Human weaknesses and human follies, human vices and human crimes, are undoubtedly very excellent and beneficial things. It may seem paradoxical to say that the fact of one man cutting another man's throat, or of another ruining a friend's peace, robbing him of his fortune, or depriving him of his honor, can have any beneficial result whatsoever; or that the cunning, the selfishness, the credulity, the ignorance, the fanaticism, the prejudice, the vanity, the absurdity or the passion of the many millions who at various times have exhibited themselves with such appendages about them, should have conferred boons upon the whole or any part of society. And yet, dearly beloved reader, I am not at all sure that--considering man's nature as man's nature is and looking at society as I see it constituted around me--I am not at all sure, I say, that the very greatest crimes that ever were committed have not produced a greater sum of enjoyment and of what people vulgarly term happiness, than they have inflicted pain or discomfort--that is to say, as far as this world is concerned: I don't deal with another.
Not very fond am I of painting disagreeable pictures of human nature; but yet one can not shut one's eyes; and if it has been our misfortune to be in any spot or neighborhood where something very wicked has been perpetrated, the sums of pleasure and of pain produced are forced into the two scales, where we may weigh them both together, if we choose but to raise the balance. Take the worst case that ever was known: a murder which has deprived a happy family--four young children and an amiable wife--of a father and a husband--poor things, they must have suffered sadly, and the father not a little, while his brains were being knocked out. 'Tis a great amount of evil, doubtless. But now let us look at the other side of the account. While they are weeping, one near neighbor is telling the whole to another near neighbor, and both are in that high state of ecstasy which is called a terrible excitement. They are horrified, very true; but, say what they will, they are enjoying it exceedingly. It has stirred up for them the dull pond of life, and broken up the duckweed on the top. Nor is the enjoyment confined to them. Every man, woman, and child in the village has his share of it. Not only that, but wider and wider, through enlarging circles round, newspapers thrive on it, tea-tables delight in it, and multitudes rejoice in the "Barbarous Murder!" that has lately been committed. I say nothing of the lawyers, the constables, the magistrates, the coroner. I say nothing of the augmented gratuities to the one, or the increased importance of the other; of the thousands who grin and gape with delight at the execution; but I speak merely of the pleasure afforded to multitudes by the act itself, and the report thereof. Nor is this merely a circle spreading round on one plane, such as is produced by a stone dropped into the water, but it is an augmenting globe, the increment of which is infinite. The act of the criminal is chronicled for all time, affords enjoyment to remote posterity, and benefits a multitude of the unborn generation. The newspaper has it first; the romance writer takes it next; it is a subject for the poet--a field for the philosopher; and adds a leaf to the garland of the tragic dramatist.
What would the world have done if Macbeth had not murdered Duncan, or Œdipus had not done a great many things too disagreeable to mention?
This is a wicked world, undoubtedly; but, nevertheless, the most virtuous enjoy its wickedness very much, in some shape or another.
The above is my short excuse for deviating from my usual course, as I am about to do, and betraying, as I must, some of the little secret tricks of a science of great gravity practiced in former days by bearded men, but now fallen into the hands of old women and Egyptians.
Jean Charost, in issuing forth from the Duke of Burgundy's presence, found Martin Grille in a deplorable state of anxiety concerning him, and, to say the truth, not without cause. It was in vain, however, that the poor man endeavored to draw his young master into some secret corner to confer with him apart. The whole house was occupied by the attendants of the Duke of Burgundy or of Madame De Giac; and, although the young secretary felt some need of thought and counsel, he soon saw that the only plan open to him was to mount his horse as speedily as possible and quit the inn. Armand Chauvin, the courier orchevaucheur; of the Duke of Orleans, was sitting in the wide hall of the inn, with a pot of wine before him, apparently taking note of nothing, but, in reality, listening to and remarking every thing that passed; and toward him Jean Charost advanced, after having spoken a single word to Martin Grille.
"The horses must be rested by this time, Armand," said the young gentleman, aloud. "You had better get them ready, and let us go on."
"Certainly, sir," replied the man, rising at once; and then, quickly passing by the young gentleman, he added, in a whisper, "They are saddled and bridled; follow quick. The horseboys are paid."
Jean Charost paused for a moment, spoke a word or two, in a quiet tone, to Martin Grille, with the eyes of a dozen men, in all sorts of dresses, upon them, and then sauntered out to the door of the inn. The stable was soon reached, the horses soon mounted, and, in less than five minutes after he had quitted the presence of the Duke of Burgundy, Jean Charost was once more upon the road to Blois.
