this is not the first religious house you have ever visited."
"The first of its kind," replied Jean Charost; "I have been often in the Black Friars at Bourges, but their rule is somewhat more austere, or more austerely practiced."
"Poor people," said the girl. "It is to be hoped there is a heaven, for their sakes. These good folks seem to think themselves well enough where they are, without going further. But in sorry truth, all monasteries are very much like this--those that I have seen, at least."
"And nunneries?" asked Jean Charost.
"Somewhat better," she answered, with a sigh. "Whatever faults women may have, they are not such coarse ones as we have seen here to-night; but I know not much about them, for I have been long enough in one only to judge of it rightly; and now I feel like a bird with its prison doors unclosed, because I am going to join the court of the Queen of Anjou: that does not speak ill of the nunnery, methinks. Who knows, if they reveled as loud and high there as here, but I might have loved to remain."
"I think not," answered her young companion, "if I may judge by your face at dinner. You seemed not to smile on the revels of the monks."
"They made my head ache," answered the girl; and then added, abruptly, "so you are an observer of faces, are you? What think you of that face speaking with the abbot?"
"Nay, he may be your father, brother, or any near relation," answered Jean Charost. "I shall not speak till I know more."
"Oh, he is nothing to me," replied the girl. "He is my noble Lord of Giac, who does me the great honor, with my lady, his wife, of conveying me to Beaugency, where we shall overtake the Queen of Anjou. His face would not curdle milk, nor turn wine sour; but yet there is something in it not of honey exactly."
"He seems to leave all the honey to his fair lady," replied Jean Charost.
"Yes, to catch flies with," replied the girl; and then she added, in a lower tone, "and he is the spider to eat them."
The wine and the preserved fruits had by this time been placed upon a large marble table in the centre of the hall; and a fair sight they made, with the silver flagons, and the gold and jeweled cups, spread out upon that white expanse, beneath the gray and fretted arches overhead, while on the several groups around in their gay apparel, and the abbot in his robes, standing by the table, with a serving brother at his side, the many-colored light shone strongly through the window of painted glass.
"Here's to you, noble sir, whom I am to call Louis Valois, and to your young friend, Jean Charost," said the abbot, bowing to the duke, and raising a cup he had just filled. "I pray you do me justice in this excellent wine of Nuits."
"I will but sip, my lord," replied the duke, taking up a cup. "I have drank enough already somewhat to heat me."
"Nay, nay, good gentleman," cried the fair lady with whom he had been talking, "let me fill for you! Drink fair with the lord abbot, for very shame, or I will inform the Duke of Orleans, who passes here, they say, to-day."
The last words were uttered with a meaning smile; but the duke let her pour the wine out for him, drank it down, and then, with a graceful inclination to the company, took a step toward the door, saying, "The Duke of Orleans has gone by, madam. At least, his train passed us while we were at the gates. My lord abbot, I give you a thousand thanks for your hospitality. Ladies all, farewell;" and then passing Madame De Giac, he added, in a whisper, which reached, however, the ears of Jean Charost who was following. "In Paris, then."
The lady made no answer with her lips; but her eyes spoke sufficiently, and to the thoughts of Jean Charost somewhat too much.
The serving brother opened the door of the parlor for the guests to pass out, and he had not yet closed it, when the name of the Duke of Orleans was repeated from more than one voice within, and a merry peal of laughter followed.
The duke hastened his steps, holding the arm of his young companion; and though the smile still lingered on his lips for awhile, yet before they had reached the gate of the convent, it had passed away. Gradually he fell into a fit of deep thought, which lasted till they nearly descended to Juvisy. Then, however, he roused himself, and said, with an abrupt laugh, "I sometimes think men of pleasure are mad, De Brecy."
"I think so too, your highness," replied Jean Charost.
The duke started, and looked suddenly in his face; but all was calm and simple there; and, after a moment's silence, the prince rejoined, "Too true, my young friend; too true! A lucid interval often comes upon them, full of high purposes and good resolves: they see light, and truth, and reality for a few short hours, when suddenly some accident--some trifle brings the fit again, and all is darkness and delusion, delirious dreams, and actions of a madman. I have heard of a bridge built of broken porcelain; and such is the life of a man of pleasure. The bridge over which his course lies, from time to eternity, is built of broken resolutions, and himself the architect."
"A frail structure, my lord, by which to reach heaven," replied Jean Charost, "and methinks some strong beams across would make us surer of even reaching earthly happiness."
"Where can one find them?" asked the duke.
"In a strong will," answered Jean Charost.
The duke mused for a moment or two, and then suddenly changed the conversation, saying, "Who was the girl you were speaking with?"
"In truth, your highness, I do not know," replied Jean Charost. "She said that she was going, under the escort of Monsieur and Madame De Giac, to Beaugency."
"Oh, then, I know," replied the duke. "It is the fair Agnes, whom my good aunt talked about. They say she has a wit quite beyond her years. Did you find it so?"
"I can not tell," replied Jean Charost, "for I do not know her age. She seemed to me quite a girl; and yet spoke like one who thought much and deeply."
"You were well matched," said the duke, gayly; and, at the same moment, some of his attendants came up, and the conversation stopped for the time.
