No season is without its beauty, no scene without its peculiar interest. If the great mountain, with its stony peak shooting up into the sky, has sublimity of one kind, the wide expanse of open country, moor, or heath, or desert, with its limitless horizon and many-shaded lines, has it of another. To an eye and a heart alive to the impressions of the beautiful and the grand, something to charm and to elevate will be found in almost every aspect of nature. The storm and the tempest, as well as the sunshine and the calm, will afford some sources of pleasure; and, as the fading away of the green leaf in the autumn enchants the eye by the resplendent coloring produced, decay will be found to decorate, and ruin to embellish.
Take a winter scene, for instance, with the whole country covered with a white mantle of the snow, the trees and the forests raising themselves up brown and dim, the masses of dark pines and firs standing out almost black upon the light ground from which they rise, and the view extending far over a nearly level country, with here and there a rounded hill rising detached and abruptly from the plain, perhaps unbroken in its monotonous line, perhaps crowned by the sharp angles and hard lines of fortress or town. The description does not seem very inviting. But let us show how this scene varied during the course of the evening, as three travelers rode along at a quick pace, although their horses seemed somewhat tired, and the distance they had journeyed had undoubtedly been considerable. Toward three o'clock a heavy, gray cloud, apparently portending more snow, stretched over the greater part of the sky, cutting off the arch of the concave, and seeming like a flat canopy spread overhead. To the southwest the heavens remained clear, and there the pall of cloud was fringed with gold, while from underneath streamed the horizontal light, catching upon and brightening the slopes, and throwing the dells into deeper shadow. The abrupt hills looked blue and grand, and raised their heads as if to support the heavy mass of gray above. Gradually, as the sun descended lower, that line of open sky became of a brighter and a brighter yellow. The dun canopy parted into masses, checkering the heavens with black and gold. The same warm hues spread over every eminence, and, as the sun descended further still, a rosy light, glowing brighter and brighter every instant, touched the snowy summits of the hills, flooded the plain, and seeking out in all its sinuosities the course of the ice-covered river, flashed back from the glassy surface as if a multitude of rubies had been scattered across the scene, while the gray wood, which fringed the distant sky, blazed, with a ruddy brightness pouring through the straggling branches, as if a vast fire were kindled on the plains beyond.
It was the last effort of the beauty-giving day, and all those three travelers felt and enjoyed it in their several ways. The sun went down; the hills grew dark and blue; every eminence, and even wave of the ground, appeared to rise higher to the eye; the grayness of twilight spread over all the scene; but still, upon the verge of the sky, lingered the yellow light for full half an hour after day was actually done. Then, through the broken cloud, gleamed out the lustrous stars, like the brighter and the better hopes that come sparkling from on high after the sunshine of this life is done, and when the clouds and vapors of the earth are scattering away.
Still the three rode on. An hour before, there had been visible on the distant edge of the sky a tall tower like that of a cathedral, and one or two spires and steeples scattered round. It told them that a town was in that direction--the town to which they were bending their steps; but all was darkness now, and they saw it no more. The road was fair, however, and well tracked: and though it had been intensely cold during the greater part of the day, the evening had become somewhat milder, as if a thaw were coming on. A light mist rose up from the ground as they entered the wood, not sufficient to obscure the way, but merely to throw a softening indistinctness over objects at any distance, and, as they issued forth from among the larger trees, upon a piece of swampy ground, covered with stunted willows, Jean Charost, for he was at the head of the party, fancied he saw a light moving along at some little distance on the left.
"There is some one with a lantern," he said, turning to a stout man who was riding beside him.
"Feu follet," replied the other. "We must not follow that, my lord, or we shall be up to our neck in a quagmire."
"Why, such exhalations are not common at this time of year, Chauvin," replied the young man.
"Exhalations or no exhalations," rejoined the other, "they come at all times, to mislead poor travelers. All I know is, that the short road to Pithiviers turns off a quarter of a league further on."
"Exhalations!" said Martin Grille; "I never heard them called that name before. Malignant spirits, I have always heard say, who have lured many a man and horse to their death. Don't follow it, sir; pray, don't follow it. That would be worse than the baby business."
Jean Charost laughed, as he replied, "I shall only follow the guidance of Monsieur Chauvin here. He will lead me better than any lantern. But it certainly does seem to me that the light moves on by our side. It can not be more than two or three hundred yards distance either."
"That's their trick, sir," said Chauvin. "They always move on, and seem quite near; but if you hunted them, you would never come up with them, I can tell you. I did so once when I was a boy, and well-nigh got drowned for my pains. Hark! I thought I heard some one calling. That's a new trick these devils have got, I suppose, in our bad times."