Twice the young gentleman looked back up the street in the clear moonlight. Nobody was seen following; but he could hear some loud calls, as if from the stables of the inn, and turning to the courier, he said, "I fear our horses are not in fit case to ride a race to-night."
"I think not, sir," replied the man, briefly. "We had better get out of the town, and then turn into a wood."
"I know a better plan than that," replied Martin Grille. "Let us turn down here by the back of the town, and take refuge in the house of the astrologer. He will give us refuge for the night, and the duke departs by sunrise to-morrow."
"Do you know him?" demanded Jean Charost. "I thought you had never been in Pithiviers before."
"Nor have I," replied the man. "But I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. He will give us lodging, I will answer for it--hide us in his cabinet of the spheres, among his other curiosities, and those who seek will seek for us in vain. But there is no time to be lost. Mine is the best plan, depend upon it."
"Perhaps it is," replied Jean Charost, turning his horse's head. "We might be overtaken ere we could reach any other place of concealment. My horse moves as if his joints were frozen. Come on, Monsieur Chauvin. Do you know the house, Martin?"
"Well, sir--right well," replied the valet. "Hark! I hear horses stamping;" and riding on, down a side street, he turned back to the east, passing along between the old decayed wall and the houses of the suburb.
Little was said as they rode, for every ear was on the alert to catch any sounds from the main street, lest, mayhap, their course should be traced, and they should be followed.
It is hardly possible for any one in the present day--at least for any dweller in the more civilized parts of earth, where order is the rule and disorder the exception--to form any correct idea of those times in France, when order was the exception, and disorder the rule; when no man set out upon a journey without being prepared for attack and defense; when the streets of a great city were in themselves perilous places; when one's own house might, indeed, be a castle, but required to be as carefully watched and guarded as a fortress, and when the life of every day was full of open and apparent danger--when, in short, there was no such thing as peace on earth, or good-will among men. Yet it is wonderful how calmly people bore it, how much they looked upon it as a matter of course, how much less anxiety or annoyance it occasioned them. Just as an undertaker becomes familiar with images of death, and strangely intimate with the corpses which he lays out and buries, jokes with his assistant in the awful presence of the dead, and takes his pot of beer, or glass of spirits, seated on the coffin, with the link of association entirely cut by habit, and no reference of the mind between his fate and the fate of him whom he inters; so men, by the effect of custom, went through hourly peril in those times, saw every sort of misery, sorrow, and injustice inflicted on others, and very often endured them themselves, merely as a matter of course, a part of the business of the day.
I do not, and I will not pretend, therefore, that Jean Charost felt half the annoyance or apprehension that any one of modern days would experience, could he be carried back some four or five centuries; but he did feel considerable anxiety, not so much lest his own throat should be cut, though that was quite within the probabilities of the case, as lest he should be seized, and the letters of the Duke of Orleans which he bore taken from him. That anxiety was considerably aggravated, as he rode along, by hearing a good deal of noise from the streets on the right, orders and directions delivered in loud tones, the jingle of arms, and the dull beat of horses' hoofs upon ground covered by hardened snow. For a moment or two it was doubtful whether the pursuers--if pursuers they were--would or would not discover that he had quitted the highway and follow on his track; but at length Armand Chauvin, who had hardly spoken a word, said, in a tone of some relief, "They have passed by the turning. They will have a long ride for their pains. Heaven bless them with a snow-shower, and freeze them to the saddle!"
"There's the house, sir," said Martin Grille, pointing to a building of considerable size, the back of which stood out toward the dilapidated wall somewhat beyond the rest, with a stone tower in the extreme rear, and a light burning in one of the windows.
"I should like to hear how you know, all about this place, Master Martin," replied his young master, "and whether you can assure me really a good reception."
"That I'll answer for--that I'll answer for," cried Martin Grille, gayly. "Oh, you men of battle and equitation can't do every thing. We people of peace and policy sometimes have our share in the affairs of life. This way, sir--this way. The back door into the court is the best. On my life! if I were to turn astrologer any where, it should be at Pithiviers. They nourish him gayly, don't they? Every man from sixty downward, and every woman from sixteen upward, must have their horoscope drawn three times a day, to keep our friend of the astrolabe in such style as this?"
As he spoke, he rode up to a pair of great wooden gates in the wall, and dismounting from his horse, pushed them open. Bending their heads a little, for the arch was not very high, Jean Charost and thechevaucheur; rode into a very handsome court-yard, surrounded on three sides by buildings, and having at one corner the tower which they had before observed. Martin Grille followed, carefully closed the gates, and fastened them with a wooden bar which lay near, to prevent any one obtaining as easy access as himself. Then advancing to a small back door, he knocked gently with his hand, and almost immediately a pretty servant girl appeared with a light.