The cool twilight of a fine winter's evening filled the air as the train of the Duke of Orleans approached his château of Beauté. Standing on a high bank, with the river flowing in sight, and catching the last rosy rays, which still lingered in the sky after the sun was set, the house presented a grand, rather than a graceful appearance, though it was from the combination of beautiful forms and rich decoration with the defensive strength absolutely requisite in all country mansions at that day, that it derived its name of Beauté. The litter had been repaired at Juvisy, and the Duke of Orleans had taken possession of it again; but as the cavalcade wound up the ascent toward the castle, the prince put his head out, and ordered one of the nearest attendants to call Lomelini to him.
"I am ill, Lomelini," he said, as soon as the maître d'hôtel rode up; "I am ill. Go forward and see that my bed-chamber is prepared."
"Had I not better send back for your highness's chirurgeon?" asked Lomelini. "'Tis a pity he was left behind in Paris."
"No, no," replied the prince; "let him stay where he is. He overwhelms me with his talk of phlebotomy and humors, his calculations of the moon, and his caption of fortunate hours. 'Tis but a little sickness that will pass. Besides, there is the man at Corbeil. He can let blood, or compound a cooling potion."
As soon as the cavalcade had entered the court-yard of the château, the duke was assisted from his litter, and retired at once to his chamber, leaning upon the arm of Lomelini, who was all attention and humble devotion. The rest of the party then scattered in different directions, most of those present knowing well where to betake themselves, and each seeking the dwelling-place to which he was accustomed. Jean Charost, however, had no notion where he was to lodge, and now, for the first time, came into play the abilities of his new servant, Martin Grille. His horses were stabled in a minute--whether in the right place or not, Martin stopped not to inquire--and, the moment that was done, divining well the embarrassment of an inexperienced master, the good man darted hither and thither, acquiring very rapidly, from the different varlets and pages, a vast amount of information regarding the château and its customs.
He found Jean Charost walking up and down a large hall, which opened directly, without any vestibule, from the principal door of entrance, and plunged so deeply was he in meditation, that he seemed to see none of the persons who were passing busily to and fro around him. The revery was deep, and something more: it was not altogether pleasant. Who, in the cares and anxieties of mature life, does not sometimes pause and look back wistfully to the calmer days of childhood, decking them with fanciful memories of joys and sports, and burying in forgetfulness the troubles and sorrows which seemed severe at the time. The two spirits that are in man, indeed, never exercise their influence more strongly in opposition than in prompting the desire for peace, and the eagerness for action.
Jean Charost was busy at the moment with the unprofitable, fruitless comparison of the condition in which he had lately lived and his present station. The calm and tranquil routine of ordinary business; the daily occupation, somewhat monotonous, but without anxiety, or even expectation; the peaceful hours for study, for thought, or for exercise, when not engaged in the service of no very exacting master, acquired a new and extraordinary interest in his eyes now that ambition was gratified, and he appeared to be in the road to honor and success. It was not that he was tired of the Duke of Orleans's service: it was not that he misappreciated the favors he received, or the kindness with which he had been treated; but the look back or the look forward makes a great difference in our estimate of events and circumstances, and he felt that full appreciation of the past which nothing that is not past can altogether command. Yet, if he strove to fix upon any point in regard to which he had been disappointed, he found it difficult to do so. But there was something in the whole which created in his breast a general feeling of depression. There was a sensation of anxiety, and doubt, and suspicion in regard to all that surrounded him. A dim sort of mist of uncertainty hung over the whole, which, to his daylight-loving mind, was very painful. One half of what he saw or heard he did not comprehend. Men seemed to be speaking in a strange, unlearned language--to be acting a mystery, the secret of which would not be developed till near the end; and he was pondering over all these things, and asking himself how he should act in the midst of them, when Martin Grille approached, and, in a low tone, told him all that he had discovered, offering to show him where the secretary's apartments were situated.
"But can I be sure that the same rooms are destined for me?" asked Jean Charost.
"Take them, sir, take them," answered Martin Grille; "that is to say, if they are good, and suit you. The only quality that is not valued at a court is modesty. It is always better to seize what you can get, and the difficulty of dispossessing you, nine times out of ten, makes men leave you what you have taken. Signor Lomelini is still with the duke; so that you can ask him no questions. You must be lodged some where, so you had better lodge yourself."
Jean Charost thought the advice was good, especially as night had by this time fallen, and a single cresset in the hall afforded the only light, except when some one passed by with a lamp in his hand. He followed Martin Grille, therefore, and was just issuing forth, when Juvenel de Royans, and another young man of the same age, came in by the same door out of which he was going. At the sight of the young secretary, De Royans drew back with a look of affected reverence, and a low inclination of the head, and then burst into a loud laugh. Jean Charost gazed at him with a cold, unmoved look, expressive, perhaps, of surprise, but nothing else, and then passed on his way.
"Those gentlemen will bring themselves into trouble before they have done," said Martin Grille. "That Monsieur De Royans is already deep in the bad books."
"No deeper than he deserves," answered Jean Charost. "But perhaps they may find they have made a mistake before they have done."
"Ah, good sir, never quarrel with a courtier," said the servant. "They are like wary fencers, and try to put a man in a passion in order to throw him off his guard. But here are your rooms, at the end of this passage. That door is the back entrance to the duke's apartments. The front is on the other corridor."
