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(the New York Public Library)
AGNES SOREL.
A Novel
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,
AUTHOR OF
"LIFE OF VICISSITUDES," "PEQUINILLO," "THE FATE," "AIMS AND
OBSTACLES," "HENRY SMEATON," "THE WOODMAN," &c., &c., &c.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1864
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, by
GEORGE P. R. JAMES,
in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
TO
MAUNSELL B. FIELD, ESQ.,
NOT ONLY AS THE COMPANION OF SOME OF MY LITERARY LABORS, BUT
AS MY DEAR FRIEND; NOT ONLY AS A GENTLEMAN AND A MAN
OF HONOR, BUT AS A MAN OF GENIUS AND OF FEELING;
NOT ONLY AS ONE WHO DOES HONOR TO HIS OWN
COUNTRY, BUT AS ONE WHO WOULD DO
HONOR TO ANY,
This Book is Dedicated, with sincere Regard,
BY G. P. R. JAMES.
AGNES SOREL.
CHAPTER I.
How strange the sensation would be, how marvelously interesting the scene, were we to wake up from some quiet night's rest and find ourselves suddenly transported four or five hundred years back--living and moving among the men of a former age!
To pass from the British fortress of Gibraltar, with drums and fifes, red coats and bayonets, in a few hours, to the coast of Africa, and find one's self surrounded by Moors and male petticoats, turbans and cimeters, is the greatest transition the world affords at present; but it is nothing to that of which I speak. How marvelously interesting would it be, also, not only to find one's self brought in close contact with the customs, manners, and characteristics of a former age, with all our modern notions strong about us, but to be met at every turn by thoughts, feelings, views, principles, springing out of a totally different state of society, which have all passed away, and moldered, like the garments in which at that time men decorated themselves.
Such, however, is the leap which I wish the reader to take at the present moment; and--although I know it to be impossible for him to divest himself of all those modern impressions which are a part of his identity--to place himself with me in the midst of a former period, and to see himself surrounded for a brief space with the people, and the things, and the thoughts of the fifteenth century.
Let me premise, however, in this prefatory chapter, that the object of an author, in the minute detail of local scenery and ancient customs, which he is sometimes compelled to give, and which are often objected to by the animals with long ears that browse on the borders of Parnassus, is not so much to show his own learning in antiquarian lore, as to imbue his reader with such thoughts and feelings as may enable him to comprehend the motives of the persons acting before his eyes, and the sensations, passions, and prejudices of ages passed away. Were we to take an unsophisticated rustic, and baldly tell him, without any previous intimation of the habits of the time, that the son of a king of England one day went out alone--or, at best, with a little boy in his company--all covered over with iron; that he betook himself to a lone and desolate pass in the mountains, traversed by a high road, and sat upon horseback by the hour together, with a spear in his hand, challenging every body who passed to fight him, the unsophisticated rustic would naturally conclude that the king's son was mad, and would expect to hear of him next in Bedlam, rather than on the throne of England. I let any one tell him previously of the habits, manners, and customs of those days, and the rustic--though he may very well believe that the whole age was mad--will understand and appreciate the motives of the individual, saying to himself, "This man was not a bit madder than the rest."
However, this book is not intended to be a mere painting of the customs of the fifteenth century, but rather a picture of certain characters of that period, dressed somewhat in the garb of the times, and moved by those springs of action which influenced men in the age to which I refer. It has been said, and justly, that human nature is the same in all ages; but as a musical instrument will produce many different tones, according to the hand which touches it, so will human nature present many different aspects, according to the influences by which it is affected. At all events, I claim a right to play my own tune upon my violin, and what skills it if that tune be an air of the olden times. No one need listen who does not like it.
CHAPTER II.