"Ah, my pretty demoiselle! here I am again, and have brought this noble young gentleman to consult the learned doctor," said Martin Grille, as soon as he saw her. "Is he at home now?"
"No, kind sir," answered the girl, giving a coquettish glance at Jean Charost and his companion. "Two rude men came and dragged him away from his supper almost by force; but I dare say he will not be long gone."
"Then we will come in and wait," said Mar tin Grille. "Where can we put our horses this cold night?"
The girl seemed to hesitate, although her own words had certainly led the way to Martin's proposal. "I don't know where to put you or your horses either," she said, at length; "for there is a gentleman waiting, and it is not every one who comes to consult the doctor that wishes to be seen. Pedro the Moor, too, is out getting information about the town; so that I have no one to ask what to do."
"Well, we don't want to be seen either," replied Martin Grille; "so we will just put our horses under that shed, and go into the little room where the doctor casts his nativities."
"But he's in there--he's in there," said the girl; "the tall, meagre man with the wild look. I put him in there because there's nothing he could hurt. No, no; you fasten up your horses, and then come into the great hall. I think the man is as mad as a March hare. You can hear him quite plain in the hall; never still for a moment."
The girl's plan was, of course, followed; and, passing through a low and narrow door, arched with stone, according to the fashion of those days, Jean Charost and his two companions were ushered into a large room, from the end of which two other doors led to different parts of the building.
The maid left the lamp which she carried to give the strangers some light, but the greater part of the room remained in obscurity; nor, probably, would it have exhibited any thing very interesting to the eyes of Jean Charost; for all the walls seemed to be covered with illuminated pieces of vellum, each figuring the horoscope of some distinguished man long dead. Those of Charlemagne, Pope Benedict the Eighth, Julius Cæsar, Alexander the Great, Homer, and Duns Scotus, were all within the rays of the lamp, and the young secretary looked no further, but, turning to Martin Grille, asked once more, but in a low tone, how he happened to have made himself acquainted so thoroughly with the astrologer's house and habits.
"Why bless you, sir," replied the lackey, "when I saw you carried off by a man I knew nothing about, and found myself in an inn where not even the landlord would tell who his guests were, I got frightened, and as it is a part of my business to know every thing that may be of service to you, I bethought me how I might best get information. As every town in France has its astrologer, either official or accidental, I determined I would find him out, and I seduced one of themarmitons; to show me the way hither for a bribe of two sous. Very little had I in my pocket to consult an astrologer with; but we Parisians have a way of bartering one piece of news for another; and as information regarding every body and every thing is what an astrologer is always in search of, I trucked the tidings of your arrival at theauberge; for the name of the great man whose servants had possession of the inn. That frightened me still more; but the learned doctor bought an account of all that had happened to us on the road with a leathern bottle of the finest wine that was ever squeezed out of the grape, and added over and above, that Madame de Giac, the duke's mistress, was expected at the inn, and had sent her husband away to Blois. That frightened me more than ever."
"Why so?" asked Jean Charost. "Why should you be frightened by any of these things you heard? Their highnesses of Burgundy and Orleans are now in perfect amity I understand, and Madame de Giac, when I saw her before, seemed any thing but ill disposed toward my royal master."
"Ah! sir," replied Martin Grille; "the amity of princes is a ticklish thing to trust to; and the friendship of a lady of many loves is somewhat like the affection of a spider. God send that the Duke of Burgundy be as well disposed to the royal duke as you think, and that Madame de Giac work no mischief between them; for the one, I think, is as sincere as the other, and I would not trust my little finger in the power of either, if it served their purpose to cut it off."
"Nay," answered Jean Charost; "I certainly do not now think that the Duke of Burgundy is well disposed to his highness of Orleans; for I have had good reason to believe the contrary."
"There is no one believes he is, but the duke himself," said Armand Chauvin. "His highness is too frank. He rides out in a furred gown to meet a man armed with all pieces. But hark! how that man is walking about! He must be troubled with some unquiet spirit."
All listened in silence for a moment or two, and a slow, heavy footfall was heard pacing backward and forward in the adjoining room, from which the hall was only separated by one of the doors that has been mentioned. Jean Charost thought that he heard a groan too, and there was something in the dull and solemn tread, unceasing and unvaried as it was, that had a gloomy and oppressive effect.