With some lingering still of doubt, Jean Charost took possession of the rooms, which he found more convenient than those he had inhabited in Paris, and, by the aid of Martin Grille, all was speedily put in order. The hour of supper soon arrived, and, descending to the general table of the household, he found a place reserved for him by Monsieur Blaize, but a good deal of strange coldness in the manners of all around. Even the oldécuyer; himself was somewhat distant and reserved; and it was not till long afterward that Jean Charost discovered how much malice any marks of favor from a prince can excite, and to how much falsehood such malice may give birth. His attempt to stop the horses of the litter had been severely commented on, as an act of impertinent forwardness, by all those who ought to have done it themselves; and they and every one else agreed, notwithstanding the duke's own words, that the attempt had only served to throw one of the horses down. The only person who seemed cordial at the table was the good priest, Father Peter; but the chaplain could afford very little of his conversation to his young friend, being himself, during the whole meal, the butt of the jester's wit, to which he could not refrain from replying, although, to say sooth, he got somewhat worsted in the encounter. All present were tired, however, and all retired soon to rest, with the exception of Jean Charost, who sat up in his bed-room for two or three hours, laying out for himself a course of conduct which would save him, as far as possible, from all minor annoyances. Nor was that course altogether ill devised for the attainment of even higher objects than he proposed.
"I will live in this household," he thought, "as far as possible, by myself. I will seek my own amusements apart, if I can but discover at what time the duke is likely to want me. Any who wish for my society shall seek it, and I will, keep all familiarity at a distance. I will endeavor to avoid all quarrels with them; but, if I am forced into one, I will try to make my opponent rue it."
At an early hour on the following morning the young man went forth to inquire after the duke's health, and learned from one of the attendants at his door that he had passed a bad and feverish night. "I was bidden to tell you, sir," said the man, "if you presented yourself, that his highness would like to see you at three this evening, but will not want you till then."
This intimation was a relief to Jean Charost; and, returning to his room, where he had left Martin Grille, he told him to prepare both their horses for along ride.
"Before breakfast, sir?" asked the man.
"Yes, immediately," replied the young secretary. "We will breakfast somewhere, Martin, and dine somewhere too; but I wish to explore the country, which seemed beautiful enough as we rode along."
"Monstrous white, sir," replied Martin Grille. "However, you had better take some arms with you, for we may chance to miss the high-road, I being in no way topographical. The country in this neighborhood does not bear the best reputation."
Jean Charost laughed at his fears, and ere half an hour was over they were on their horses' backs and away. The morning was bright and pleasant, notwithstanding the keen frostiness of the air. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees, and the sun was shining cheerfully, though his rays had no effect upon the snow. There was a silence, too, over the whole scene, as soon as the immediate vicinity of the castle was passed, which was pleasant to Jean Charost, cooped up as he had been for several months previously in the close atmosphere of a town. From a slow walk, he urged his horse on into a trot, from a trot into a canter, and when at length the wood which mantled the castle was passed, and the road opened out upon the rounded side of the hill, boyhood's fountain of light spirits seemed reopened in his heart, and he urged his horse on into a wild gallop over the nearly level ground at the top.
Martin Grille came panting after. He was not one of the best horsemen in the world, and, though he clung pretty fast to his steed's back, he was awfully shaken. That gay gallop, however, had a powerful moral effect upon the good varlet. Bad horsemen have always a great reverence for good ones. Martin Grille's esteem for his master's talents had been but small before, simply because his own worldly experience, his intimate knowledge of all tricks and contrivances, and the facile impudence and fertility of resources, which he possessed as the hereditary right of a Parisian of the lower orders, had enabled him to direct and counsel in a thousand trifles which had embarrassed Jean Charost simply because he had been unaccustomed to deal with them. But now, when Martin saw his easy mastery of the strong horse, and the light rein, the graceful seat, the joyous hilarity of aspect with which the young man bounded along, while he himself was clinging tight to the saddle with a fearful pressure, the sight made him feel an inferiority which he had never acknowledged to himself before.
At length, Jean Charost stopped, looked round and smiled, and Martin Grille, riding up, exclaimed, in a half-dolorous half-laughing tone, "Spare me, sir, I beseech you. You forget I am not accustomed to such wild capers. Every man is awkward, I find, in a new situation; and though I can get on pretty well at procession pace, if my horse neither kicks nor stumbles, I would rather be excused galloping over hillsides, for a fortnight at least, till my leather and his leather are better acquainted."
"Well, well," answered his master, "we will go a little more slowly, though we must have a canter now and then, if but to make the snow fly. We will ride on straight for that village where the church tower is peeping up over the opposite side of the hill."
"There is a thick wood between us and it," said Martin Grille.
"Doubtless the wood has a road through it," answered his master; and, without further discussion, rode on.
The wood, or rather forest--for it was a limb of the great forest of Corbeil--of which Martin Grille spoke, lay in the hollow between two gentle ranges of hills, upon one of which he and his master were placed at the moment. It was deeper, more extensive, and more intricate than it had appeared to Jean Charost, seeing across from slope to slope, but not high enough to look down upon it as a map. As he directed his horse toward it, however, he soon came upon a road marked out by the track of horses, oxen, and carts, showing that many a person and many a vehicle had passed along it since the snow had fallen; and even had he clearly comprehended that his servant really entertained any apprehensions at all, he would only have laughed at them.