There was a small, square room, of a very plain, unostentatious appearance, in the turret of a tall house in the city of Paris. The walls were of hewn stone, without any decoration whatever, except where at the four sides, and nearly in the centre of each, appeared a long iron arm, or branch, with a socket at the end of it, curved and twisted in a somewhat elaborate manner, and bearing some traces of having been gilt in a former day. The ceiling was much more decorated than the walls, and was formed by two groined arches of stone-work, crossing each other in the middle, and thus forming, as it were, four pointed arches, the intervals between one mass of stone-work and another being filled up with dark-colored oak, much after the fashion of a cap in a coronet. The spot where the arches crossed was ornamented with a richly-carved pendant, or corbel, in the centre of which was embedded a massive iron hook, probably intended to sustain a large lamp, while the iron sockets protruding from the walls were destined for flambeaux or lanterns. The floor was of stone, and a rude mat of rushes was spread over about one eighth of the surface, toward the middle of the room, where stood a table of no very large dimensions, covered with a great pile of papers and a few manuscript books. No lamp hung from the ceiling; no lantern or flambeau cast its light from the walls as had undoubtedly been the case in earlier times: the tall, quaint-shaped window, besides being encumbered by a rich tracery of stone-work, could not admit even the moonbeams through the thick coat of dust that covered its panes, and the only light which that room received was afforded by a dull oil lamp upon the table, without glass or shade. All the furniture looked dry and withered, as it were, and though solid enough, being balkily formed of dark oak, presented no ornament whatever. It was, in short, an uncomfortable-looking apartment enough, having a ruinous and dilapidated appearance, without any of the picturesqueness of decay. Under the table lay a large, brindled, rough-haired dog, of the stag-hound breed, but cruelly docked of his tail, in accordance with some code of forest laws, which at that time were very numerous and very various in different parts of France, but all equally unjust and severe. Apparently he was sound asleep as dog could be; but we all know that a dog's sleep is not as profound as a metaphysician's dream, and from time to time he would raise his head a little from his crossed paws, and look slightly up toward the legs of a person seated at the table.
Now those legs--to begin at the unusual end of a portrait--were exceedingly handsome, well-shaped legs, indeed, evidently appertaining to a young man on the flowery side of maturity. There was none of the delicate, rather unsymmetrical straightness of the mere boy about them, nor the over-stout, balustrade-like contour of the sturdy man of middle age. Nor did the rest of the figure belie their promise, for it was in all respects a good one, though somewhat lightly formed, except the shoulders, indeed, which were broad and powerful, and the chest, which was wide and expansive. The face was good, though not strictly handsome, and the expression was frank and bright, yet with a certain air of steady determination in it which is generally conferred by the experience of more numerous years than seemed to have passed over that young and unwrinkled brow.
The dress of the young scribe--for he was writing busily--was in itself plain, though not without evident traces of care and attention in its device and adjustment. The shoes were extravagantly long, and drawn out to a very acute point, and the gray sort of mantle, with short sleeves, which he wore over his ordinary hose and jerkin, had, at the collar, and at the end of those short sleeves, a little strip of fur--a mark, possibly, of gentle birth, for sumptuary laws, always ineffectual, were issued from time to time, during all the earlier periods of the French monarchy, and generally broken as soon as issued.
There was no trace of beard upon the chin. The upper lip itself was destitute of the manly mustache, and the hair, combed back from the forehead, and lying in smooth and glossy curls upon the back of the neck, gave an appearance almost feminine to the head, which was beautifully set upon the shoulders. The broad chest already mentioned, however, the long, sinewy arms, and the strong brown hand which held the pen, forbade all suspicion that the young writer was a fair lady in disguise, although that was a period in the world's history when the dames of France were not overscrupulous in assuming any character which might suit their purposes for the time.
There was a good deal of noise and bustle in the streets of Paris, as men with flambeaux in their hands walked on before some great lord of the court, calling "Place! place!" to clear the way for their master as he passed; or as a merry party of citizens returned, laughing and jesting, from some gay meeting; or as a group of night-ramblers walked along, insulting the ear of night with cries, and often with blasphemies; or as lays and songs were trolled up from the corners of the streets by knots of persons, probably destitute of any other home, assembled round the large bonfires, lighted to give warmth to the shivering poor--for it was early in the winter of the great frost of one thousand four hundred and seven, and the miseries of the land were great. Still, the predominant sounds were those of joy and revelry; for the people of Paris were the same in those days that they are even now; and joy, festivity, and frolic, then, as in our own days, rolled and caroled along the highways, while the dust was yet wet with blood, and wretchedness, destitution, and oppression lurked unseen behind the walls. No sounds, however, seemed to disturb the lad at his task, or to withdraw his thoughts for one moment from the subject before him. Now a loud peal of laughter shook the casement; but still he wrote on. Now a cry, as if of pain, rang round the room from without, but such cries were common in those days, and he lifted not his head. And then again a plaintive song floated on the air, broken only by the striking of a clock, jarring discordantly with the mellow notes of the air; but still the pen hurried rapidly over the page, till some minutes after the hour of nine had struck, when he laid it down with a deep respiration, as if some allotted task were ended.