No one spoke for several minutes, and the time of the astrologer's return seemed long; but at length the steps in the adjoining room ceased, the door was thrown open, and a low, deep voice exclaimed, "If you have returned, why do you keep me waiting? Ha! strangers all!"
The speaker, who had taken one step into the room, was, as the maid had described him, a tall, thin, gaunt man, of the middle age, with a stern, wild, impetuous expression of countenance. His gray hair and his gray beard seemed not to have been trimmed for weeks, and his apparel, though costly, was negligently cast on. There was a wrinkle between his brows, so deep that one might have laid a finger in it, fixed and immovable, as if it had grown there for years, deepening with time. But the brow, with its heavy frown, seemed the only feature that remained at rest; for the eye flashed and wandered, the lip quivered, and the nostrils expanded, as if there were an infinite multitude of emotions passing ever through the heart, and writing their transient traces oil the countenance as they went.
He paused for a single moment, almost in the doorway, holding a lamp high in his hand, and glancing his eyes from the face of Martin Grille, who was next to him, to that of Armand Chauvin, and then to the countenance of Jean Charost. As he gazed at the latter, however, a look of doubt, and then of recognition, came upon his countenance, and taking another step forward, he exclaimed, "Ha! young man; is that you? Something strange links our destiny together. I came hither to inquire of Fate concerning you; and here you are, to meet me."
"I am glad to see you without your late companions, sir," replied Jean Charost. "I feared you might be in some peril."
"No danger--no danger," answered the other. "They were ruffians--but what am I? Not a man there but had fought under my pennon on fields of honorable warfare. Wrong, injustice, baseness, ingratitude, had made gallant soldiers low marauders--what has the same made me--a demon, with hell in my heart, with hell behind me, and hell before!"
He paused for an instant, and pressed his hand hard upon his brow; then raising his eyes again to the face of Jean Charost, he said, in a tone more calm, but stern and commanding, "Come with me, youth--I would speak with you alone;" and he returned to the other chamber.
"For the blessed Virgin's sake, don't go with him, sir," exclaimed Martin Grille.
"You had better not, Monsieur De Brecy," said Armand Chauvin. "The man seems mad."
"No fear, no fear," answered Jean Charost, walking toward the door.
"Well, give one halloo, and you shall have help," said Chauvin; and the young gentleman passed out and closed the door behind him.
Martin Grille looked at Armand Chauvin, and Armand Chauvin at Martin Grille, but neither spoke; for Armand was by nature somewhat taciturn, and the other, though he did not venture in the presence of thechevaucheur; to put his ear or his eye to the keyhole, remained listening as near the door as possible, with a good deal of apprehension it is true, but still more curiosity. The conversation, however, between Jean Charost and the stranger commenced in a low tone, and gave nothing to the hall but an indistinct murmur of voices. Very speedily, however, the tones began to be raised; Jean Charost himself spoke angrily; but another voice almost drowned his, pouring forth a torrent of invectives, not upon him, it would seem; for the only sentence completely heard showed that some other person was referred to. "There is every sort of villain in the world," cried the voice; "and he is a villain of the damnedest and the blackest dye. The cut-throat and the thief, the swindler, the traitor, are all scoundrels of their kind; but what is he who--"
The voice fell again; and Martin Grille, turning to his companion, grasped his arm, saying, "Go in--go in. He will do him some mischief, I am very much afraid."
"I am not so much accustomed to be afraid, either for myself or for other people," answered Chauvin. "The young gentleman will call out if he wants me."
Almost at the same moment, without the sound of any opening door from the street, the astrologer entered the room with a hurried step and somewhat disturbed look. "Ha! my friend," he said, as his eyes fell on Martin Grille. "Where is your young master?"
"Within there," replied Martin, "with that other devil of a man. Don't you hear how loud they are talking?"
Without reply or ceremony, the astrologer opened the door leading into the other room, entered and closed it again; but during the brief moment of his passing in both Martin and Chauvin caught a sight of the figures within. Jean Charost was standing with his arms crossed upon his chest, in an attitude of stern and manly dignity which neither of them had ever before seen him assume, while the stranger, as if exhausted by the burst of passion to which he had given way, was cast negligently on a seat, his arm resting on a table, and his head bowed down with the gray locks falling loose upon his forehead. Martin Grille felt sure he perceived large tear drops rolling over his cheeks; but the door was closed in an instant, and he saw no more.
From the moment of the astrologer's entrance the conversation was carried on in a low tone; but it lasted nearly three quarters of an hour, and at the end of that time the door again opened, and the three who were in the inner chamber came out into the hall.
