Standing in the street, at the door of the house to which he had been directed, Jean Charost found a common-looking man, whose rank or station was hardly to be divined by his dress; and drawing up his horse beside him, he asked if Madame De Giac lived there.
"She is here," replied the man. "What do you want with her?"
"I have a letter to deliver to her," answered lean Charost, briefly.
"Give it to me," replied the man.
"That can not be," answered the young secretary. "It must be delivered by me into her own hand."
"Who is it from?" inquired the other. "She does not see strangers at this hour of the night."
The young secretary was somewhat puzzled what to reply, for a lingering suspicion made him unwilling to give the name of the duke; but he had not been told to conceal it, and seeing no other way of obtaining admission, he answered, after a moment's consideration, "It is from his highness of Orleans, and I must beg you to use dispatch."
"I will see if she will admit you," replied the man; "but come into the court, at all events. You will soon have your answer."
Thus saying, he opened the large wooden gates of the yard, and, as soon as Jean Charost had entered, closed and fastened them securely. There was a certain degree of secrecy and mystery about the whole proceeding, a want of that bustle and parade common in great houses in Paris, which confirmed the preconceived suspicions of Jean Charost, and made him believe that a woman of gallantry was waiting for the visit of a prince whose devotion to her sex was but too well known. Dismounting, he stood by his horse's side, while the man quietly glided through a door, hardly perceivable in the obscurity of one dark corner in the court-yard. The moon had already sunk low, and the tall houses round shadowed the whole of the open space in which the young secretary stood, so that he could but little see the aspect of the place, although he had ample time for observation.
Nearly ten minutes elapsed before the messenger's return; but then he came, attended by a page bearing a flambeau, and, in civil terms, desired the young gentleman to follow him to his mistress's presence.
Through ways as narrow and as crooked as the ways of love usually are, Jean Charost was conducted to a small room, which would nowadays probably be called a boudoir, where, even without the contrast of the poor, naked stone passages through which he had passed, every thing would have appeared luxurious and splendid in the highest degree. Rumor attributed to the beautiful lady whom he went to visit, a princely lover, who some years before had commanded an army against the Ottomans, had received a defeat which rendered him morose and harsh throughout the rest of life, but had acquired, during an easy captivity among the Mussulmans, a taste for Oriental luxury, which never abandoned him. All within the chamber to which Jean Charost was now introduced spoke that the lady had not been uninfluenced by her lover's habits. Articles of furniture little known in France were seen in various parts of the room; piles of cushions, carpets of innumerable dyes, and low sofas or ottomans; while, even in the midst of winter, the odor of roses pervaded the whole apartment. Madame de Giac herself, negligently dressed, but looking wonderfully beautiful, was reclining on cushions, with a light on a low table by her side, and, on the approach of Jean Charost, she received him more as an old and dear friend than a mere accidental acquaintance. A radiant smile was upon her lips; she made him sit down beside her, and in her tone there was a blandishing softness, which he felt was very engaging. For a minute or two she held the letter of the Duke of Orleans unopened in her hand, while she asked him questions about his journey from Pithiviers to Blois, and his return. At length, however, she opened the billet and read it, not so little observed as she imagined herself; for Jean Charost's eyes were fixed upon her, marking the various expressions of her countenance. At first, her glance at the note was careless; but speedily her eyes fixed upon the lines with an intense, eager look. Her brow contracted, her nostril expanded, her beautiful upper lip quivered, and that fair face for an instant took upon it the look of a demon. Suddenly, however, she recollected herself, smoothed her brow, recalled the wandering lightning of her eyes and folding the note, she curled it between her fingers, saying, "I must write an answer, my dear young friend. I will not be long; wait for me here;" and rising gracefully, she gathered her flowing drapery around her, and passed out by a door behind the cushions.
The door was closed carefully; but Jean Charost had good reason to believe that the time of Madame De Giac was occupied in other employment than writing. A murmur of voices was heard, in which her own sweet tones mingled with others harsher and louder. The words used could not be distinguished, but the conversation seemed eager and animated, beginning the moment she entered, and rising and falling in loudness, as if the speakers were sometimes carried away by the topic, sometimes fearful of being overheard.
Jean Charost was no great casuist, and certainly, in all ordinary cases, he would have felt ashamed to listen to any conversation not intended for his ears. Neither, on this occasion, did he actually listen. He moved not from his seat; he even took up and examined a beautiful golden-sheathed poniard with a jeweled hilt, which lay upon the table where stood the light. But there was a doubt, a suspicion, an apprehension of he knew not what in his mind, which, if well-founded, might perhaps have justified him in his own eyes in actually trying to hear what was passing; for assuredly he would have thought it no want of honor thus to detect the devices of an enemy. The voice of Madame De Giac was not easily forgotten by one who had once heard it; and the rougher, sterner tones that mingled in the conversation seemed likewise familiar to the young secretary's ear. Both those who were speaking he believed to be inimical to his royal master. He heard nothing distinctly, however, but the last few words that were spoken.