All pulled up their horses and listened; but heard nothing more, and rode on again, till, just as they were beginning to ascend a little rise where the snow had been drifted off the road, and the horses' hoofs rang clear upon the hard ground, a loud shout was heard upon the left.
"Halloo, halloo! who goes there?" cried a I voice some fifty or sixty yards distant. "Give us some help here. We have got into a quagmire, and know not which way to turn."
"For Heaven's sake, don't go, sir," cried Martin Grille. "It's a new trick of the devil, depend upon it, as Monsieur Chauvin says."
"Pooh, nonsense," replied Jean Charost; and then raising his voice, he cried, "Who is it that calls?"
"What signifies that," cried a stern voice.
"If you are Christians, come and help us. If you are not, jog on your way, and the devil seize you."
"Well, call again as we come, to guide us to you," said Jean Charost, "for there is no need of us getting into the quagmire too."
"Let me go first, sir, and sound the way," said the courier.
"Halloo, halloo!" cried two or three voices, as a signal; and, following the sound, Jean Charost and the courier, with Martin Grille a good way behind, proceeded slowly and cautiously toward the party of unfortunate travelers, till at length they could descry something like a group of men and horses among the willows, about twenty yards distant. It is true, some of the horses seemed to have no legs, or to be lying down, and one man dismounted, holding hard by a willow.
"Keep up, keep up--we are coming to you," replied Jean Charost. "It is firm enough here, if you could but reach us."
The guide, who was in advance, suddenly cried, "Halt, there!" and, at the same moment, his horse's fore feet began to sink in the ground.
"Here, catch my rein, Chauvin," cried the young secretary, springing to the ground; "I think I see a way to them."
"Take care, sir--take care," cried the courier.
"No fear," answered Jean Charost; "from tree to tree must give one footing. There are some old roots, too, rising above the level. Stay there, Chauvin, to guide us back." Proceeding cautiously, trying the firmness of every step, and sometimes springing from tree to tree, he came within about six feet of the man whom he had seen dismounted, and, calling to him to give him his hand, he leaned forward as far as he could, holding firmly the osier near which he stood with his left arm. But neither that personage nor his companions were willing to leave their horses behind them, and it was a matter of much more difficulty to extricate the beasts than the men; for some of them had sunk deep in the marsh, and seemed to have neither power nor inclination to struggle. Nearly an hour was expended in efforts, some fruitless and others successful, to get the animals out; but at length they were all rescued, and Jean Charost found his little party increased by six cavaliers, in a somewhat woeful plight.
The man whom he had first rescued, and who seemed the principal personage of the troop, thanked him warmly for his assistance, but in a short, sharp, self-sufficient tone which was not altogether the most agreeable.
"Where are you going, young man?" he said, at length, as they were remounting their horses.
"To Pithiviers," answered Jean Charost, as laconically.
"Then we will go with you," replied the other; "and you shall guide us; for that is our destination too."
"That will depend upon whether your horses can keep up with mine," replied Jean Charost; "for I have spent more time here than I can well spare."
"We will see," replied the other, with a laugh; "you have rendered us one service, we will try if you can render us another, and then thank you for both at the end of our journey."
"Very well," replied Jean Charost, and rode on.
The other kept by his side, however; for the tall and powerful horse which bore him seemed none the worse for the accident which had happened. Armand Chauvin and Martin Grille followed close upon their young leader, and the other five strangers brought up the rear.
The rest of the journey, of well-nigh two leagues, passed without accident, and the two foremost horsemen were gradually led into something like a general conversation, in which Jean Charost's new companion, though he could not be said to make himself agreeable, showed a great knowledge of the world, of life, of courts, of foreign countries; and displayed a somewhat rough but keen and trenchant wit, which led his young fellow-traveler to the conclusion that he was no common man. The last two miles of the journey were passed by moonlight, and Jean Charost had now an opportunity of distinguishing the personal appearance of his companion, which perhaps was more prepossessing than his speech. He was a man of the middle age, not very tall, but exceedingly broad across the chest and shoulders; and his face, without being handsome, had something fine and commanding in it. He rode his horse with more power than grace, managing him with an ease that seemed to leave the creature no will of his own, and every movement, indeed, displayed extraordinary personal vigor, joined with some dignity. His dress seemed rich and costly, though the colors were not easily distinguished. But the short mantle, with the long, furred sleeves, hanging down almost to his horse's belly, betokened at once, to a Frenchman of those days, the man of high degree.