On entering the wood, the snow upon the ground, shining through the bare stems of the trees and the thin, brown branches of the underwood, at first showed every object on either hand for several yards into the thicket. Even the footprints of the hare and the roe-deer could be seen; and Jean Charost, well accustomed to forest sports in his boyhood, paused at one spot, where the bushes were a good deal beaten down, to point out the marks to his servant, and say, "A boar has been through here."
Some way further on, the wood became thicker, oaks and rapidly deciduous trees gave way to the long-persistent beech; and beneath the tall patriarchs of the forest, which had been suffered to grow up almost beyond maturity, a young undergrowth, reserved for firewood, and cut every thirteen or fourteen years, formed a screen into which the eye could not penetrate more than a very few feet. Every here and there, too, were stunted evergreens thickening the copse, and bearing upon their sturdy though dwarfish arms many a large mass of snow which they had caught in its descent toward the ground. Across the road, in one place, was a solid mass of ice, which a few weeks before had been running in a gay rivulet; and not twenty yards further was a little stream of beautiful, limpid water, without a trace of congelation, except a narrow fringe of ice on either bank.
Here Jean Charost pulled up his horse, and then, slackening the rein, let the beast put down his head to drink. Martin Grille did so likewise; but a moment after both heard a sound of voices speaking at some little distance on the left.
"Hark! hark!" whispered Martin Grille. "There are people in the wood--in the very heart of the wood."
"Why, where would you find woodmen but in the wood?" asked Jean Charost. "You will hear their axes presently."
"I hope we shall not feel them," said Martin Grille, in the same low tone. "I declare that the only fine wood scenery I ever saw has been at the back of the fire."
"They have got a fire there," said Jean Charost, pointing onward, but a little to the left. "Don't you see the blue smoke curling up through the trees into the clear, cool air?"
"I do indeed, sir," said Martin Grille. "Pray, sir, let us turn back. It's not half so pretty as a smoky chimney."
"Are you a coward?" asked Jean Charost, turning somewhat sharply upon him.
"Yes, sir," replied Martin, meekly: "desperate--I have an uncle who fights for all the family."
"Then stay where you are, or go back if you like," replied his master. "I shall go and see who these folks are. You had better go back, if you are afraid."
"Yes, sir--no, sir," replied Martin Grille. "I am afraid--very much afraid--but I won't go back. I'll stay by you if I have my brains knocked out--though, good faith, they are not much worth knocking just now, for they feel quite addled--curd--curd; and a little whey, too, I have a notion. But go on, sir; go on. They are not worth keeping if they are not worth losing."
Jean Charost rode on, with a smile, pitying the man's fears, but believing them to be perfectly idle and foolish. The district of Berri, his native place, had hitherto escaped, in a great degree, the calamities which for years had afflicted the neighborhood of Paris. There was too little to be got there, for the plundering bands, which had sprung up from the dragon's teeth sown by the wars of Edward the Third of England and Philip and John of France, or those which had arisen from the contentions between the Orleans and Burgundian parties, to infest the neighborhood of Bourges; and while the Parisian, with his mind full of tales brought daily into the capital of atrocities perpetrated in its immediate vicinity, fancied every bush, not an officer, but a thief, his young master could hardly bring himself to imagine that there was such a thing as danger in riding through a little wood within less than half a league of the château of the Duke of Orleans.
He went on then, in full confidence, for some fifty or sixty yards further; but then suddenly stopped, and raised his hand as a sign for his servant to do so likewise. Martin Grille almost jumped out of the saddle, on his master's sudden halt, and drew so deep a snorting sort of sigh that Jean Charost whispered, with an impatient gesture, "Hush!"
The fact was, his ears had caught, as they rode on, a sound coming from the direction where rose the smoke, which did not altogether satisfy him. It was an exceedingly blasphemous oath--in those days, common enough in the mouths of military men, and not always a stranger to the lips of kings, but by no means likely to be uttered by a plain peasant or honest wood-cutter.
He listened again: more words of similar import were uttered. It was evident that the approach of horses over the snow had not been heard, and that, whoever were the persons in the wood, they were conversing together very freely, and in no very choice language.
Curiosity seized upon Jean Charost, who was by no means without his faults, and, quietly swinging himself from his horse's back, he gave the rein to Martin Grille, saying, in a whisper, "Here, hold my horse. I want to see what these people are about. If you see danger--and you have put the fancy into my head too--you may either bring him up to me, or ride away as fast as you can to the château of Beauté, and tell what has happened."
"I will do both, sir," said Martin Grille, with his head a good deal confused by fear. "That is to say, I will first bring him up to you, and then ride away. But I do see danger now. Hadn't you better get up again?"
Jean Charost walked on with a smile; but, after going some ten or fifteen paces, he slackened his speed, and, with a light step, turned in among the bushes, where there was a little sort of brake between two enormous old beech-trees. Martin Grille watched him as he advanced, and kept sight of him for some moments, while quietly and slowly he took his way forward in the direction of the smoke, which was still very plainly to be seen from the spot where the valet sat. It is not to be denied that Martin's heart beat very fast, and very unpleasantly, as much for his master as for himself perhaps; and certainly, as the dry twigs and bramble stalks made a thicker and a thicker sort of mist round Jean Charost's receding figure, the good man both gave him up for lost, and felt that he had conceived a greater affection for him than he had before imagined. He had a strong inclination, notwithstanding his fears, to get a little nearer, and was debating with himself whether he should do so or not, when all doubt and hesitation was put to an end by a loud shout, and a fierce volley of oaths from the wood. Nature would have her way; Martin Grille turned sharp round, struck his spurs into the horse's sides, and never stopped till he got to the gates of the château.