It would seem that Madame De Giac had approached close to the door, and laid her hand upon the lock, and the other speaker raised his voice, adding to some words which were lost, the following, in an imperative tone, "As long as possible, remember--by any means!"
Madame De Giac's murmured reply was not intelligible to the young secretary; but then came a coarse laugh, and the deeper voice answered, "No, no. I do not mean that; but by force, if need be."
"Well, then, tell them," said the fair lady; but what was to be told escaped unheard by Jean Charost; for she dropped her voice lower than ever, and, a moment after, re-entered the room.
Her face was all fair and smiling, and before she spoke, she seated herself again on the cushions, paused thoughtfully, and, looking at the dagger which the young gentleman replaced as she entered, said playfully, "Do not jest with edged tools. I hope you did not take the poniard out of its sheath. It comes from Italy--from the very town of the sweet Duchess of Orleans; and they tell me that the point is poisoned, so that the slightest scratch would produce speedy death. It has never been drawn since I had it, and never shall be with my will."
"I did not presume to draw it," said Jean Charost. "But may I crave your answer to his highness's note?"
"How wonderfully formal we are," said Madame De Giac, with a gay laugh. "This chivalrous reverence for the fair, which boys are taught in their school days, is nothing but a sad device of old women and jealous husbands. It is state, and dress, and grave surroundings, De Brecy, that makes us divinities. A princess and a page, in a little cabinet like this, are but a woman and a man. Due propriety, of course, is right; but forms and reverence all nonsense."
"Beauty and rank have both their reverence, madam," replied Jean Charost. "But at the present moment, all other things aside, I am compelled to think of his highness's business; for he is waiting for me now at the Hôtel Barbette, expecting anxiously, I doubt not, your answer."
The conversation that followed does not require detail. Madame De Giac was prodigal of blandishments, and, skilled in every female art, contrived to while away some twenty minutes without giving the young secretary any reply to bear to his master.
When at length she found that she could not detain him any longer without some definite answer, she turned to the subject of the note, and contrived to waste some more precious time on it.
"What if I were to send the duke a very angry message?" she said.
"I should certainly deliver it," replied Jean Charost. "But I would rather that you wrote it."
"No, I have changed my mind about that," she answered. "I will not write. You may tell him I think him a base, ungrateful man, unworthy of a lady's letter. Will you tell him that?"
"Precisely, madam; word for word," replied Jean Charost.
"Then you are bolder with men than women," replied the lady, with a laugh slightly sarcastic. "Stay, stay; I have not half done yet. Say to the duke I am of a forgiving nature, and, if he does proper penance, and comes to sue for pardon, he may perhaps find mercy. Whither are you going so fast? You can not get out of this enchanted castle as easily as you think, good youth; at least not without my consent."
"I pray, then, give it to me, madam," said Jean Charost; "for I really fear that his highness will be angry at my long delay."
"Poor youth! what a frightened thing it is," said the lady. "Well, you shall go; but let me look at the duke's note again, in case I have any thing to add;" and she unfolded the billet, which she still held in her hand, and looked at it by the light. Again Jean Charost marked that bitter, fiend-like scowl come upon her countenance, and, in this instance, the feelings that it indicated found some expression in words.
"Either you or his priest are making a monk of him," she said, bitterly; "but it matters not. Tell him what I have said." And murmuring a few more indistinct words to herself, she rang a small silver bell which lay upon the cushions beside her, and the man who had given Jean Charost admission speedily appeared.
The lady looked at him keenly for an instant, and the young secretary thought he saw a glance of intelligence pass from his face to hers.
"Light this young gentleman out," said Madame De Giac. "You are a young fool, De Brecy," she added, laughingly; "but that is no fault of yours or mine. Nature made you so, and I can not mend you; and so, good-night."
Jean Charost bowed low, and followed the man out of the room; but, as he did so, he drew his sword-hilt a little forward, not well knowing what was to come next. Madame De Giac eyed him with a sarcastic smile, and the door closed upon him.
The man lighted him silently, carefully along the narrow, tortuous passage, and down the steep stair-case by which he had entered, holding the light low, that he might see his way. When they reached the small door which led into the court, he unbolted it, and held it back for the young gentleman to go forth; but the moment Jean Charost had passed out, the door was closed and bolted.
"Not very courteous," thought Jean Charost. "But doubtless he takes his tone from his lady's last words. What a dark night it is?"
For a minute or two, in the sudden obscurity after the light was withdrawn, he could discern none of the objects around him, and it was not till his eye had become more accustomed to the darkness that he discovered his horse standing fastened to a ring let into the building. He detached him quickly, and led him to the great gates; but here a difficulty presented itself. The large wooden bar was easily removed, and the bolts drawn back; but still the gates would not open. The young gentleman felt them all over in search of another fastening; but he could find none; and he then turned to a little sort of guardroom on the right of the entrance, attached to almost all the large houses of Paris in that day, and transformed, in after and more peaceable times, into a porter's lodge. All was dark and silent within, however: the door closed; and no answer was returned when the young gentleman knocked. He then tried another door, in the middle of the great façade of the building; but there, also, the door was locked, and he could make no one hear. His only resource, then, was the small postern by which he had been admitted; but here also he was disappointed, and he began to comprehend that he was intentionally detained. He was naturally the more impatient to escape; and, abandoning all ceremony, he knocked hard with the hilt of his dagger on the several doors, trying them in turns. But it was all in vain. There were things doing which made his importunity of small consequence.