Although the young secretary examined him certainly very closely, he did not return the scrutiny, but merely gave him a casual glance, as the moonlight fell upon him, and then continued his conversation till they entered the town of Pithiviers.
"To what inn do we go, Chauvin?" asked Jean Charost, as they passed in among the houses; but, before the other could answer, the stranger exclaimed, "Never mind--you shall come to my inn. I will entertain you--for to-night, at least. Indeed," he added, "there is but one inn in the place worthy of the name, and my people are in possession of it. We will find room for you and your men, however; and you shall sup with me--if you be noble, as I suppose."
"I am, sir," replied Jean Charost, and followed where the other led.
As they were entering the principal street, which was quiet and still enough, the stranger pulled up his horse, called up one of his followers, and spoke to him in a language which Jean Charost did not understand. Then turning to the young gentleman, he said, "Let us dismount. Here is a shorter way to the inn, on foot. Your men can go on with mine."
Jean Charost hesitated; but, unwilling to show doubt, he sprang from his horse's back, after a moment's consideration, gave the rein to Martin Grille, and walked on with his companion up a very narrow street, which seemed to lead round the back of the buildings before which they had just been passing.
The stranger walked slowly, and, as they advanced, he said, "May I know your name, young gentleman?"
"Jean Charost de Brecy," replied the duke's secretary; and, though he had a strong inclination, he refrained from asking the name of his companion in return. There was a something, he could not well tell what, that inspired respect about the stranger--a reverence without love; and the young secretary did not venture to ask any questions. A few moments after, a small house presented itself, built of stone, it is true, whereas the others had been mainly composed of wood; but still it was far too small and mean in appearance to accord with the idea which Jean Charost had formed of the principalauberge; of the good town of Pithiviers. At the door of this house, however, the elder gentleman stopped, as if about to enter. The door was opened almost at the same moment, as if on a preconcerted plan, and a man appeared with a torch in his hand.
Jean Charost hesitated, and held back; but the other turned, after ascending the three steps which led to the door, and looked back, saying, "Come in--what are you afraid of?"
The least suspicion of fear has a great influence upon youth at all times, and Jean Charost was by no means without the failings of youth, although early misfortune and early experience had rendered him, as I have before said, older than his years.
"I am not afraid of any thing," he replied, following the stranger. "But this does not look like an inn."
"It is the back way," replied the other; "and you will soon find that it is the inn."
Thus saying, he walked through a narrow passage which soon led into a large court-yard, the man with the torch going before, and displaying by the light he carried a multitude of objects, which showed the young secretary that his companion had spoken nothing but the truth, and that they were, indeed, in the court-yard of one of those large and very handsomeauberges--very different from thecabarets, thegites, andrepues, all inns of different classes at that time in France.
Two or three times as they went, different men, some in the garb of the retainers of a noble house dressed in gaudy colors, some in the common habiliments of the attendants of an inn, came from different parts of the court toward the man who carried the torch; but as often, a slight movement of his hand caused them to fall back again from the path of those whom he was lighting.
Right in front was a great entrance door, and a large passage from which a blaze of light streamed forth, showing a great number of people coming and going within; but to the left was a flight of half a dozen stone steps leading to a smaller door, now closed. To it the torch-bearer advanced, opened it, and then drew back reverently to let those who followed pass in. A single man, with a cap and plume, appeared within, at a little distance on the left, who opened the door of a small room, into which the stranger entered, followed by his young companion. Jean Charost gave a rapid glance at the man who opened the door, whose dress was now as visible as it would have been in daylight, and perceived, embroidered in letters of gold upon his cap, just beneath the feather, the words "Ich houd." They puzzled him; for though he did not remember their meaning, he had some recollection of having heard that they formed the motto, or rallying words, of some great man or some great faction.
The stranger advanced quietly to a chair, seated himself, turned to the person at the door who had given him admittance, and merely pronounced the word "Supper."
"For how--" said the attendant, in an inquiring tone, and it is probable that he was about to add the word "many," with some title of reverence or respect, but the other stopped him at once, saying, "For two--speak with Monsieur D'Ipres, and take his orders. See that they be obeyed exactly."
Then turning to Jean Charost, he said, in a good-humored tone, "Sit, sit, my young friend. And now let me give you thanks. You rendered me a considerable service--not, perhaps, that it was as great as you imagine; for I should have got out somehow. These adventures always come to an end, and I have been in worse quagmires of various kinds than that; but you rendered me a considerable service, and, what is more to the purpose, you did it boldly, skillfully, and promptly. You pleased me, and during supper you shall tell me more about yourself. Perhaps I may serve you."