At length the dog which was lying at his feet lifted his head suddenly and gazed toward the door. The youth was reading over what he had written, and caught no sound to withdraw his attention; but the beast was right. There was a step--a familiar step--upon the stair-case, and the good dog rose up, and walked toward the entrance of the room, just as the door was opened, and another personage entered upon the scene.
He was a grave man, of the middle age, tall, well formed, and of a noble and commanding presence. He was dressed principally in black velvet, with a gown of that stuff, which was lined with fur, indeed, though none of that lining was shown externally. On his head he had a small velvet cap, without any feather, and his hair was somewhat sprinkled with gray, though in all probability he had not passed the age of forty.
"Well, Jean," he said, in a deliberate tone, as he entered the room with a firm and quiet tread, "how many have you done, my son?"
"All of them, sir," replied the young man. "I was just reading over this last letter to Signor Bernardo Baldi, to see that I had made no mistake."
"You never mistake, Jean," said the elder man, in a kindly tone; and then added, thoughtfully, "All? You must have written hard, and diligently."
"You told me to have them ready against you returned, sir," said the youth.
"Yes, but I have returned an hour before the time," rejoined his elder companion; and then, as the young man moved away from the chair which he occupied, in order to leave it vacant for himself, the elder drew near the table, and, still standing, glanced his eye over some six or seven letters which lay freshly written, and yet unfolded. It was evident, however, that though, by a process not uncommon, the mind might take in, and even investigate, to a certain degree, all that the eye rested upon, a large part of the thoughts were engaged with other subjects, and that deeper interests divided the attention of the reader.
"There should be a comma there," he said, pointing with his finger, and at the same time seating himself in the chair.
The young man took the letter and added the comma; but when he looked up, his companion's eyes were fixed upon the matting on the floor, and it was apparent that the letters, and all they contained, had passed away from his memory.
The dog rose from the couchant attitude in which he had placed himself, and laid his shaggy head upon the elder man's knee; and, patting him quietly, the newcomer said, in a meditative tone, "It is pleasant to have some one we can trust. Don't you think so, Jean?"
"It is indeed, sir," replied the young man; "and pleasant to be trusted."
"And yet we must sometimes part with those we most trust," continued the other. "It is sad, but sometimes it is necessary."
The young man's countenance fell a little, but he made no reply, and the other, looking toward the wide fire-place, remarked, "You have let the fire go out, Jean, and these are not days in which one can afford to be without warmth."
The young man gathered the embers together, threw on some logs of wood, and both he and his companion mused for several minutes without speaking a word. At length the youth seemed to summon sudden courage, and said, abruptly, "I hope you are not thinking of parting with me, sir. I have endeavored to the utmost to do my duty toward you well, and you have never had occasion to find fault; though perhaps your kindness may have prevented you from doing so, even when there was occasion."
"Not so, not so, my son," replied the other, warmly; "there has been no fault, and consequently no blame. Nay more, I promised you, if you fulfilled all the tasks I set you well, never to part with you but for your own advantage. The time has come, however, when it is necessary to part with you, and I must do so for your own sake."
There was a dead silence for a moment or two, and then the elder man laid his finger quietly on the narrow strip of fur that bordered his companion's dress, saying, with a slight smile, "You are of noble blood, Jean, and I am a mere bourgeois."
"I can easily strip that off, if it offends you, sir," replied the young man, giving him back his smile. "It is soon done away."
"But not the noble blood, Jean," answered his companion; "and this occupation is not fitted for you."
An air of deep and anxious grief spread over the young man's face, and he answered earnestly, "There is nothing derogatory in it, sir. To write your letters, to transact any honorable business which you may intrust to me, can not in any way degrade me, and you know right well that it was from no base or ignoble motive that I undertook the task. My mother's poverty is no stain upon our honorable blood, nor surely can her son's efforts be so to change that poverty into competence."