With an angry and impatient heart, and a mind wandering through a world of conjecture, he at length thrust his dagger back into the sheath, and stood and listened near the great gates, determined, if he heard a passing step in the street, to call loudly for assistance. All was still, however, for ten minutes, and then came suddenly a sound of loud voices and indistinct cries, as if there was a tumult at some distance. Jean Charost's heart beat quick, though there seemed no definite link of connection between his own fate and the sounds he heard. A minute or two after, however, he was startled by a nearer noise--a rattling and grating sound--and he had just time to draw his horse away ere the gates opened of their own accord, and rolled back without any one appearing to move them. A hoarse and unpleasant laugh, at the same moment, sounded on Jean Charost's ear, and, looking forth into the street, he saw two or three dark figures running quickly forward in one direction.
There was in Paris an old irregular street, called the Street of the Old Temple, which had been built out toward the Porte Barbette at a period when the capital of France was much smaller in extent than in the reign of King Charles the Sixth. No order or regularity had been preserved, although one side of the street had for some distance been kept in a direct line by an antique wall, built, it is said, by the voluntary contributions or personal labors of different members of the famous Order of the Temple, the brethren of which, though professing poverty, were often more akin to Dives than to Lazarus. The other side of the street, however, had been filled up by the houses and gardens of various individuals, each walking in the light of his own eyes, and using his discretion as to how far his premises should encroach upon, how far recede from the highway. Thus, when sun or moon was up, and shining down the street, a number of picturesque shadows crossed it, offering a curious pattern of light and shade, varying with every hour.
A strange custom existed in those days, which has only been perpetuated, that I know of, in some towns of the Tyrol, of affixing to each house its own particular sign, which served, as numbers do in the present day, to distinguish it from all others in the same street. Sometimes these signs or emblems projected in the form of a banner from the walls of the house, overhanging the street, and showing the golden cross, or the silver cross, or the red ball, the lion, the swan, or the hart, to every one who rode along. Sometimes, with better taste, but perhaps with less convenience to the passenger in search of a house he did not know, the emblem chosen by the proprietor was built into the solid masonry, or placed in a little Gothic niche constructed for the purpose. The latter was generally the case where angel, or patron saint, prophet, or holy man was the chosen device, and especially so when any of the persons of the Holy Trinity, for whom the Parisians seemed to have more love than reverence, gave a name to the building.
Thus, at the corner of the Street of the Old Temple, and another which led into it, a beautiful and elaborate niche with a baldachin of fretted stone, and a richly-carved pediment, offered to the eyes of the passers-by a very-well executed figure of the Virgin, holding in her arms the infant Savior, and from this image the house on which it was affixed obtained the name of theHôtel de Nôtre Dame. Notwithstanding the sanctity of the emblem, and the beauty of the building--for it was of the finest style of French architecture, then in its decay--the house had been very little inhabited for some twenty or thirty years. It had been found too small and incommodious for modern taste. Men had built themselves larger dwellings, and, although this had not been suffered to become actually dilapidated, there were evident traces of neglect about it--casements broken and distorted, doors and gates on which unforbidden urchins carved grotesque faces and letters hardly less fantastical, moldings and cornices time-worn and moldering, and stones gathering lichen and soot with awful rapidity.
All was darkness along the front of that house. No torches blazed before it; no window shot forth a ray; and the sinking moon cast a black shadow across the street, and half way up the wall on the other side.
Nevertheless, in one room of that house there were lamps lighted, and a blazing fire upon the hearth. Wine, too, was upon the table, rich, and in abundance; but yet it was hardly tasted; for there were passions busy in that room, more powerful than wine. It was low in the ceiling, the walls covered with hangings of leather which had once been gilt, and painted with various devices but from which all traces of human handiwork had nearly vanished, leaving nothing but a gloomy, dark drapery on the wall, which seemed rather to suck in than return the rays. It was large and well proportioned, however. The great massy beams which, any one could touch with their hand, were supported by four stout stone pillars, and the whole light centered in the middle of the room, leaving a fringe, as it were, of obscurity all round. If numbers could make any place gay, that room or hall would have been cheerful enough; for not less than seventeen or eighteen persons were collected there, and many of them appeared persons of no inferior degree. Each was more or less armed, and battle-axes, maces, and heavy swords lay around; but a solemn, gloomy stillness hung upon the whole party. It was evidently no festal occasion on which they met. The wine, as I have said, had no charms for them; conversation had as little.
