Читать книгу Agnes Sorel - G. P. R. James - Страница 9

Hope is nothing but a bit of cork floating on the sea of life, now tossed up into the sky, now sunk down into the abyss, but rising, rising again over the crest of the foamy wave, and topping all things even unto the end.

Joyous and hopeful, Jean Charost presented himself at the gates of the Duke of Orleans's palace; but the heavy door under the archway was closed, and some minutes elapsed ere he obtained admission. The tall man who opened for him seemed doubtful whether he would let him in or not; and it was not till Jean had explained that the duke had appointed him, and that he was the person who had accompanied Jacques Cœur on the preceding night, that the man would let him pass the wicket. He then told him, however, to go on to the house and inquire for the master of the pages.

Jean Charost was not very well satisfied with this reply; for, to his mind, it seemed to indicate that the duke had made up his mind to place him among his pages, and had given orders accordingly. Now the position of a page in a great household was not very desirable in the eyes of Jean Charost; besides, he had passed the age, he thought, when such a post was appropriate. He had completed his seventeenth year, and looked much older than he really was.

As he walked on, however, he heard a step behind him, and, looking round, saw a man following him. There was nothing very marvelous in this, and he proceeded on his way till he found himself in the vestibule before described, and asked, as he had been directed, for the master of the pages. The man to whom he addressed himself said, "I'll send you to him. You were here last night, were you not, young gentleman?"

Jean Charost answered in the affirmative, and the man made a sign to the person who had followed the youth across the garden and had entered the vestibule with him. Immediately Jean felt his arm taken hold of, somewhat roughly, by the personage behind him, and, ere he well knew what was taking place, he was pulled into a small room on one side of the vestibule, and the door closed upon him. The room was already tenanted by three or four persons of different conditions. One seemed an old soldier, with a very white beard, and a scar across his brow; one was dressed as a mendicant friar; and one, by his round jacket, knee-breeches, and blue stockings, with broad-toed shoes and a little square cap, was evidently a mechanic. The old soldier was walking up and down the room with a very irritable air; the mendicant friar was telling his beads with great rapidity; the mechanic sat in a corner, twisting his thumbs round and round each other, and looking half stupefied. The scene did not explain itself at all, and Jean stood for a moment or two, not at all comprehending why he was brought there, or what was to happen next.

"By Saint Hubert, this is too bad!" exclaimed the old soldier, at length; and approaching the door, he tried to open it, but it was locked.

"Pray, what is the matter?" asked Jean Charost, simply.

"Why, don't you know?" exclaimed the old man. "On my life, I believe the duke is as mad as his brother."

"The fact is, my son," said the friar, "some offense was committed here last night, a robbery or a murder; and the duke has given orders that every body who was at the house after the hour of seven should be detained till the matter is investigated."

"He does not suppose I committed a murder!" exclaimed the old soldier, in a tone of great indignation.

"I can't tell that," replied the friar, with a quiet smile; "gentlemen of your profession sometimes do."

"I never murdered any body in my life," whined the mechanic.

"Happy for you," said the friar; "and happier still if you get people to believe you."

He then addressed himself to his beads again, and for nearly an hour all was silence in the room, except the low muttering of the friar's paters and aves. But the gay hopes of Jean Charost sunk a good deal under the influence of delay and uncertainty, although, of course, he felt nothing like alarm at the situation in which he was placed. At length a man in a black gown and a square black cap was introduced, struggling, it is true, and saying to those who pushed him in, "Mark, I resist! it is not with my own consent. This incarceration is illegal. The duke is not a lord high justiciary on this ground; and for every minute I will have my damages, if there be honesty in the sovereign courts, and justice in France."

The door was closed upon him, however, unceremoniously; for the servants of great men in those days were not very much accustomed to attend to punctilios of law; and the advocate, for so he seemed, turned to his fellow-prisoners, and told them in indignant terms how he had been engaged to defend the steward of the prince in a little piece of scandal that had arisen in the Marais; how he had visited him to consult the night before, and had been seized on his return that day, and thrust in there upon a pretense that would not bear an argument.

"I thought," said the old soldier, bitterly, "that you men of the robe would make any thing bear an argument. I know you argued me out of all my fortune among you."

The little petulant man of law had not time to reply, when the door was opened, and the whole party were marched into the presence of the Duke of Orleans, under the escort of half a dozen men-at-arms.

The duke was seated in the little hall where Jean Charost had seen him on the preceding night, with his hair rough and disheveled, and his apparel neglected. His eyes were fixed upon the table before him, and he only raised them once or twice during the scene that followed; but a venerable-looking man who sat beside him, and who was, in fact, one of the judges of the Châtelet, kept his eyes fixed upon the little party which now entered with one of those cold, fixed, but piercing looks that seem to search the heart by less guarded avenues than the lips.