"Now I am ready to go," said Jean Charost. "Unfasten the horses, Martin Grille."
"I thought we were to stay here all night, sir," replied Chauvin, "and I think, sir, you had better consider what you do. I may tell you now, what I did not mention before, that the bearing on my cap very soon betrayed that I belonged to the Duke of Orleans, and I heard bets made among the Burgundy people that we should not go five miles before we were brought back. There was a great deal of talk about it that I don't remember, as to whether his highness would keep you or let you go at all; but all agreed that if he did let you go, you would not go far without being stopped and searched. I took no notice, and pretended not to hear; but I slipped out quietly and saddled the horses."
"You did well, Chauvin," replied the young secretary. "But I must not delay when there is a possibility of going forward. This gentleman agrees to show us a less dangerous way than the high-road, and I am determined to put myself under his guidance. The responsibility be upon my head."
"Well, sir, I have nothing to do but obey," replied thechevaucheur, and took a step toward the door.
"Stay a moment," said the astrologer. "I have ordered you some refreshment, and I have two words to write to the noble duke, Monsieur De Brecy. Tell him I am his faithful servant ever, and that I greatly regret to have to warn him of such impending danger."
"I beseech you, my good friend," replied Jean Charost, "send your warning by some other messenger; first, because I may be long upon the way, and tidings of such importance should reach his highness soon; secondly, because I would fain not be a bird of evil omen. Great men love not those who bring them bad tidings. But the first reason is the best. I will take your letter, however unwillingly, but eight-and-forty hours must elapse ere I can reach Blois. I shall then have to wait the pleasure of the duchess, and then return, probably, by slow journeys; valuable time will be lost, and your intelligence may come too late."
"So be it," said the astrologer; "although--"
But before he could finish the sentence, a tawny colored man, dressed somewhat fantastically, in a white tunic and large turban, entered the room bearing in bottles and silver cups. "You have seldom tasted such wine as this," said the astrologer, offering the first cup he poured out to the tall gaunt stranger. "Take it, my lord. You are my early friend and patron; and you must not depart without drinking wine in my house. It will do you good, and raise your spirits."
"I would not have them raised," replied the stranger, putting aside the cup. "False happiness is not what I desire. I have had too much of that already. My misery is pure, if it be bitter. I would not mingle it with a fouler thing."
Those were the only words he spoke from that moment till the whole party reached the neighborhood of Chilleurs aux Rois.
Martin Grille drank his cup of wine, and hastened to bring out the horses. Armand Chauvin drank likewise, and followed him in silence, and when the astrologer accompanied his two noble guests to the court-yard, they found a tall, powerful gray horse held ready by the Moor. Jean Charost took leave of his host with a few courteous words; but the stranger mounted in silence, rode out as soon as the gates were open, and turning at once to the right, led the way quite round the town, crossed a small stream, and then, by paths with which he seemed perfectly well acquainted, dashed on at a quick pace to the westward, leaving the others to come after as best they could, much to the inconvenience, be it said, of poor Martin Grille, whose horse stumbled continually, as horses will do with bad riders.
Jean Charost kept generally by the stranger's side, and once or twice spoke a few words to him; but he received no answer, and through the long night they rode on, even after the moon had gone down, without drawing a rein till, just at the gray of the morning, they distinguished a church steeple, at the distance of about half a mile on the right. There the stranger pulled up his horse suddenly, and said, "Chilleurs aux Rois."
"Here, I suppose, we are safe," said Jean Charost.
"Quite safe," was the brief reply. "Fare you well--remember!"
"I always remember my given word," replied Jean Charost; "where can I see or hear from you in case of need?"
The stranger gazed at him with a grim dark smile; turned his horse's head and galloped away.
The curiosity of Martin Grille was greatly excited. The curiosity of Martin Grille could not rest. He had no idea of a master having a secret from a valet. What were valets made for? he asked himself. What could they do in the world if there was any such thing as a secret from them? He determined he would find out that of his master, and he used every effort, trusting to Jean Charost's inexperience to lead him into any admission--into any slip of the tongue--which would give one simple fact regarding the stranger whom they had met at Pithiviers, relying on his own ingenuity to combine it with what he had already observed, so as to make some progress on the way to knowledge. But Jean Charost foiled all his efforts, and afforded him not the slightest hint of any kind, greatly raising his intellect in the opinion of his worthy valet, but irritating Martin's curiosity still further.
"If there be not some important secret," thought the man, "why should he be so anxious to conceal it?" and he set to work to bring Armand Chauvin into a league and confederacy for the purpose of discovering the hidden treasure.