One tall powerful man sat before the chimney with his mailed arms crossed upon his chest, and his eyes fixed upon the flickering blaze in the fire-place. Another was seated near the table, drawing, with the end of a straw, wild, fantastic figures on the board with some wine which had been spilled. Some dull men at a distance nodded, and others, with their hands upon their brows, and eyes bent down, remained in heavy thought.
At length one of them spoke, "Tedious work this," he said. "Action suits me best. I love not to lie like a spider at the bottom of his web, waiting till the fly buzzes into his nest. Here we have been five or six long days, and nothing done. I will not wait longer than to-morrow's sunrise, whatever you may say, Ralph."
The other, who was gazing into the fire, turned his head a little, answering in a gruff tone, "I tell you he is now in Paris. He arrived this very evening. We shall hear more anon."
The conversation ceased; for no one else took it up, and each of the speakers fell into silence again.
Some quarter of an hour passed, and then the one who was at the table started and seemed to listen.
There was certainly a step in the passage without, and the moment after there was a knock at the door. One of those within advanced, and inquired who was there.
"Ich Houde," answered a voice, and immediately the door was unlocked, and a ponderous bolt withdrawn.
All eyes were now turned toward the entrance, with a look which I do not know how to describe, except by saying it was one of fierce expectation. At first the obscurity at the further side of the room prevented those who sat near the light from seeing who it was that entered; but a broad-chested, powerful man, wrapped in a crimson mantle, with a very large hood thrown back upon his shoulders, and on his head a plain brown barret cap with a heron's feather in it, advanced rapidly toward the table, inquiring, "Where is Actonville?"
His face was deadly pale, and even his lips had lost their color; but there was no emotion to be discovered by the movement of any feature. All was stern, and resolute, and keen.
"Here," said the man who had been sitting by the fire, rising as he spoke.
The other advanced close to him, and spoke something in a whisper. Actonville rejoined in the same low tone; and then the other answered, louder, "I have provided for all that. Thomas of Courthose will bear him a message from the king. Be quick; for he will soon be there."
"How got you the news, sir?" asked Actonville.
"By the fool, to be sure--by the fool!" replied the other. "It is all certain; though a fool told it."
"The moon must be up," said Actonville. "Were it not better to do it as he returns?"
"He will have many more with him," answered the man who had just entered; "and the moon is down."
"Oh, moon or no moon, many or few," exclaimed the man who had been sitting at the table, "let us about it at once. Brave men fear no numbers; and only dogs are scared by the moon." Some more conversation, brief, sharp, and eager, sometimes in whispers, sometimes aloud, occupied a space, perhaps, of three minutes, and then all was the bustle of preparation. Swords, axes, maces were taken up, and a few inquiries were made and answered.
"Are the horses all ready?" asked one.
"They only want unhooking," replied another.
"The straw is piled up in both the rooms." said a third. "Shall I fire it now?"
"No, no! Are you mad?" replied Actonville "Not till it is done."
"Then I'll put the lantern ready," replied the other.
"Where will you be, sir?" asked Actonville.
"Close at hand," replied the man in the crimson mantle. "But we lose time. Go out quietly, one by one, and leave the door open. Put out the lights, William of Courthose. I have a lantern here, under my cloak."
The lights were immediately extinguished, and, by the flickering of the fire, eighteen shadowy forms were seen to pass out of the room like ghosts. Through the long passage from the back to the front of the house, they went as silently as their arms would permit, and then gliding down the irregular side of the road, one by one, they disappeared from their rank to lay in wait in what the prophet calls "the thievish corners of the streets."
The man who had last joined them remained alone, standing before the fire. His arms were crossed upon his chest; a lantern which he had carried stood on the ground by his side; and his eyes were fixed upon a log from which a small thin flame, yellow at the base, and blue at the top, rose up, wavering fitfully. He watched it for some five or six minutes. Suddenly it leaped up and vanished.
"Ha!" said that dark, stern man, and turned him to the door. Ere he reached it, there was a loud outcry from without--a cry of pain and strife. He paused and trembled. What was in his bosom then? God only knows. Man never knew.
The gates of the Hôtel Barbette--formerly the Hôtel Montaigne--opened instantly to the Duke of Orleans, and he was kept but a moment in the great hall ere the queen gave an order for his admission, although still suffering from illness. He found the beautiful but vindictive Isabella in bed; but that formed no objection in those days to the reception of visitors by a lady of even queenly rank; and, after having embraced his fair sister-in-law, he sat down by her bedside, and the room was soon cleared of the attendants.
"You have received my note, Louis?" she said, laying her hand tenderly upon his; for there is every reason to believe that the Duke of Orleans was the only one toward whom she ever entertained any sincere affection.
"I did, sweet Isabella," answered the duke; "and I came at once to see what was your will."
"How many men brought you with you?" asked the queen. "I hope there is no fool-hardiness, Orleans?"