A party of armed men was instantly collected on his report, with good Monsieur Blaize at their head, without waiting to seek casque or corselet; and compelling Martin Grille, very unwillingly, to go with them, they hurried on in the direction he pointed out, over the hill, and down toward the verge of the wood. They had not reached it, however, when, to the surprise of all, they beheld Jean Charost walking quietly toward them, bearing something in his arms, and, on approaching nearer, they perceived, with greater astonishment than ever, that his burden was a young child, wrapped in somewhat costly swaddling-clothes.
Many, eager, and loud were the inquiries of the party who came to the rescue of Jean Charost, regarding his adventures since Martin had left him; but their curiosity was left unsatisfied. All he thought fit to tell them amounted merely to the facts that he had been surrounded and seized, before he was prepared to resist, by a party which appeared to consist of common robbers; that for some time his life had seemed in danger; and that, in the end, his captors, after having emptied his purse, had consented to let him go, on condition that he would carry away the child with him, and promise to take care of it for six years. He had been made to take an oath also, he stated, neither to pursue the party who had captured him, nor to give any description of their persons; and, notwithstanding the arguments of the duke's retainers, and especially of Monsieur Blaize, who sought to persuade him that an oath taken in duress was of no avail, he resolutely kept his word.
The oldécuyer; seemed mortified and displeased; but he did not hesitate long as to his own course; and, leaving the young secretary and Martin Grille to find their way back to the château of Beauté as they could, he dashed on into the wood with his companions, swearing that he would bring in the marauders, or know the reason why.
He was disappointed, however. The place where the captors of Jean Charost had been enjoying themselves was easily found by the embers of the fire round which they had sat; but they themselves were gone, leaving nothing but an empty leathern bottle and some broken meat behind them. The tracks of the horses' feet, too, could be traced for some distance; but, after they entered the little road through the wood, they became more indistinct amid other footprints and ruts, and, although Monsieur Blaize and his companions followed them, as they thought, to the village beyond, they could obtain no information from the peasantry. No one would admit that they had seen any one pass but Matthew So-and-so, the farmer; or the priest of the parish, on his mule; or the baillie, on his horse; or some laborers with wagons; and, after a two hours' search, the party of the duke's men returned to the castle, surly and disappointed, and resolved to spare no means of drawing all the particulars from Jean Charost.
In the mean time, the young secretary had returned to the little hamlet which had gathered round the foot of the château of Beauté, making Martin Grille, who was somewhat ashamed of the part he had acted in the morning's adventures, carry the infant in his arms--a task for which he was better fitted than Jean Charost himself; for, to say truth, he made no bad nurse, and one of his many good qualities was a great love for children. At the hamlet, Jean Charost paused, and went into one or two of the cottages inquiring for Angelina Moulinet; but he had to go down quite to the foot of the hill before he found the house of the person of whom he was in search. It was small, but much neater than most of the rest, and, on opening the door, he found a little scene of domestic happiness which pleased the eye. A young husband and wife, apparently tolerably well to do in life, were seated together with two children, the husband busily engaged in carving out a pair ofsabots, or wooden shoes, from an old stump of willow, and the wife spinning as fast as she could get her fingers to go. The boy was, of course, teazing a cat; the little girl, still younger, was crawling about upon her hands and knees, and rolling before her a great wooden ball, probably of her father's handiwork. The fire burned bright; every thing about the place was clean and comfortable; and the whole formed a pleasant scene of calm mediocrity and rural happiness, better than all the Arcadias that ever were dreamed of.
The wife rose up when the well-dressed young gentleman entered, and the husband inclined his head without leaving off his operations upon thesabot. But both looked a little surprised when Martin Grille followed his master into the cottage, carrying an infant in his arms, and Angelina Moulinet, with the kindly tact which never abandons a woman, put down her distaff and went to look at the baby, comprehending at once that some strange accident had brought it there, and willing to smooth the way for explanation.
"What a beautiful little girl!" she exclaimed "Come, Pierrot, look what a beautiful child!"
"Is it a little girl?" said Jean Charost, in perfect simplicity; "I am sure I did not know it."
"Lord bless me! sir," cried the good woman "don't you see?"
"All I see," replied Jean Charost, "is, that it is an infant which has accidentally been cast upon my hands; and I wish to know, Madame Moulinet, if you will take care of it for me?"
The young woman looked at her husband, and the husband gazed with some astonishment at Jean Charost, murmuring at length, though with evident deference to his better half, "I think we have enough of our own."
"I do not expect you to take charge of this child," said Jean Charost, "without proper payment. I will engage that you shall be well rewarded for your pains."
"But, sir, we do not know you," said the man; and his wife in the same breath inquired, "Pray, sir, who sent you to us?"
Jean Charost hesitated; and then taking the child from Martin Grille, told him to leave the cottage for a moment.