"I think not, sir," replied Jean Charost; "for I desire no change in my condition at the present moment. As to myself, all that I have to say--all, indeed, that I intend to say, is, that my name, as I told you, is Jean Charost, Seigneur De Brecy; that my father fought and died in the service of his country; and that I am his only child; but still most happy to have rendered you any service, however inconsiderable."
The other listened in profound silence, with his eyes bent upon the table, and without the slightest variation of expression crossing his countenance.
"You talk well, young gentleman," he said, "and are discreet, I see. Do you happen to guess to whom you are speaking?"
"Not in the least," replied Jean Charost. "I can easily judge, sir, indeed, that I am speaking to no ordinary man--to one accustomed to command and be obeyed; who may be offended, perhaps, at my plain dealing, and think it want of reverence for his person that I speak not more frankly. Such, however, is not the case, and assuredly I can in no degree divine who you are. You may be the King of Sicily, who, I have been told, is traveling in this direction. The Duke de Berri, I know you are not; for I have seen him very lately. I am inclined to think, from the description of his person, however, that you may be the Count of St. Paul."
The other smiled, gravely, and then replied, "The first ten steps you take from this door after supper, you will know; for the greatest folly any man commits, is to believe that a secret will be kept which is known to more than one person. But for the next hour we will forget all such things. Make yourself at ease: frankness never displeases me: discretion, even against myself, always pleases me. Now let us talk of other matters. I have gained an appetite, by-the-way, and am wondering what they will give me for supper. I will bet you a link of this gold chain against that little ring upon your finger, that we have lark pies, and wine of Gatinois; for, on my life and soul, I know nothing else that Pithiviers is famous for--except blankets; odds, my life, I forgot blankets, and this is not weather to forget them. Prythee, throw a log on the fire, boy, and let us make ourselves as warm as two old Flemish women on Martinmas eve. But here comes the supper."
He was not right, however. It was the same attendant whom Jean Charost had before seen, that now returned and whispered a word or two in his lord's ear.
"Ha!" said the stranger, starting up "Who is with her? Our good friend?"
"No," replied the other. "He has gone on, for a couple of days, to Blois, and she has no one with her but a young lady and the varletry."
"Beseech her to come in and partake our humble meal," cried the other, in a gay tone. "Tell her I have a young guest to sup with me, who will entertain her young companion while I do mydevoir; toward herself. But tell her we lay aside state, and that she condescends to sup with plain John of Valois. Ah, my young friend! you have it now, have you?" he continued, looking shrewdly at Jean Charost, who had fallen into a fit of thought. "Well--well, let no knowledge spoil merriment. We will be gay to-night, whatever comes to-morrow."
Almost as he spoke, the door was again thrown open, and fair Madame De Giac entered, followed by the young girl whom Jean Charost had seen at Juvisy.
Two servants, one an elderly, grave, and silent personage, with the air of knowing much and saying little, which is the proper characteristic of experienced serving-men; the other a sharp, acute young varleton, with eyes full of meaning and fun, which seemed to read a running commentary upon all he heard and saw, waited upon the guests at supper. With simple good sense Jean Charost took things as he found them, without inquiring into matters which did not immediately affect himself. Whatever rank and station he might mentally assign to his entertainer, he merely treated him according to the station he had assigned himself, with perfect politeness and respect, but with none of the subservient civility of a courtier.
Madame De Giac, upon her part, taking the hint which had been sent to her, at once cast off all restraint more completely than Jean Charost thought quite becoming, especially in the presence of her young companion. But she noticed him personally with a gay smile and a nod of the head, and he saw that she spoke in a whisper afterward with her entertainer. The young girl greeted him kindly, likewise, and the meal passed in gay and lively talk, not unseasoned with a fully sufficient quantity of wine. Now the wine of Gatinois has effects very like itself, of a light, sparkling, exhilarating kind, producing not easily any thing like drunkenness, but elevating gently and brightly, even in small portions. The effect is soon over, it is true; but the consequences are not so unpleasant as those of beverages of a more heady quality, and the high spirits generated are like the sparkling bubble on the cup, soon gone, leaving nothing but a tranquil calm behind them.
"How is our friend, Louis of Valois?" asked Madame De Giac, with a gay laugh, when the meal was nearly ended. "He was in unusual high spirits when we met you and him, Monsieur De Charost, at the Abbey of Juvisy."
"His spirits, madame, were like the cream upon your glass," replied Jean Charost; "too sparkling to last long. He has been very ill since."
"Ha!" said their entertainer, with a sudden start. "Ill! Has he been ill? Is he better?"