"Oh, in Paris I have plenty," replied the duke; "hard upon five hundred. The rest I left with Valentine at Beauté, for she is going to Château Thierry to gather all her children together. But if you mean how many I have brought hither to-night, good faith! Isabella, not many--two men on horseback, and half a dozen on foot."
"Imprudent man!" exclaimed the queen. "Do you not know that Burgundy is here?"
"Oh yes," answered the Duke of Orleans. "He supped with me this night, quite in a tranquil way."
"Be not deceived--be not deceived, Louis of Orleans," answered the queen. "Who can feign friendship and mean enmity so well as John of Burgundy? And I tell you that, to my certain knowledge, he is caballing against you even now. Your life is never safe when you are near him unless you be surrounded by your men-at-arms."
"Well, then, we do not play an equal game," replied the duke; "for his life is as safe with me as with his dearest friend."
"Did he know that you were coming hither?" asked the queen, with an anxious look.
"Assuredly," replied the duke; but then he added, with a gay laugh, "He suspected, I fancy, from his questions, that I was going elsewhere first, though I told him I was not."
"Where--where?" demanded the queen.
"To Madame De Giac's," replied the Duke of Orleans, with a look of arch meaning.
"The serpent!" muttered Isabella. "And you have not been?"
"Assuredly not," replied her brother-in-law. "Then he knows you have come here," said Isabella, thoughtfully; "and the way back will be dangerous. You shall not go, Orleans, till you have sent for a better escort."
"Well, kind sister, if it will give you ease, it shall be done," replied the duke. "I will tell one of my men to bring me a party of horse from the hotel."
"Let it be large enough," said the queen, emphatically.
The duke smiled, and left the room in search of his attendants; but neither of his two squires could be found. Heaven knows where they were, or what they were doing; but the queen had a court of very pretty ladies at the Hôtel Barbette, who were not scrupulous of granting their conversation to gay young gentlemen. A young German page, fair-haired and gentle, lolled languidly on a settle in the great hall, but he knew little of Paris, and the Duke of Orleans sent for one of his footmen, and ordered him to take one of the squires' horses, return to the Hôtel d'Orleans, and bring up twenty lances with in an hour. He then went back to the chamber of the queen, and sat conversing with her for about ten minutes, when they were interrupted' by the entrance of one of her ladies, who brought intelligence that a messenger from the Hôtel St Pol had arrived, demanding instant audience of the duke.
"Who is he?" asked Isabella, gazing at the lady, her suspicions evidently all awake. "How did they know at the Hôtel St. Pol that his highness was here?"
"It is Thomas of Courthose, your majesty," replied the lady; "and he says he has been at the Hôtel d'Orleans, whence he was sent hither."
"By your good leave, then, fair sister, we will admit him," said the duke; and in a minute or two after Thomas of Courthose, one of the immediate attendants of the king, was ushered into the room. He was not a man of pleasing aspect: black-haired, down-looked, and with the eyes so close together as to give almost the appearance of a squint; but both the duke and the queen knew him well, and suspicion was lulled to sleep.
Approaching the Duke of Orleans, with a lowly reverence, first to the queen and then to him, the man said, "I have been commanded by his royal majesty to inform your highness that he wishes to see you instantly, on business which touches nearly both you and himself."
"I will obey at once," replied the duke. "Tell my people, as you pass, to get ready. I will be in the court in five minutes."
"Stay, Orleans, stay!" cried the queen, as the man quitted the room. "You had better wait for your escort, dear brother."
The duke only laughed at her fears, however, representing that his duty to the king called for his immediate obedience, and adding, "I shall go safer by that road than any other. They know that I came hither late, and will conclude that I shall return by the same way. If Burgundy intends to play me any scurvy trick--arrest, imprison, or otherwise maltreat me--he will post his horsemen in that direction, and by going round I shall avoid them. Nay, nay, Isabella, example of disobedience to my king shall never be set by Louis of Orleans."
The queen saw him depart with a sigh, but the duke descended to the court without fear, and spoke gayly to his attendants, whom he found assembled.
"We do not know what to do, sir," said one of the squires, stepping forward. "Leonard has taken away one of the horses, and now there is but one beast to two squires."
"Let his master mount him, and the other jump up behind," said the duke, laughing. "Did you never see two men upon one horse?"
In the mean while his own mule was brought forward, and, setting his foot in the stirrup, the duke seated himself somewhat slowly. Then, looking up to the sky, he said, "The moon is down, and it has become marvelous dark. If you have torches, light them."
About two minutes were spent in lighting the torches, and then the gates of the Hôtel Barbette were thrown open. The two squires on one horse went first, and the duke on his mule came after, the German page following close, with his hand resting on the embossed crupper, while two men, with torches lighted, walked on either side. The porter at the gates looked after them for a moment as they took their way down the Street of the Old Temple, and then drew to the heavy leaves, and barred the gates for the night.