His companion smiled upon him kindly, saying, "Far from it, Jean; but still, if there be an opportunity of your effecting your object in a course more consonant with your birth and station, it is my duty as your friend to seize it for you. Such an opportunity now presents itself, and you must take advantage of it. It may turn out well; I trust it will; but, should the reverse be the case--for in these strange, unsettled times, those who stand the highest have most to fear a fall--if the reverse should be the case, I say, you will always find a resource in Jacques Coeur; his house, his purse, his confidence will be always open to you. Put on your chaperon, then, and come with me: for Fortune, like Time, should always be taken by the forelock. The jade is sure to kick if we get behind her."
The young man took down one of the large hoods in which it was still customary, for the bourgeoisie especially, to envelop their heads, when walking in the streets of Paris. Beneath it, however, he placed a small cap, fitting merely the crown of the head, and over the sort of tunic he wore he cast a long mantle, for the weather was very cold. When fully accoutered, he ventured to ask where MaÎtre Coeur was going to take him; but the good merchant answered with a smile, "Never mind, my son, never mind. If we succeed as I expect, you will soon know; if not, there is no need you should. Come with me, Jean, and trust to me."
"Right willingly," replied the young man, and followed him.
The house was a large and handsome house, as things went at that time in Paris; but the stair-case was merely one of those narrow, twisting spirals which we rarely see, except in cathedrals or ruined castles, in the present times. Windows to that stair-case there were none, and in the daytime the manifold steps received light only through a loophole here and there; for in those days it was not at all inconvenient for the owner, even of a very modest mansion, to have the means of ascending and descending from one part of his house to the other, without the danger of being struck by the arrows which were flying somewhat too frequently in the streets of Paris. At night, a lantern, guarded by plates of horn from the cold blasts through the loopholes, shed a faint and twinkling ray, at intervals of ten or twelve yards, upon the steps. But Jacques Coeur and his young companion were both well acquainted with the way, and were soon at the little door which opened into the court-yard. Jean Charost looked round for the merchant's mule, as they issued forth; but no mule was there, nor any attendant in waiting; and Jacques Coeur drawing his cloak more tightly around him, walked straight out of the gates, and along the narrow streets, unlighted by any thing but the pale stars shining dimly in the wintery sky.
The merchant walked fast, and Jean Charost followed a step behind: not without some curiosity: not without some of that palpitating anxiety which, with the young, generally precedes an unexpected change of life, yet with a degree, at least, of external calmness which nothing but very early discipline in the hard school of the world could give. It seemed to him, indeed, that his companion intended to traverse the whole city of Paris; for, directing his course toward the quarter of St. Antoine, he paused not during some twenty minutes, except upon one occasion, when, just as they were entering one of the principal streets, half a dozen men, carrying torches, came rapidly along, followed by two or three on horseback, and several on foot. Jacques Coeur drew back into the shadow, and brought his cloak closer round him; but the moment the cavalcade had passed he walked on again, saying in a whisper, "That is the Marquis de Giac, a favorite of the Duke of Burgundy--or, rather, the husband of the duke's favorite. He owes me a thousand crowns, and, consequently, loves not to see me in his way."
Five minutes more brought them to a large stone wall, having two towers, almost like those of a church, one at either end, and a great gate with a wicket near the centre. Monasteries were more common than bee-hives in Paris in those days, and Jean Charost would have taken no notice of the wall, or of a large, dull-looking building rising up behind it, had it not been that a tall man, clad apparently in a long gray gown, rushed suddenly up to the gate, just as the two men were passing, and rang the bell violently. He seemed to hold something carefully on his left arm; but his air was wild and hurried, and Jacques Coeur murmured, as they passed, "Alas, alas! 'Tis still the same, all over the world."
Jean Charost did not venture to ask the meaning of his comment, but looked up and marked the building well, following still upon the merchant's rapid steps; and a short distance further on the great towers of the Bastile came in sight, looking over the lesser buildings in the front.