"I trust he is, sir," answered Jean Charost, somewhat dryly. "Better in some respects he certainly is."
There was a something--perhaps we might call it an instinct--which led the young gentleman to believe that tidings of the duke's illness would not be altogether disagreeable to the personage who sat opposite to him, and to say truth, he was unwilling to gratify him by any detailed account. The other seemed, however, not to interest himself very deeply in the matter; that topic was soon dropped; and Madame De Giac and the stranger continued talking together in an under tone, sometimes laughing gayly, sometimes conversing earnestly, but seeming almost to forget, in the freedom of their demeanor toward each other, the presence of the two younger people, who, made up the party of four.
Between Jean Charost and his fair companion the conversation, strange to say, was much graver than between their elders. It too, however, was carried on in a low tone, and, in fact, the party was thus completely divided into two for some time.
"I wish I were out of this companionship," said the fair Agnes, at length; "Madame De Giac is far too wise a woman for me. Experience of the world, I suppose, must come, but I would fain have it come piece by piece, and not wholesale."
"Do you think it so evil a thing, then?" asked Jean Charost.
"I do not know," answered the girl; "and we are often afraid of what we do not know. Did you ever plunge into a stream or a lake, and stand hesitating for a minute on the bank, wishing you could tell how cold the water would be? Well, it is so with me, standing on the brink of the world into which I am destined to plunge. I am quite sure the waters thereof will not be as warm as my own heart; but I would know how cold they are--enough merely to refresh, or enough to chill me."
We need not pursue the conversation on these themes further. The meal concluded, and the table was cleared. The entertainer said something in a low tone to his fair companion, and she answered with a coquettish air,
"Not yet--not yet. Find something to amuse us for another hour. Have you no fool--no jongleur--no minstrel--nothing to wile away the time?"
"Faith, I came badly provided," replied the other, "not knowing what happy fortune was prepared for me on the road. But I will see--I will see what can be done. The people will bring in comfits, surely, and I will ask what the town can afford."
A few minutes after, the servants returned, as he expected, with some dried fruits, and wine of a higher quality, and the stranger asked a question or two in a whisper, to which the other replied in the same tone.
"An astrologer!" rejoined the first; "an astrologer! That will do admirably. We will all have our fortunes told. Go for him quietly, and mind, betray no secrets. I hope every one here, as in duty bound, has the hour, and day, and minute of his birth by heart. Your godfathers and godmothers have failed sadly if they have neglected this essential point of information. For my own part, I have had my horoscope so often drawn, that if all the misfortunes befall me which have been prognosticated, I shall need to live to the age of Methuselah to get them all into one life, to say nothing of being killed five different times in five different manners."
Every one smiled, but none felt convinced that the speaker doubted the truth of the predictions at which he scoffed; for it was a habit in those times, as well as in most others, for men to pretend want of belief in that which they believe most firmly, and a trust in judicial astrology was almost as essential a point of faith as a reliance in any of the blessed Virgins which were then scattered through the various towns of Europe. No one denied that he was furnished with all the dates for having his destiny accurately read by the stars, and only one person present showed any reluctance to hear the words of destiny from the lips of the astrologer. Strange to say, that one was the gay, bold, dashing Madame De Giac, who seemed actually fearful of learning the secrets of the future. In all hollow hearts there are dark recesses, the treasured things of which are watched over with miserly fear, lest any eye should see them and drag them to the light.
She objected, in a sportive tone, indeed, but with a wandering and timid look, sometimes pettishly declaring that she positively would not consent to have all the misfortunes of life displayed before her ere their time, and sometimes laughingly asserting that her noble lord hated astrologers, and that, therefore, she was bound to have nothing to do with them.
The conduct of their entertainer, however, puzzled and surprised Jean Charost more than her reluctance. They were evidently friends of old date--perhaps something more; and during the whole evening he had been paying her every soft and tender attention with a gallantry somewhat too open and barefaced. Now, however, he first laughed and jested with her, insisting, in gay and lively tones, but with his eyes fixed upon her keenly, and almost sternly, and then ceased all tone of entreaty, and used very unlover-like words of command. A reddish spot came into his cheek too, and a dark frown upon his brow; and his last words were, as some steps sounded along the passage, "You must, and you shall," uttered in a low, hoarse voice, which seemed to come from the very depth of his chest.