Armand, however, not only rejected all his overtures, but reproved him for his curiosity. "I know not what is the business of valets, Master Martin," he said; "but I know my own business. Thechevaucheurshould be himself as secret as the grave. Should know nothing, see nothing, hear nothing, except what he is told in the way of his business. If a secret message is given him to convey, he should forget it altogether till he sees the person to whom it is to be delivered, and then forget it again as soon as it is given. Take my advice, Master Martin, and do not meddle with your master's secrets. Many a man finds his own too heavy to bear, and many a man has been hanged for having those of other people."
Martin Grille did not at all like the idea of being hanged, and the warning quieted him from Orleans, where it was given, to the good town, of Blois; but still he resolved to watch narrowly in after days, and to see whether, by putting piece and piece together, he could not pluck out the heart of Jean Charost's mystery.
The three horsemen rode into the town of Blois at eventide, just as the sun was setting; and, according to the directions he had received, Jean Charost proceeded straight to the ancient château, which, when somewhat altered from its then existing form, was destined to be the scene of many tragic events in French history.
Though the face of the world has remained the same, though mountain and valley stand where valley and mountain stood, though towns and fortresses are still to be found where towns and fortresses then existed, the changes of society have been so great, the relations between man and man, and between man and all external things, have been so much altered, that it is with difficulty we bring our mind to comprehend how certain things, all positive facts, existed in other days, and to perceive the various relations--to us all strange and anomalous--which thus arose. It is probable that the Duke of Orleans did not possess a foot of land in the town of Blois besides the old château, and that he did not hold that in pure possession. But, either as appanage or fief, he held great territories in the central and southwestern parts of France, which yielded him considerable revenue in the shape of dues, tolls, and taxes, gave him the command of many important towns, and placed in his hands, during life, a number of magnificent residences, kept up almost entirely by services of vassals or other feudal inferiors. Shortly before this time, the Duchy of Aquitaine had been thus conceded to him, and Orleans, Blois, and a number of small cities had been long in his possession. Thus the château of Blois was at this time held by him, if not in pure property, yet in full possession, and afforded a quiet retreat, if not exactly a happy residence, to a wife whom he sincerely loved, without passion, and esteemed, even while he neglected.
Removed from the scenes of contention which were daily taking place near the capital--contention often dignified by the name of war, but more deserving that of anarchy--the town of Blois had enjoyed for many years a peaceful and even sluggish calm, for the disorders of many other parts of France, of course, put a stop to peaceful enterprise in any direction, either mental or physical. There seemed no energy in the place; and the little court there held by the Duchess of Orleans, as well as the number of persons who usually resided in the town as a place of security, afforded the only inducements to active industry.
As Jean Charost rode along through the streets, there were shops which might be considered gay, as the world then went; there were persons of good means and bright clothing, and a number of the inferior class taking an hour's exercise before the close of day. But there was none of the eager bustle of a busy, thrifty city, and the amusement-loving people of France seemed solely occupied with amusement in the town of Blois.
At the gates of the old castle, the draw-bridge was found down, the portcullis raised, two lazy guards were pitching pieces of stone into a hole dug in the middle of the way, and wrangling with each other about their game. Both started up, however, as the three horsemen came slowly over the bridge, and one thrust himself in the way with an air of military fierceness as he saw the face of a stranger in the leader of the party. The next moment, however, he exclaimed, "Ah! pardie: Chauvin is that you? Who is this young gentleman?"
"I am secretary to his highness the Duke of Orleans," replied Jean Charost; "and I bear a letter to the duchess to deliver into her own hands."
Admission was not difficult to obtain; and Jean Charost was passed from hand to hand till he found himself in the interior of that gloomy building, which always seems to the visitor of modern times redolent of bloody and mysterious deeds.
A grave and respectable-looking man at length showed Jean Charost into a handsomely-furnished room in one of the towers which looked out in the direction of Tours; and, seating himself upon a large window-seat, forming a coffer for firewood, he gazed out upon the scene below and saw the sun set over the world of trees beneath him. Darkness came on rapidly, but still he was suffered to remain alone, and silence brooded over the whole place, unbroken even by a passing footfall. All was so still that he could have fancied that some one was dead in the place, and the rest were silent mourners.
At length a slow, quiet footfall in the distance met his ear, coming along with easy, almost drowsy pace, till the same old man appeared, and conducted him through a length of passages and vacant rooms to the presence of the Duchess of Orleans.