All was still and silent in the street, and the little procession walked on at a slow pace for some two hundred yards. The torch-light then seemed to flash upon some object suddenly, which the horse bearing the two squires had not before seen, for the beast started, plunged, and then dashed violently forward down the street, nearly throwing the hindmost horseman to the ground. The duke spurred forward his mule somewhat sharply, but he had not gone a dozen yards when an armed man darted out from behind the dark angle of the neighboring house. Another rushed out almost at the same moment from one of the deep, arched gateways of the time, and a number more were seen hurrying up, with the torch-light flashing upon cuirasses, battle-axes, and maces. Two of the light-bearers cast down their torches and fled; a third was knocked down by the rush of men coming up; and at the same moment a strong, armed hand was laid upon the Duke of Orleans's rein.
The dauntless prince spurred on his mule against the man who held it, without attempting to turn its head; and it would seem that he still doubted that he was the real object of attack, for while the assassin shouted loudly, "Kill him--kill him!" he raised his voice loud above the rest, exclaiming, "How now; I am the Duke of Orleans!"
"'Tis him we want," cried a deep voice close by; and as the duke put his hand to the hilt of his sword, a tremendous blow of an ax fell upon his wrist, cutting through muscle, and sinew, and bone. The next instant he was struck heavily on the head with a mace, and hurled backward from the saddle. But even then there was one found faithful. The young German boy who followed cast himself instantly upon the body of his lord, to shield him from the blows that were falling thick upon him. But it was all in vain. The battle-ax and the mace terminated the poor lad's existence in a moment; his body was dragged from that of the prostrate prince; and a blow with a spiked iron club dashed to pieces the skull of the gay and gallant Louis of Orleans.
Shouts and cries of various kinds had mingled with the fray, but after that last blow fell there came a sudden silence. Three of the torches were extinguished; the bearers were fled. One faint light only flickered on the ground, throwing a red and fitful glare upon the bloody bodies of the dead, and the grim, fierce countenances of the murderers.
In the midst of that silence, a man in a crimson mantle and hood came quickly forward, bearing a lantern in his hand.
The assassins showed no apprehension of his presence, and holding the light to the face of the dead man, he gazed on him for an instant with a stern, hard, unchanged expression, and then said, "It is he!"
Perhaps some convulsive movement crossed the features from which real life had already passed away, for that stern, gloomy man snatched a mace from the hand of one standing near, and struck another heavy blow upon the head of the corpse, saying, "Out with the last spark!"
There were some eight or ten persons immediately round the spot where the prince had fallen; but others were scattered at a little distance up and down the street. Suddenly a voice cried, "Hark!" and the sound of a horse's feet was heard trotting quick.
"Away!" cried the man in the red mantle. "Fire the house, and disperse. You know your roads. Away!"
Then came a distant cry, as if from the gates of the queen's palace, of "Help! help! Murder! murder!" but, the next moment, it was almost drowned in a shout of "Fire! fire!" Dark volumes of smoke began to issue from the windows of the Hôtel Nôtre Dame, and flashes of flame broke forth upon the street, while a torrent of sparks rushed upward into the air. All around the scene of the murder became enveloped in vapor and obscurity, with the red light tinging the thick, heavy wreaths of smoke, and serving just to show figures come and go, still increasing in number, and gathering round the fatal spot in a small, agitated crowd. But the actors in the tragedy had disappeared. Now here, now there, one or another might have been seen crossing the bloody-looking haze of the air, and making for some of the various streets that led away from the place of the slaughter, till at length all were gone, and nothing but horrified spectators of their bloody handiwork remained.
Few, if any, remained to look at the burning house, and none attempted to extinguish the flames; for the cry had already gone abroad that the Duke of Orleans was murdered, and the multitude hurried forward to the place where he lay. Those who did stop for an instant before the Hôtel Nôtre Dame, remarked a quantity of lighted straw borne out from the doors and windows by the rush of the fire, and some of them heard the quick sound of hoofs at a little distance, as if a small party of horse had galloped away from the back of the building.
Few thought it needful, however, to inquire for or pursue the murderers. A sort of stupor seemed to have seized all but one of those who arrived the first. He was a poor mechanic; and, seeing an armed man, with a mace in his hand, glide across the street, he followed him with a quick step, traced him through several streets, paused in fear when the other paused, turned when he turned, and dogged him till he entered the gates of the Hôtel d'Artois, the residence of the Duke of Burgundy.
In the mean while, the body of the unhappy prince, and that of the poor page who had sacrificed his life for him, were carried into a church hard by. The news spread like lightning through the whole town; neighbor told it to neighbor; many were roused from their sleep to hear the tidings, and agitation and tumult spread through Paris. Every sort of vague alarm, every sort of wild rumor was received and encouraged.