The next instant, the attendant entered with a man dressed in a very peculiar manner. He was small, mean-looking, aged, and miserably thin, with a beard as white as snow, but eyebrows as black as ink. All the features were pinched and attenuated, and the shriveled skin pale and cadaverous; but the face was lighted up by a pair of quick, sharp, intensely black eyes, that ran like lightning over every object, and seemed to gain intelligence from all they saw. He wore a black gown, open in front, but tied round the middle by a silver cord. His feet were bare and sandaled, and on his head he had a wide black cap, from the right side of which fell a sort of scarf crossing the right shoulder, and passing under the girdle on the left hip. A small dagger in a silver sheath, a triangle, and a circle of the same metal, and an instrument consisting of a tube with a glass at either end--the germ of the future telescope--hung in loops from his belt, and with a large wallet, orescarcelle, completed his equipment.
On entering the room, the astrologer saluted no one, and moved not his bonnet from his head, but advanced calmly into the midst of the little circle with an air which gave dignity even to his small and insignificant figure, and, looking round from face to face, said, in a sweet but very piercing voice, "Here I am. What do you want with me?"
There was very little reverence in his tone, and Jean Charost's companion of the way replied, with an air of some haughtiness, "Sir wise man, you do not know us, or you would wait to hear our pleasure. You shall learn what we want with you very speedily, however."
"Pardon, your highness," replied the astrologer; "I know you all. But your men might show more reverence to science, and not drag me, like a culprit, from my studies, even at the command of John, duke of Burgundy."
"Ah! the fools have been prating," said the duke, with a laugh; but the astrologer answered quickly, "The stars have been prating, your highness, though your men have held their peace. Before you set foot in this town, I knew and told many persons that you would be here this day; that you would meet with an accident by the way, and be saved from it by the servant of an enemy. Ask, and satisfy yourself. There are people in this very house who heard me."
"The servant of an enemy!" repeated the Duke of Burgundy, thoughtfully, and rolling his eyes with a sort of suspicious glance toward Jean Charost. "The servant of an enemy! But never mind that; we have eaten salt together."
"I said not an enemy, but the servant of an enemy," rejoined the astrologer. "You and he best know whether I am right or not."
"I think not," replied Jean Charost. "The Duke of Orleans has given his hand to his highness of Burgundy, and he is not a man to play false with any one."
"Well spoken, good youth," answered the duke. "I believe you from my heart;" but still there was a frown upon his brow, and, as if to conceal what he felt, he turned again to the astrologer, bidding him commence his prediction.
"My lord the duke," replied the astrologer, "the hour and moment of your nativity are well known to me; but it is very useless repeating to you what others have told you before. Some little variation I might make by more or less accurate observation of the stars; but the variation could but be small, and why should I repeat to you unpleasant truths. You will triumph over most of your enemies and over many of your friends. You will be the arbiter of the fortunes of France, and affect the fate of England. You will make a great name, rather than a good one; and you will die a bloody death."
"That matters not," replied the duke. "Every brave man would rather fall on the field of battle than die lingering in a sick-chamber, like a hound in his kennel."
"I said not on the field of battle," answered the astrologer. "That I will not undertake to say, and from the signs I do not think it."
"Well, well, it skills not," answered the duke, impatiently. "It is enough that I shall survive my enemies."
"Not all of them," said the astrologer; "not all of them."
The duke waved his hand for him to stop; and, pointing to Madame De Giac, exclaimed, with a somewhat rude and discourteous laugh, "Here, tell this lady her destiny. She is frightened out of her wits at the thought of hearing it; but, by the Lord, I wish to hear it myself, for she has a strange art of linking the fate of other people to her own."
"She has, indeed," replied the astrologer.
"Methinks when she was born," said the duke, laughing, "Venus must have been in the house of Mars."
"Your highness does not understand the science," said the astrologer, dryly. "Madame, might I ask the date of your nativity?"
In a faltering tone, Madame De Giac gave him the particulars he required, and he then took some written tables from his wallet, and examined them attentively.
"It is a fortunate destiny," he said, "to be loved by many--to retain their love--to succeed in most undertakings. Madame, be satisfied, and ask no more."
"Oh, I ask nothing," replied Madame De Giac. "'Twas but to please the duke."
"But I must ask something," said the duke; and, drawing the astrologer somewhat aside, he whispered a question in his ear, while Madame De Giac's bright eyes fixed upon them eagerly.
To whatever was the duke's question, the astrologer replied, aloud, "As much as she possibly can," and the fair lady sank back in her chair with a look of relief, though the answer might possibly bear several meanings.
The duke's face was more cheerful, however, when he turned round; and, pointing to Madame De Giac's young companion, he said, "Come, let us have some happy prediction in her favor."