She was seated in a large arm-chair, with a table by her side, and was dressed almost altogether in black; but to the eyes of Jean Charost she seemed exceedingly beautiful, with finely-shaped features, bright eyes, and an expression of melancholy which suited well the peculiar cast of her countenance. She gazed earnestly at Jean Charost as he advanced toward her, and said, as soon as she thought him near enough, "You come from his highness, I am told. How is my dear husband?"
"Not so well as I could wish, madam," replied Jean Charost; "but this letter which I have the honor to present will tell you more."
The duchess held out her fair hand for the epistle, but it trembled greatly as she took it; and the young secretary would not venture to look in her face as she was reading, for he knew that she would be greatly agitated. She was so, indeed; but she recovered herself speedily, and, speaking still with a slight foreign accent, demanded further details.
"He says only that he is ill," she exclaimed. "Tell me, sir--tell me how he really is. Did you see him? Yes, you must have seen him, for he says you are his secretary. Has he concealed any thing in this letter? Is it necessary that I should set out this night? I am quite ready. He must be very ill," she added, in a low and melancholy tone, "or he would not have sent for me."
"His highness is ill, madam," replied Jean Charost, "seriously ill, I fear; but I trust not dangerously so. The contentions in which he has lately been engaged with the Duke of Burgundy, but which are now happily over--"
"Oh, that house of Burgundy! that house of Burgundy!" said the duchess, in a low, sad tone.
"These, and many other anxieties," continued Jean Charost, "together with much fatigue, have produced, what I should suppose, some sort of fever, and a great depression of mind--a melancholy--which probably makes his highness imagine his illness even greater than it is. I should think, however, madam, that by setting out this night you would not greatly accelerate your journey. The roads are difficult and somewhat dangerous--"
"Nevertheless, I will go," replied the duchess; and putting her hand before her eyes, she seemed to fall into thought for a few moments. Jean Charost saw some tear-drops trickle through her fingers, and the young man, inexperienced as he was, felt how many emotions might mingle with those tears. He withdrew his eyes, and fixed them on the ground, and at length the duchess said, "Will you call my attendants, sir, from the ante-room? I must make preparation."
She pointed, as she spoke, to a different door to that by which the young gentleman had been introduced, and Jean Charost walked toward it, bowing to the princess, as if taking leave. She stopped him, however, to bid him return in a few minutes, saying, with a sad smile, "My thoughts are too busy, Monsieur De Brecy, to attend to courtesy; but I beseech you, take care of yourself as if you were an inmate of the house. My husband seems to have much confidence in you, and desires that you should accompany me. If you are too much fatigued to do so to-night, you can follow me to-morrow, and will doubtless overtake me in time."
"Not too much fatigued myself, madam," replied Jean Charost; "but I fear my horses could not go far. If there be time, I will provide others."
"Oh, that will be easily managed," she answered. "There are always horses enough here. I will see that you are mounted."
The young gentleman then proceeded to the ante-room, where he found a bevy of young girls, each seated demurely at her embroidery frame, under the eye of an elder lady. Gay glances were shot at him from every side, but he contented himself with simply announcing the duchess's commands, and then proceeded in search of his companions of the road. He found that Armand Chauvin was completely at home in the château of Blois, and had made Martin Grille quite familiar with the place already; nor did the young gentleman himself feel any of that shy timidity which he had experienced when, as a stranger, unknown to all around him, he had first taken up his abode in the Hôtel d'Orleans. There was a subdued and quiet tone, too, about the court of the duchess, very different from the gay and somewhat insolent demeanor of her husband's younger attendants; and the young secretary, now known as such, was treated with all courtesy, and obtained every thing he could desire for the refreshment of himself and his horses. Gradually, however, the bustle of preparation spread from the apartments of the duchess through the rest of the house, accompanied by the report of her being about to set out that very night to join her husband at Beauté. All were eager to know the cause and the particulars, and an old major-domo ventured to come into the hall where Jean Charost was seated with some wine and meat before him, to extract every information that he could upon the subject. He received very cautious answers, however, and ere he had carried his questions far, he was interrupted by the entrance of thechevaucheur, in some haste and apparent alarm.
"They tell me, Monsieur De Brecy," he said in his abrupt manner, "that the duchess sets forth to-night."
Jean Charost nodded his head.
"Have you told her," asked Chauvin, "that the Duke of Burgundy is on the road between this and the Seine?"
"No," answered Jean Charost, starting up, his mind seizing at once the vague idea of danger. "Surely he would not--"
"Humph!" said Armand Chauvin. "There is no knowing what he would not."