The Queen Isabella of Bavaria, horrified and apprehensive, caused herself to be placed in a litter, and carried to the Hôtel St. Pol. A number of loyal noblemen, believing the king's own life in danger, armed themselves and their followers, and turned the court of the palace into a fortress. But the followers of the deceased duke remained for some hours almost stupefied with terror, and only recovered themselves to give way to rage and indignation, which produced many a disastrous consequence in after days. In the mean time, the church of the White Friars was not deserted. The brethren themselves gathered around the dead bodies, and, with tapers lighted, and the solemn organ playing, chanted all night the services of the dead. High nobles and princes, too, flocked into the church with heavy hearts and agitated minds. The Duke of Bourbon and the venerable Duke of Berri were the first. Then came the King of Navarre, then the Duke of Burgundy, and then the King of Sicily, who had arrived in Paris only on the preceding morning.
All were profuse of lamentations, and of execrations against the murderers; but none more so than the Duke of Burgundy, who declared that "never, in the city of Paris, had been perpetrated so horrible and sad a murder."[2]He could even weep, too; but while the words were on his lips, and the tears were in his eyes, some one pulled him by the cloak, and turning round his head, he saw one of his most familiar servants. Nothing was said; but there was a look in the man's eyes which demanded attention, and, after a moment or two, the duke retired with him into the chapel of St. William.
"They have taken one of those suspected of conniving at the murder," whispered the man.
"Which? Who--who is he?" asked the duke, eagerly.
"No one your highness knows," replied the man, gazing in the duke's face, though the chapel was very dark. "He is a young gentleman, said to be the duke's secretary, Monsieur Charost de Brecy."
The duke stamped with his foot upon the ground, saying, with an oath, "That may ruin all. See that he be freed as soon as possible, before he is examined."
"It can not be done, I fear," rejoined the man, in the same low tone. "He is in the hands of William de Tignonville, theprévôt. But can not the murder be cast on him, sir? They say he and the duke were heard disputing loud this night; and that, on the way to the Hôtel Barbette, he suddenly turned and rode away from his royal master."
"Folly and nonsense!" said the duke, impatiently; and then he fell into a fit of thought, adding, in a musing tone, "This must be provided for. But not so--not so. Well, we will see. Leave him where he is. He must be taught silence, if he would have safety."
We must now once more follow the course of Jean Charost. It has been said that when the gates of the house of Madame De Giac (by a contrivance very common at that time in Paris for saving the trouble of the porter and the time of the visitor, but with which he was unacquainted) rolled back on their hinges, without the visible intervention of any human being, he saw several persons running up the street in the direction which he himself intended to take. Man has usually a propensity to hurry in the same course as others, and, springing on his horse's back, Jean Charost spurred on somewhat more quickly than he might have done had he seen no one running. As he advanced, he saw, in the direction of the Porte Barbette, a lurid glare beginning to rise above the houses, and glimmering upon large rolling volumes of heavy smoke The next instant, loud voices, shouting, reached his ear; but with the cries of fire he fancied there were mingled cries of murder. On up the street he dashed, and soon found himself at the corner of the Street of the Old Temple; but he could make nothing of the scene before his eyes. The house in front was on fire in various places, and would evidently soon be totally destroyed; but though there were a number of people in the street, running hither and thither in wild disorder, few stopped before the burning building even for a single moment, and most hurried past at once to a spot somewhat further down the street.
All who had collected as yet were on foot though he could see a horse further up toward the city gate; but while he was looking round him with some wonder, and hesitating whether he should first go on to inquire what was the matter where the principal crowd was collected, or ride at once to the Hôtel Barbette, a man in the royal liveries, with a halbert in his hand, crossed and looked hard at him. Suddenly another came running up the street, completely armed except the head, which was bare. The man with the halbert instantly stopped the other, apparently asking some question, and Jean Charost saw the armed man point toward him, exclaiming, "He must be one of them--he must be one of them." The next moment they both seized his bridle together; but they did not both retain their hold very long; for while he of the halbert demanded his name and business there, threatening to knock his brains out if he did not answer instantly, the armed man slipped by on the other side of the horse, turned round the corner of the street, and was lost to sight.
Jean Charost's name and business were soon explained; but still the man kept hold of his bridle. Two or three persons gathered round; and all apparently conceded that a great feat had been accomplished in making a prisoner, although there was no suspicious circumstance about him, except his being mounted on horseback, when all the rest were on foot. They continued to discuss what was to be done with him, till a large body of people came rushing down from the Hôtel Barbette, among whom the young secretary recognized one of the squires and two of the lackeys of the Duke of Orleans. To them Jean Charost instantly called, saying, "There is something amiss here. Pray explain to these men who I am; for they are stopping me without cause, and I can not proceed to join his highness."
"Why did you leave him so suddenly an hour ago?" cried the young squire, in a sharp tone. "You came with us from the Hôtel d'Orleans, and disappeared on the way. You had better keep him, my friends, till this bloody deed is inquired into."
Then turning to Jean Charost again, he added, "Do you not know that the duke has been foully murdered?"
The intelligence fell upon the young man's ear like thunder. He sat motionless and speechless on his horse, while the party from the Hôtel Barbette passed on; and he only woke from the state of stupefaction into which he was cast, to find his horse being led by two or three persons through the dark and narrow streets of Paris, whither he knew not. His first distinct thoughts, however, were of the duke rather than himself, and he inquired eagerly of his captors where and how the horrible deed had been perpetrated.