The astrologer gazed at her with a look of some interest, and so earnestly that the color rose in her cheek, and a certain fluttering grace of expression passed over her countenance, which made it look, for the first time, to the eyes of Jean Charost quite beautiful, foreshadowing what she was afterward to become. She made no hesitation, however, in telling the day, hour, and minute of her birth, and the astrologer consulted his tables again; but still paused in silence for a moment or two, though the Duke of Burgundy exclaimed more than once, "Speak--speak!"
"My science is either wrong," the astrologer said, at length, "or thine is, indeed, an extraordinary destiny. Till nineteen years have passed over thy head, all is quiet and peaceful. Then come some influences, not malign, but threatening. Some evil will befall thee which would be ruinous to others; but thy star triumphs still, and rises out of the clouds of the seventh house in conjunction with Mars, also in the ascendant. From that hour, too, the destiny of France is united with thine own. Mighty monarchs and great warriors shall bow before thee. Queens shall seek thy counsel, and even those thou hast wronged shall cling to thee for aid and for support."
"Oh, no--no," exclaimed Agnes, stretching forth her beautiful hands, with a look and attitude of exquisite grace. "I will wrong no one. Tell me not that I will wrong any one; it is not in my nature--can it be my destiny?"
"One wrong," replied the astrologer, "repaired by many a noble act. But I see more still. France shall have cause to bless thee. A comet--a fiery comet--shoots forth across the sky, portending evil; but thy star rules it, and the evil falls upon the enemies of France. The comet disappears in fire, and thy star still shines out in the ascendant, bright, and calm, and triumphant to the end. But the end comes too soon--alas! too soon."
"So be it," said the young girl, in a tranquil tone. "Life, I think, must be feeling. I would not outlive one joy, one power, one hope. So be it, I say. Death is not what I fear, but wrong. Oh, I will never commit a wrong."
"Then, pretty maid, you will be more than mortal," said the Duke of Burgundy; "for we all of us do wrong sometimes, and often are obliged to do so that great good may spring out of small evil."
Agnes was silent, and the astrologer turned to Jean Charost, who readily told him all he desired to know; for such was the general faith in judicial astrology at that time in France, that no man was left ignorant by his parents of the precise hour and minute of his birth, in order that the stars might be at any time consulted, in case of need.
The astrologer smiled kindly on him, but John of Burgundy asked, impatiently, "What say you, man of the stars, is this youth's fate any way connected with mine?"
"It is, prince," replied the astrologer. "It has been once; it shall be again. I find it written that he shall save you from some danger; that he shall suffer for your acts; that he shall be faithful to all who trust him; that he shall be present at your death; and try, but try in vain, to save you."
"Good!" said the duke, in a musing tone. "Good!" And then he added, in a lower voice, as if speaking to himself, "I will let him go, then."
The words reached Jean Charost's ears, and, for the first time, he comprehended that he had run some risk that night. Although somewhat inexperienced in the world, he was well aware that the caprices of princes, and of the favored of the earth, are not easy to be calculated; and he would have given a great deal to be out of that room, notwithstanding the pleasant evening he had spent therein. To show any thing like alarm or haste, however, he knew well might frustrate his own purpose; and, affecting as much ease as possible, he conversed with his young companion and the astrologer, while the Duke of Burgundy spoke a word or two in the usual low tone to Madame De Giac. What the treacherous woman suggested might be difficult to tell exactly, but only a few moments had elapsed when the elder attendant, who had before appeared, re-entered the room, saying, "This young gentleman's lackey is importunate to see him, and will take no denial."
Jean Charost instantly rose, saying, "It is time, then, that I should humbly take my leave, your highness. I knew not that it was so late."
"Nay, stay a while," said the Duke of Burgundy, with a very doubtful smile. "This bright lady tells me that you are an intimate of my fair cousin the Duke of Orleans, and that it is probable you go upon some occasion of his. Good faith! you must tell me before you depart whither you go, and for what purpose."
"Your highness will, I am sure, demand neither," replied Jean Charost. "Hospitality is a princely quality, but has its laws; and gratitude for small services well becomes the Duke of Burgundy far too much for him either to detain or to interrogate a humble servant of his cousin the Duke of Orleans. As for the lady's information, she makes a slight mistake. I am his highness's servant, not his intimate; and certainly her intimacy with him, if I may judge from all appearances, is greater than my own."
The Duke of Burgundy turned a quick and irritable glance upon Madame De Giac; but Jean Charost had made a great mistake. We never render ourselves any service by rendering a disservice to one whom another loves. It was a young man's error; but he well divined that the fair marchioness had prompted the duke to detain him, and thinking to alarm her by a hint of what he had seen at Juvisy, he had gone beyond the proper limit, and made a dangerous enemy.