"Ah, Maître Pierrot le Brun," he said, looking at the advocate, "I will deal with you, brother, first. Pray what was it brought you hither last night, and again this morning?"

The advocate replied, but in a tone greatly subdued, as compared with that which he had used in the company of his fellow-prisoners. His case was soon proved, and he was suffered to depart, offering somewhat humiliating thanks for his speedy dismissal.

The old soldier, however, maintained his surly tone, and when asked what brought him thither the night before and again that day, replied boldly, "I came to see if the Duke of Orleans would do something for a man-at-arms of Charles the Fifth. I fought for his father, and was one half ruined by my services to my king, the other half by such men as the one who has just gone out. I can couch a lance, or wield a sword as well as ever, and I don't see why, being a gentleman of name and arms, I should be thrown on one side like a rusty plastron."

The Duke of Orleans suddenly raised his head, asked the old man's name, wrote something on a bit of paper, and gave it to him, seeming to raise no small emotions of joy and satisfaction; for the soldier caught his hand and kissed it warmly, as if his utmost wishes were gratified.

The judge was for asking some more questions, but the duke interfered, saying, "I know him--let him pass. He had no share in this."

The mendicant friar was next examined, and, to say truth, his account of himself did not seem, to the ears of Jean Charost at least, to be quite as satisfactory as could be desired. His only excuse for being twice in the palace of the duke within four-and-twenty hours was, that he came to beg an alms for his convent, and there was a look of shrewd meaning in his countenance while he replied, which to one who did not know all the various trades exercised by gentry of his cloth, seemed exceedingly suspicious. The duke and the magistrate, however, appeared to be satisfied, and the former then turned his eyes upon Jean Charost, while the judge called up the mechanic and put some questions to him.

"Who are you, young gentleman?" said the Duke of Orleans, motioning Jean to approach him. "I have seen your face somewhere--who are you?"

"I waited upon your highness last night," replied Jean Charost, with the rear-guard of all his hopes and expectations routed by the discovery that the duke did not even recollect him. "I was brought hither by Monsieur Jacques Cœur; and by your own command, I returned this morning at nine o'clock."

"I remember," said the duke, "I remember;" and, casting down his eyes again, he fell into a fit of thought which had not come to an end when the judge concluded his examination of the poor mechanic. That examination had lasted longer than any of the others; for it seemed that the man had been working till a late hour on the previous evening on the bolts of some windows which looked from a neighboring house into the gardens of the Orleans palace, and that shortly before the hour at which the murder was committed he had seen a tall man pass swiftly along the corridor, near which he was employed. He could not describe his apparel, the obscurity having prevented his remarking the color; but he declared that it looked like the costume of a priest or a monk, and was certainly furnished with a hood, much in the shape of a cowl. This was all that could be extracted from him, and, indeed, it was evident that he knew no more; so, in the end, he was suffered to depart.

The judge then turned to Jean Charost, who remained standing before the Duke of Orleans, in anxious expectation of what was to come next. The duke was still buried in thought; for the young man's reply to his question had probably revived in his mind all the painful feelings first produced by the intelligence which had interrupted his conversation with Jacques Cœur on the preceding night.

"What is your name, your profession, and what brought you to the Orleans palace last night, young man?" asked the judge, in a grave, but not a stern tone.

"My name is Jean Charost de Brecy," replied the young man, "a gentleman by name and arms; and I came hither last night--"

But the Duke of Orleans roused himself from his revery, and waved his hand, saying, "Enough--enough, my good friend. I know all about this young man. He could have no share in the dark deed: for he was with me when it was done. I forgot his face for a moment; but I remember him well now, and what I promised him."

"Suffer me, your highness," said the judge. "We know not what he may have seen in coming or going. Things which seem trifles often have bearings of great weight upon important facts--at what time came you hither, young gentleman? Were you alone, and, if not, who was with you?"

Jean Charost answered briefly and distinctly, and the judge then inquired, "Did you meet any one, as you entered this house, who seemed to be quitting it?"

"No," replied Jean Charost, "several persons were lingering about the gate, and in front, between the walls and the chain; but nobody seemed quitting the spot."

"No one in a long flowing robe and cowl, the habit of a priest or a friar?" asked the judge.

"No," replied Jean Charost; "but we saw, a few moments before, a man such as you describe, seeking admission at the gates of a large house like a monastery. He seemed in haste, too, from the way he rang the bell."

The judge questioned him closely as to the position of the house he described; and when he had given his answer, turned to the duke, saying, "The Celestins."

"They have had naught to do with it," replied the duke, at once. "The good brethren love me too well to inflict such grief upon me."

"They have cause, my lord," replied the judge; "but we do not always find that gratitude follows good offices. By your permission, I will make some inquiry as to who was the person who entered their gates last night at the hour named."