They were wise people, and exceedingly sapient in their own conceit, however. The queen's servant laughed with a sneer, saying, "No, no. We won't tell you any thing to prepare you for your examination before theprévôt. He will ask you questions, and then you answer him, otherwise he will find means to make you. We are not here to reply to your interrogatories."
The sapient functionary listened to no remonstrances, and finding his efforts vain, Jean Charost rode on in silence, sometimes tempted, indeed, to draw his sword, which had not yet been taken from him, and run the man with the halbert through the body; but he resisted the temptation.
At length, emerging from a narrow street, they came into a little square, on the opposite side of which rose a tall and gloomy building, without any windows apparent on the outside, except in the upper stories of two large towers, flanking a low dark archway. All was still and silent in the square; no light shone from the windows of that gloomy building; but straight toward the great gate they went, and one of the men rang a bell which hung against the tower. A loud, ferocious barking of dogs was immediately heard; but in an instant the gates were opened by a broad-shouldered, bow-legged man, who looked gloomily at the visitors, but said nothing; and the horse of Jean Charost was led in, while the porter drove back four savage dogs (which would fain have sprang at the prisoner); and instantly closed the gates. The archway in which the party now stood extended some thirty feet through the heavy walls, and at the other end appeared a second gate, exactly like the first; but the porter made no movement to open it, nor asked any questions, but suffered the queen's servant to go forward and ring another bell. That gate was opened, but not so speedily as the other, and a man holding a lantern appeared behind, with another personage at his side, dressed in a striped habit of various colors, which made Jean Charost almost believe that they had a buffoon even there. From the first words of the queen's servant, however, he learned that this was the jailer, and his face itself, hard, stern, and bitter, was almost an announcement of his office.
Nevertheless, he made some difficulty at first in regard to receiving a prisoner from hands unauthorized; but at length he consented to detain the young secretary till he could be interrogated by theprévôt. The captors then retired, and the jailers made their captive dismount and enter a small room near, where sat a man in black, writing. His name, his station, his occupation was immediately taken down, and then one of those harpies called thevalets de geôle; was called, who instantly commenced emptying his pockets of all they contained, took from him his sword, dagger, and belt, and even laid hands upon a small jeweledfermail, or clasp; upon his hood. The young man offered no resistance, of course; but when he found himself stripped of money, and every thing valuable, he was surprised to hear a demand made upon him for ten livres.
"This is a most extraordinary charge," he said, looking in the face of the jailer, who stood by, though it was the valet who made the demand.
"Why so, boy?" asked the man, gruffly. "It is the jailage due. You said your name was Jean Charost, Baron De Brecy. A baron pays the same as a count or a countess."
"But how can I pay any thing, when you have taken every thing from me?" asked the young secretary.
"Oh, you are mistaken," said the jailer, with a rude laugh. "I see you are a young bird. All that has been taken from you, except the fees of the jail, will be restored when you go out, if you ever do. But you must consent with your own tongue to my taking the money for my due, otherwise we shall put you to sleep in the ditch, where you pay half fees, and I take them without asking."
"Take it, take it," said Jean Charost, with a feeling of horror and dismay that made him feel faint and sick. "Treat me as well as you can, and take all that is your right. If more be needed, you can have it."
The jailer nodded his head to the valet, who grinned at the prisoner, saying, "We will treat you very well, depend upon it. You shall have a clean cell, with a bed four feet wide, and only two other gentlemen in it, both of them of good birth, though one is in for killing a young market-woman. He will have his head off in three days, and then you will have only one companion."
"Can not I be alone?" asked Jean Charost.
"The law is, three prisoners to one bed," replied the valet of the jail, "and we can't change the custom--unless you choose to pay"--he added--"four deniers a night for a single bed, and two for the place on which it stands."
"Willingly, willingly," cried the young man, who now saw that money would do much in a jail, as well as elsewhere. "Can I have a cell to myself?"
"To be sure. There is plenty of room," replied the jailer. "If you choose to pay the dues for two other barons, you can have the space they would occupy."
Jean Charost consented to every thing that was demanded; the fees were taken by the jailer; the rest of the money found upon him was registered by the man in black, who seemed a mere automaton; and then he was led away by the valet of the jail to a small room not very far distant. On the way, and for a minute or two after his arrival in the cell, the valet continued to give him rapid but clear information concerning the habits and rules of the place. He found that, if he attempted to escape, the law would hold him guilty of whatever crime he was charged with; that he could neither have writing materials, nor communicate with any friend without an application to one of the judges at the Châtelet; that all the law allowed a prisoner was bread and water, and, in the end, that every thing could be procured by money--except liberty.
Jean Charost hesitated not then to demand all he required, and the valet, on returning to the jailer, after having thrice-locked and thrice-bolted the door, informed his master that the young prisoner was a "good orange," which probably meant that he was easily sucked.