The good valet obeyed; but, being blessed with the faculty of other valets, he took up a position on the outside of the house which he fancied would enable him to use both his hearing and his sight. Neither served him much, however; for, though he saw good Angelina Moulinet take the child from Jean Charost's arms, and the latter bend down his head toward herself and her husband as they stood together, as if saying a few words to them in a low tone, not one of those words reached his ear through the cottage window. He could make nothing of the gestures, either, of any of the party. Angelina raised her eyes toward the sky, as if in some surprise; and Pierrot crossed his arms upon his chest, looking grave and thoughtful. The moment after, both were seen to speak quickly together, and the result of the consultation, if it was one, was made manifest by Jean Charost leaving the child with them and coming out of the cottage door.
"Now give me my horse," said the young gentleman; and then added, while Martin unfastened the bridle from the iron ring, "Remember this house, Martin; you will have to bring some money here for me to-night."
"I will not forget it, sir," replied Martin Grille; and then added, with a laugh, "and I will bring the money safely, which is more than many a varlet could say of himself;" but before the last words were uttered, his young master was in the saddle and on his way toward the château.
Under a sharp-pointed arch which formed the gateway, two or three of the duke's men were lounging about; and the moment Jean Charost appeared, one of them advanced to his horse's side, saying, "His highness has been inquiring for you, sir."
"Is it three of the clock yet?" asked Jean Charost, somewhat anxiously.
"Not two yet, sir," replied the man; and springing from his horse, the young secretary hurried on toward the apartments of the duke. He was admitted instantly, and found his princely master seated in a chair, dressed in a light-furred dressing-gown, and sadly changed in appearance, even since the preceding day. His face was very pale, his eye heavy, and his lips parched; but still he smiled with a good-humored, though not gay expression of countenance, saying, "I hope they have not recalled you from any amusement, De Brecy; for I did not think I should want you till three. But I feel ill, my friend, and there are very busy thoughts in my mind."
He paused for a moment or two, looking down thoughtfully on the table, and then added, slowly, "When the brain is full--perhaps the heart too--of these eager, active, tireless emmets of the mind, called thoughts, we are glad to drive some of them forth. Alas! De Brecy, how rarely does a prince find any one to share them with!"
He paused again, and Jean Charost did not venture a reply. He would have fain said, "Share them with me;" but he felt that it would be presumptuous, and he remained silent till the duke at length went on. "You are different from the rest of the people about me, De Brecy; from any one I have ever had--unhackneyed in the world--not ground down to nothing by the polishing of a court. There is something new and fresh about you; somewhat like what I once was myself. Now, what am I? By starts a wise man, by starts a fool."
"Oh no, my prince," cried Jean Charost, "I can not believe that. 'Tis but temptation leads you for a moment from the path of wisdom; the sickness, as it were, of an hour. But the life is healthy; the heart is sound."
The prince smiled, but went on, apparently pursuing the course of his own thoughts. "To know what is right--to do what is wrong--to feel a strong desire for good, and constantly to fall into evil, surely this is folly; surely it is a life of folly--surely it is worse than if one did not know what ought to be, as a blind man can not be charged with stupidity for running against a wall, which any other would be an idiot not to avoid."
He looked up in the young secretary's face, and Jean Charost, encouraged by his tone, ventured to reply, "It wants but a strong will, sir. You have a strong will against your enemies, I know; why not have a strong will against yourself?"
"I have, De Brecy--I have," replied the duke. "But my strong will against myself is just like my strong will against my enemies--very potent for the time, but easily mollified; a peace is proposed--favorable terms of compromise offered, and lo! I and myself are friends again, and all our mutual offenses forgiven."
He spoke with a smile, for the figure amused his fancy; but the next instant he started up, saying, "It is time that this should come to an end. My will is now powerful, and my future course shall be different. I will take my resolutions firmly--I will shape my course--I will lay it down in writing, as if on a map, and then very shame will prevent my deviating. Sit down. De Brecy, sit down, and write what I shall dictate." Jean Charost seated himself, took some paper which was upon the table, and dipped a pen in the ink, while the duke stood by his side in such a position that he could see the sheet under his secretary's hand, on which he gazed for a minute or two with a thoughtful, half-absent look. The young man expected him every moment to begin the dictation of the resolutions which he had formed; but at length the duke said, in an altered tone, "No need of that; it would show a doubt of myself, of which I trust there is none. No, no; true resolution needs not fetters. I have resolved enough; I will begin to act. Give me that fur cloak, De Brecy, and go and see if the picture-gallery be warmed. Tell one of the varlets at the door to pile logs enough upon the fire, and to wait there. Then return to me."
Without reply, Jean Charost quitted the room, and told one of the two attendants who were seated without to show him the way to the picture-gallery--an apartment he had never yet heard of. The man led him on along the corridor, to a door at no great distance, which he opened; and Jean Charost, the moment after, found himself in a long, narrow sort of hall, extending across the whole width of the building, and lighted from both ends. It was divided into three separate portions, by columns on either side, and the walls between were covered with pictures nearly to the top. To our eyes these paintings might seem poor and crude; but to the eyes of Jean Charost they were, like those which he had seen at the Hôtel d'Orleans, in Paris, perfect marvels of art. Before he paused to examine any of them, he ordered more wood to be thrown upon the fire, which was burning faintly in the great fire-place in the centre; and while the attendant had gone to bring the wood from a locker, he walked slowly toward the western end of the gallery, where, upon a little strip of white silk, suspended between the two columns, appeared in large letters the word "AMORI." On entering that portion of the gallery, he was not at all surprised, after reading the inscription, to find that it contained nothing but portraits of women. All seemed very beautiful; and though the faces were all strange to him, he had no difficulty in recognizing many of the persons whom the portraits were intended to represent, for the names, in most instances, were inscribed in large letters on the frame.