"As you will," replied the duke, shaking his head; "but I repeat, there is something within me which tells me better than the clearest evidence, who was the man that did this horrid act; and he is not at the Celestins. Inquire, if you please; but it is vain, I know. He and I will meet, however, ere our lives end. My conscience was loaded on his account. He has well balanced the debt; and when we meet--"

He added no more, but clasped his hands tight together, and set his teeth bitterly.

"Nevertheless, I will inquire," said the judge, who seemed somewhat pertinacious in his own opinions. "It is needful that this should be sifted to the bottom. Such acts are becoming too common."

As he spoke, he rose and took his leave, bidding the artisan follow him; and Jean Charost remained alone in the presence of the Duke of Orleans, though two or three servants and armed men passed and repassed from time to time across the further end of the hall.

For several minutes the duke remained in thought; but at length he raised his eyes to Jean Charost's face, and gazed at him for a few moments with an absent air. Then rising, he beckoned him to follow, saying, "Come with me. There is a weight in this air; it is heavy with sorrow."

Thus saying, he led the way through a small door at the end of the hall--opposite to that by which the young gentleman had entered--into a large, square, inner court of the palace, round three sides of which ran an arcade or cloister.

"Give me your arm," said the duke, as they issued forth; and, leaning somewhat heavily on his young companion, he continued to pace up and down the arcade for more than an hour, sometimes in silence--sometimes speaking a few words--asking a question--making some observation on the reply--or giving voice to the feelings of his own heart, in words which Jean Charost did not half understand.

More than once a page, a servant, or an armed officer would come and ask a question, receive the duke's answer, and retire. But in all instances the prince's reply was short, and made without pausing in his walk. It was evidently one of those moments of struggle when the mind seeks to cast off the oppression of some great and heavy grief, rousing itself again to resist, after one of all the many stunning blows which every one must encounter in this mortal career. And it is wonderful how various is the degree of elasticity--the power of action--shown by the spirits of different men in the same circumstances. The weak and puny, the tender and the gentle fall, crushed, as it were, probably never to recover, or crawl away from a battle-field, for which they are not fitted, to seek in solitude an escape from the combat of life. The stern and hardy warrior, accustomed to endure and to resist, may be cast down for a moment by the shock, but starts on his feet again, ready to do battle the next instant; and the light and elastic leaps up with the very recoil of the fall, and mingles in the melee again, as if sporting with the ills of the world. In the character of the Duke of Orleans there was something of both the latter classes of mind. From his very infancy he had been called upon to deal with the hard things of life. Strife, evil, sorrow, care, danger, had been round his cradle, and his youth and his manhood had been passed in contests often provoked by himself, often forced upon him by others.

It was evident that, in the present case, the prince had suffered deeply, and we have seen that he yielded, more than perhaps he had ever done before, to the weight of his sorrow. But he was now making a great effort to cast off the impression, and to turn his mind to new themes, as a relief from the bitterness of memory. He was in some degree successful, although his thoughts would wander back, from time to time, to the painful topic from which he sought to withdraw them; but every moment he recovered himself more and more. At first, his conversation with Jean Charost consisted principally of questions, the replies to which were hardly heard or noticed; but gradually he began to show a greater interest in the subject spoken of, questioned the young man much, both in regard to Jacques Cœur and to his own fate and history, and though he mused from time to time over the replies, yet he soon returned to the main subject again, and seemed pleased and well satisfied with the answers he received.

Indeed, the circumstances attending both the first introduction and second interview of Jean Charost with the duke were of themselves fortunate. He became associated, as it were, in the prince's mind with moments sanctified by sorrow, and filled with deep emotion. A link of sympathy seemed to be established between them, which nothing else could have produced, and the calm, graceful, thoughtful tone of the young man's mind harmonized so well with the temporary feelings of the prince, that, in the hour which followed, he had made more progress in his regard than a gayer, a lighter, a more brilliant spirit could have done in double the time.

Still, nothing had been said of the position which Jean Charost was to occupy in the prince's household, when a man bearing a long white wand entered, and informed the duke that the Duke de Berri was coming that way to visit him. Orleans turned, and advanced a few steps toward a door leading from the court into the interior of the building, as if to meet his noble relation. But before he was half down the arcade, the Duke de Berri was marshaled in, with some state, by the prince's officers.

"Leave us," said the Duke of Orleans, speaking to the attendants, as soon as he had embraced his relation; and Jean Charost, receiving the command as general, was about to follow. But the prince stopped him, beckoning him up, and presented him to the Duke de Berri, saying, "This is my young secretary, noble uncle; given to me by my good friend Jacques Cœur. I have much to say to you; some part of which it may be necessary to reduce to writing. We had better, therefore, keep him near us."

The Duke de Berri merely bowed his head, gazing at Jean Charost thoughtfully; and the prince added, "But the air is shrewd and keen, even here, notwithstanding the sunshine. Let us go into the octagon chamber. No, not there, it overlooks that dreadful room. This way, my uncle."