"Indeed, there is not," said the old major-domo; "and methinks the duchess should send out a party ofpiqueurs; to bring him in, or clear the way of him."
"I had better tell her," said Jean Charost thoughtfully. "If there be danger, she will judge of it better than I can."
"I will show you the way, sir--I will show you the way," said the old major-domo, with officious civility. "This way, if you please--this way."
When again admitted to the presence of the duchess, the young secretary informed her that he had met with the Duke of Burgundy at Pithiviers, but excused his not having mentioned the fact before on the ground of not apprehending any danger in consequence of the recent reconciliation of the houses of Burgundy and Orleans. It soon became evident to him, however, that all the friends and attendants of the Duke of Orleans, although he himself had seemed perfectly confident of his cousin's good faith, looked upon the late reconciliation as but a hollow deceit, which would be set at naught by the Duke of Burgundy as soon as it suited his convenience. The duchess evidently shared in this general feeling; but still she determined to pursue her first intention, and merely took the precaution of ordering her escort to be doubled.
"I believe," she said, "that there is not a man goes with me who will not shed the last drop of his blood in my defense and you, too, Monsieur De Brecy, will do the same out of love for my dear husband."
"Right willingly, madam," replied Jean Charost: "but I trust you may escape all peril."
The duchess soon dismissed him again, telling him that there would be ample time for him to take some repose; that their preparations would not be complete till nearly midnight; but Jean Charost contented himself with a short sleep in a large arm-chair in the hall, and then started up from the blessed, dreamless slumber of youth, refreshed and ready for new exertion. About an hour after, the midnight march began. The litter of the princess, containing herself and her youngest son, was drawn by four white mules; but in advance were eight or ten men-at-arms, cased in plate armor, and lance in hand. A large body followed the litter; and on either side of it rode several of the noble retainers of the house of Orleans more lightly armed, among whom was Jean Charost. The moon shone out brightly; and as her pale rays fell upon the duchess's litter with its white curtains, and upon another, containing some of her female attendants, which followed, and glistened upon the steel casques and corselets of the men-at-arms as they wound in and out along the banks of the river, the whole formed a scene strangely exciting to the imagination of Jean Charost, who had seen little, for many years, of any thing like military display. The march passed quietly enough, and for the first three or four days no incident of any kind occurred which is worthy of detail. On many occasions the young secretary had the opportunity of conversing with the duchess; and her quiet gentleness, the strong, unshaken, uncomplaining affection which she showed toward her husband with all his faults, together with native graces unhardened, and personal beauty hardly touched by time, made Jean Charost marvel greatly at the wayward heart of man, and ask himself, with doubt and almost fear, if ever he himself could be brought to sport with or neglect the affections of a being such as that.
In the neighborhood of Pithiviers, it was ascertained that the Duke of Burgundy had retired from that part of the country two days before, turning his steps toward Paris; and the Duchess of Orleans, freed from all apprehensions, sent back the military part of her escort to Blois, remarking, with a smile, to Jean Charost, "I must not, except in case of need, go to my husband with such a body of armed men, as if I came to take his castle by storm."
"I can assure you, madam," replied the young secretary, laying some emphasis on the words, "you will find that it is surrendered to you at discretion."
At the next halting-place the litter stopped, about an hour before sunset. There were few attendants around; the old major domo was somewhat slow in dismounting, and Jean Charost, who was sooner on foot, drew back the curtains to permit the duchess to alight. She had hardly set her foot to the ground, however, when a hard, powerful hand was laid upon the young secretary's shoulder, and a hollow voice said, aloud, "Young man, God will bless you. I find you are faithful and true amid the false and the deceitful."
Both the duchess and Jean Charost turned suddenly to look at the speaker. The latter recognized him at once as the stranger whom he had seen at Pithiviers, and on one occasion before; but the duchess drew a little back, murmuring, with a look of alarm, "Who is that person?"
"Strange to say, madam," replied the young secretary, "I can not tell your highness. I have seen him once or twice in somewhat singular circumstances; but his name I do not know."
As soon as the stranger had uttered the words above mentioned, he had crossed his arms upon his breast and moved away, hardly noticed by the attendants in the bustle of arrival; but the duchess followed him still with her eyes; and then, as she walked on, she repeated twice the stranger's words, "You are faithful and true amid the false and the deceitful;" and then, looking earnestly in Jean Charost's face, she added, "Will you be faithful and true to me also, young gentleman?"
"I am sure he will, mother," said her young son, who was holding her hand; and Jean Charost replied, "To all who trust me, I will be so, madam. When I am not, I pray God that I may die."