A general look around filled him with astonishment, and a sort of consternation at the daring levity which had gathered together, under so meaning an inscription, the portraits of some of the most celebrated ladies in France. But he did not pause long, for the fire was soon arranged and kindled into a blaze; and he returned, as he had been directed, to the chamber of the duke.
"Now," said the prince, as he entered, "is all ready?"
"It is, sir," answered Jean Charost; "but the air is still chilly, and, in truth, your highness does not look well. Were it not better to pause for awhile?"
"No, no," replied the Duke of Orleans, quickly, but not sharply; "let us go at once, my friend. I will put such a seal upon my resolutions, that neither I nor the world shall ever forget them."
He drew the fur cloak tighter round him, and walked out of the room, leaning heavily on the young secretary's arm. As he passed, he bade both the men at the chamber-door follow; and then walking into the gallery, he turned directly to that portion of it which Jean Charost had examined. There, seating himself in a chair near the centre of the room, while the two servants stood at a little distance behind, he pointed to a picture in the extreme southwestern corner, and bade Jean Charost bring it to him. It was the picture of a girl quite young, less beautiful than many of the others, indeed, but with the peculiar beauty of youth; and when the Duke of Orleans had got it, he let the edge of the frame rest upon his knee for a moment or two, and gazed upon the face in silence.
Jean Charost would have given a great deal to be able to see the duke's heart at that moment, and to trace there the emotions to which the contemplation of that picture gave rise. A smile, tender and melancholy, rested upon the prince's face; but the melancholy deepened into heavy gloom as he continued to gaze, and the smile rapidly departed.
"I might spare this one," he said. "Poor thing! I might spare this one. The grave has no jealousies--" He gazed again for a single instant, and then said, "No, no--all--all. Here, take it, and put it in the fire."
Turning his head, he had spoken to one of the attendants; but the man seemed so utterly confounded by the order, that he repeated the words, "On the fire?" as he received the picture from the prince's hands.
"Yes--on the fire," said the duke, slowly and sternly; and then pointing to another, he added, "Give me that."
Jean Charost brought it to him, when it met with the same fate, but with less consideration than the other. Another and another succeeded; but at length a larger one than the rest was pointed out by the duke, and the young secretary paused for an instant before it, utterly confounded as he read beneath the name of the Duchess of Burgundy. It fared no better than the rest, and another still was added to the flames. But then the duke paused, saying, "I am ill, my friend--I am ill. I can not go on with this. I leave the task to you. Stay here with these men, and see that every one of the pictures in this room, as far as yonder two columns on either side, be burned before nightfall, with one exception. I look to you to see the execution of an act which, if I die, will wipe out a sad stain from my memory. You hear what I say," he continued, turning to the two attendants; and was then walking toward the centre door of the gallery, when Jean Charost said, "Your highness mentioned one exception, but you did not point it out."
The duke laid his hand upon his arm, led him to the side of the room, and pointed to a picture nearly in the centre, merely uttering the word "That!"
On the frame was inscribed the words, "Valentine, Duchess of Orleans;" and, after having gazed at it for a moment in silence, the prince turned and quitted the room.
When he was gone, Jean Charost remained for a few minutes without taking any steps to obey his command. The two men stood likewise, with their arms crossed, in a revery nearly as grave as that of the young secretary; but their thoughts were very different from his. He comprehended, in a degree, the motives upon which the prince acted, and felt how strong and vigorous must be the resolution, and yet how painful the feelings which had prompted the order he had given. Nay more, his fancy shadowed forth a thousand accessories--a thousand associations, which must have hung round, and connected themselves with that strong act of determination which his royal master had just performed--sweet memories, better feelings, young hopes, ardent passions, kindly sympathies, wayward caprices, volatile forgetfulness, sorrow, regret, and mourning, and remorse. A light, as from imagination, played round the portraits as he gazed upon them. The spirits of the dead, of the neglected, of the forgotten, seemed to animate the features on the wall, and he could not but feel a sort of painful regret that, however guilty, however vain, however foolish might be the passion which caused those speaking effigies to be ranged around, he should have been selected to consign them to that destroying element which might devour the picture, but could not obliterate the sin.
At length he started from his revery, and began the appointed work, the men obeying habitually the orders they received, although doubts existed in their minds whether the prince was not suffering from temporary insanity in commanding the destruction of objects which they looked upon only as rare treasures, without the slightest conception of the associations which so often in this world render those things most estimable in the eyes of others, sad, painful, or perilous to the possessor.
In about an hour all was completed; and I am not certain that what I may call the experience of that hour--the thoughts, the sensations, the fancies of Jean Charost--had not added more than one year to his mental life. Certain it is, that with a stronger and a more manly step, and with even additional earnestness of character, he walked back to the apartments of the duke, and knocked for admission. A voice, but not that of the prince, told him to come in, after a moment's delay, and he found the maître d'hôtel in conference with his master.
"Come in, De Brecy," said the duke. "Leave us, Lomelini. You are his good friend, I know. But I have to speak with him on my own affairs, not on his. With them I have naught to do, and it were well for others not to meddle either. So let them understand."
The maître d'hôtel retired, bowing low; and, after remaining a moment or two in thought, the duke raised his eyes to the young secretary's face, saying, in a somewhat languid tone, "Were you ever in this part of the country before, De Brecy?"