After he had spoken, the young secretary took a step toward the door; but the Duke of Burgundy's voice was instantly heard saying, in a cold, stern, despotic tone, "Not so fast, young man. Stay where you are, if you please." Then putting his hand upon his brow, he remained musing for a moment, and said, still thoughtfully, "We must know your errand."
"From me, never, sir," replied Jean Charost.
"Boy, you are bold," thundered forth the duke, with his eyes flashing.
"I am so, your highness," replied Jean Charost, in a voice perfectly firm, but with a respectful manner, "because I stand in the presence of a prince bearing a high name. I know he has concluded treaties of friendship and alliance with my royal master of Orleans, and I am confident that he will never even think of forcing from his kinsman's servant one word regarding his due and honorable service. You have heard what this good man has said, that I am faithful to those I serve. Were I your servant, I would sacrifice my life sooner than reveal to any other your secrets committed to my charge; and though, in truth, my business now is very simple, yet, as I have no permission to reveal it, I will reveal it to no one; nor do I believe you will ask me. Such, I know, would be the conduct of the Duke of Orleans toward you; such, I am sure, will be your conduct toward him."
"Fool! You are no judge of the conduct of princes," replied the duke; and then, for a moment or two, he remained silent, gnawing his lip, with his brow knit, and his eyes cast down.
A low, sweet voice, close by Jean Charost, whispered timidly, "Do not enrage him. When too much crossed, he is furious."
"Well," said the duke, at length, "I will not force you, young man. Doubtless you are making a mystery where there is none; and by refusing to answer a very simple question, which any prince might ask of another's messenger--especially," he added, with a grim smile, "where there is such love as between my cousin of Orleans and myself--you have almost caused me to believe that there is some secret machination against me. Go your ways, however; and thank your good stars that sent you to help me out of the quagmire, or your ears might have been somewhat shorter before you left this room."
The young man's cheek glowed warmly, and his lips quivered; but the same sweet voice whispered, "Answer not. But leave not the town to-night. Conceal yourself somewhere till daylight. You will be followed if you go."
Jean Charost took no apparent notice; but bowing low to the Duke of Burgundy, who turned away his eyes with haughty coldness, and inclining his head to Madame De Giac, who looked full at him with her sweet, serpent smile, he quitted the room with a calm, firm step, and the attendant closed the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, the duke exclaimed, with a low, bitter laugh, "On my life! he lords it as if he were of the blood royal."
"Honesty is better than royal blood," said the astrologer.
"How now, charlatan!" cried the duke, turning fiercely upon him; but then, his thoughts flowing suddenly in a different direction, he gazed upon the young lady from beneath his bent brows, saying, "What was it you whispered to him, fair maid?"
"Simply to be cautious, and not to enrage your highness needlessly," replied Agnes, with the color slightly mounting in her cheek.
"By my faith, he needed such a caution," rejoined the prince; and then, turning to the astrologer, he asked, "What was it you said about his being present at my death?"
"I said, sir, that in years to come," the astrologer replied--"long years, I trust--that youth would be present at your death, and try to avert it."
Burgundy mused for a moment, and then muttered, with a low laugh, "Well, it may be so. But tell us, good man, what foundation have we for faith in your predictions? Are you a man of note among your tribe?"
"Of no great note, sir," answered the astrologer; "yet not altogether unknown, either. I was once astrologer to the city of Tours; but they offended me there, and I left them. I am, however, one of the astrologers of the court of France--have my appointment in due form, and have my salary of a hundred and twenty livres. This shows that I am no tyro in my art. But we trust not to any fame gained at the present. Our predictions extend over long years, and our renown is the sport of a thousand accidents. Men forget them ere they are verified, or connect not the accomplishment with the announcement. Often, very often too, we are passed from the earth, and our names hardly remembered, when the events we have prognosticated are fulfilled. I have told you the truth, however, and you will find it so. When you do, remember me."
"Well, well," said the duke, in his abrupt, impatient manner; and then turning to the attendant, he said, "Take him away. Bid Monsieur De Villon give him four crowns of gold. Tell Peter, and Godet, and Jaillou to get their horses ready. I have business for them. Then return to me. I shall rest early to-night, and would have the house kept quiet."
While the attendant conducted the astrologer from the room, the duke spoke, for a moment or two, in a low and familiar tone with Madame De Giac, and then, resuming his stateliness, bowed courteously to her, but somewhat coldly to her young companion, and, opening the door for them with his own hands, suffered them to pass out.