"Never, your highness," replied Jean Charost.
"You have met with an adventure in the wood, I hear," said the duke, "and did not tell me of it."
"I did not think it right to intrude such subjects on your highness," answered the young man. "Had there been any thing to lead to it, I should have told you at once."
"Well, well," said the duke, "you shall tell me hereafter;" and then he added, somewhat irritably, "they have broken through my thoughts with these tales. I want you to do me a service."
"Your highness has but to command," said Jean Charost.
"I am ill, De Brecy," said the duke. "I feel more so than I ever did before; indeed, I have been rarely ill, and, perhaps--But that matters not. Whatever be the cause, I have a strange feeling upon me, a sort of presentiment that my life will not be very long extended. You heard the announcement that was made to me by man or shadow--I know not, and care not what--in the convent of the Celestins. But it is not that which has produced this impression, for I had forgotten it within an hour; but I feel ill; and I see not why there should not be influences in external and invisible things which, speaking to the ear of the soul, without a voice, announce the approach of great changes in our state of being, and warn us to prepare. However that may be, the feeling is strong upon me. I have ordered an imperial notary to be sent for, in order that I may make my will. In it I will show the world how I can treat my enemies--and my friends also; for I may show my forgetfulness of the injuries of the one, without failing in my gratitude to the other."
He leaned his head upon his hand for a moment or two, and then added, "I long earnestly to see my wife. Yet from causes that matter not to mention, I do not wish to send her a long letter, telling her of my state and of my feelings. I have, therefore, written a few lines, merely saying I am indisposed here at Beauté. I know that they will induce her to set out immediately from Blois, where she now is, and it must be the task of the messenger to prepare her mind for the changes that shemust, and the changes that she may find here. Do you understand me?"
"I think I do, sir," replied Jean Charost, "fully."
"I should wish him, also," said the duke, "in case my own lips should not be able to speak the words, to tell her, that whatever may have been my faults, however passion, or vanity, or folly may have misled me, I have ever retained a deep and affectionate regard for her virtues, her tenderness, and her gentleness. I could say more--much more--I will say more if ever I behold her again. But let her be assured that my last prayer shall be to call down the blessing of God upon her head, and entreat his protection for her and for our children."
While he spoke, he continued to hold a sealed letter in his hand, and gazed at Jean Charost very earnestly. Nevertheless, he seemed to hesitate, and when he paused, he looked down upon the paper, turning it round and round, without speaking, for several minutes. Then, however, as if he had decided at length, he looked up suddenly, saying, "There is none I can send but Lomelini or yourself. Joigni is a rough brute, though bold and honest. Blaize has no heart, and very little understanding. Monluc would frighten her to death; for were he to see me now, he would think me dead already. There is none but you or Lomelini then. In some respects, it were better to send him. He is of mature age, of much experience, accurate and skillful in his dealings and passably honest; not without heart either, affectionately attached to her, as well he may be, brought up and promoted by her father; but there is in him a world of Italian cunning, a great deal of cowardly timidity, and an all-absorbing, sense of his own interests, the action of which we can never altogether count upon. Besides, she loves him not. I know it--I am sure of it, although she is too gentle to complain. He came hither as her servant. He found it more for his interest to be mine. She can not love him. But enough of that. I have conceived a regard for you, De Brecy, and you will find proofs of it. It is not a small one that I send you on this mission. There is something in the freshness of your character and in the frankness of your nature which will win confidence, and I wish you to set off at once for Blois. Bear this letter to the duchess, tell her in what state I am--but kindly, gently--and accompany her back hither. What men will you want with you? The country is somewhat disturbed, but I do not think there is much danger."
"One who knows the way will suffice, my lord," replied De Brecy. "A small party may pass more easily than a large one. I will only beg a stout horse from your highness's stables, which my man can lead, and which may both carry what we need by the way, and serve me in case of any accident to my own. I will undertake to deliver the letter, if I live to the end of the journey."
"Perhaps you are right in choosing small attendance," said the duke. "I will send you a stout fellow to accompany you, who knows every rood of the road. He is but a courier, but he makes no bad man-at-arms in case of need; and, though I would not have you go fully armed, I think it were as well if you wore asecret; beneath your ordinary dress."
"I have no arms of any kind with me but my sword and dagger, sir," replied Jean Charost, "and I do not think I shall need more."
"Yes--yes, you may," replied the duke. "Stay; I will write a word to Lomelini. He will procure you all that is needful;" and, drawing some paper toward him, the duke wrote, with a hand which shook a good deal, the following words: "Signor Lomelini, put Armand Chauvin under the orders of Monsieur De Brecy upon a journey which he has to take for me. Command the armorer to furnish him with what ever arms he may require, and the chiefécuyer; to let him take from the stable what horses he may select, with the exception of gray Clisson, the Arab jennet, my own hackney, and my threedestriers.Orleans."
"There," said the duke, "there. Here is an order on the treasurer, too, for your expenses; and now, when will you set out?"
"In an hour," replied Jean Charost.
"Can you get ready so soon?" the prince inquired.
"I think so, your highness," replied the young secretary. "I shall be ready myself, if the two men are prepared."
"So be it, then," said the Duke of Orleans. "I will go lie down on my bed again, for I am weary in heart and limb."