Before they reached the open space around the fortress, however, the street expanded considerably, and at its widest point, appeared upon the left a large and massive edifice, surrounded by walls of heavy masonry, battlemented and machicolated, with four small, flanking towers at the corners. In the centre of this wall, as in the case of the monastery, was a large gateway; but the aspect of this entrance was very different from that of the entrance to the religious building. Here was an archway with battlements above, and windows in the masonry looking out on the street. A parapetted gallery, too, of stone-work, from which a porter or warden could speak with any one applying for admission, without opening the gate, ran along just above the arch.
No great precaution, however, seemed to be in force at the moment of Jacques Coeur's approach. The gate was open, though not unguarded; for two men, partly armed, were lolling at the entrance, notwithstanding the coldness of the night. Behind the massy chains, too, which ran along the whole front line of the wall, solidly riveted into strong stone posts, cutting off a path of about five feet in width from the street, were eight or nine men and young lads, some well armed, almost as if for war, and some dressed in gay and glittering apparel of a softer texture. The night, as I have said, was in sooth very cold; but yet the air before the building received some artificial warmth from a long line of torches, blazing high in iron sockets projecting from the walls, which looked grim and frowning in the glare.
At the gates Jacques Coeur stopped short, and let his mantle fall a little, so as to show his face. One of the men under the arch stared at him, and took a step forward, as if to inquire his business, but the other nodded his head, saying, "Good evening, again, MaÎtre Jacques. Pass in. You will find Guillot at the door."
"Come, Jean," said Jacques Coeur, turning to his young companion; and passing under the arch, they entered a small piece of ground laid out apparently as a garden; for the light of some lanterns, scattered here and there, showed a number of trees planted in even rows, in the midst of which rose a palace of a much lighter and more graceful style of architecture than the stern and heavy-looking defenses on the street could have led any one to expect. A flight of steps led up from the garden to a deep sort of open entrance-hall, where a light was burning, showing a door of no very great size, surrounded with innumerable delicate moldings of stone. To the door was fastened, by a chain, a large, heavy iron ring, deeply notched all along the internal circle, and by its side hung a small bar of steel, which, when run rapidly over these notches, produced a loud sound, not altogether unmusical. To this instrument of sound Jacques Coeur applied himself, and the door was immediately opened from within.
"Come in, MaÎtre Jacques," said a man of almost gigantic height. "Come in; the duke is waiting for you in the little hall."
CHAPTER III.
Passing through a small and narrow hall, Jacques Coeur and his companion ascended a flight of six or seven steps, and then entered, by a door larger than that which communicated with the garden, a vestibule of very splendid proportions.
It must be remembered that the arts were at that time just at the period of their second birth in Europe; the famous fifteenth century had just begun, and a true taste for the beautiful, in every thing except architecture, was confined to the breasts of a few. Cimabue, Giotto, Hubert van Eyk, and John of Bruges had already appeared; but the days of Leonardo, of Raphael, of Michael Angelo, of Giorgione, and of Correggio were still to come. Nevertheless, the taste for both painting and sculpture was rapidly extending in all countries, and especially in France, which, though it never produced a great man in either branch of art, had always an admiration of that which is fine when produced by others. It was with astonishment and delight, then, that Jean Charost, who had never in his life before seen any thing that deserved the name of a painting, except a fresco here and there, and the miniature illuminations of missals and psalm books, beheld the vestibule surrounded on every side with pictures which appeared to him perfection itself, and which probably would have even presented to our eyes many points of excellence, unattained or unattainable by our own contemporaries. Though the apartment was well lighted, he had no time to examine the treasures it contained; for Jacques Coeur, more accustomed to such scenes himself, and with his mind fully occupied by other thoughts, hurried straight across to a wide, two-winged stair-case of black oak, at the further end of the vestibule, and ascended the steps at a rapid rate.
The young man followed through a long corridor, plainly furnished, till his guide stopped and knocked at a door on the right hand side. A voice from within exclaimed, "Come in;" and when Jacques Coeur opened the door, Jean Charost found himself at the entrance of a room and in the presence of a person requiring some description.
The little hall, as it was called, was a large vaulted chamber about forty feet in length, and probably twenty-six or twenty-eight in width. It was entirely lined with dark-colored wood, and the pointed arch of the roof, really or apparently supported by highly ornamented wood-work, was of the same material. All along the walls, however, upheld by rings depending from long arms of silver, were wide sheets of tapestry, of an ancient date, but full of still brilliant colors; and projecting from between these, at about six feet from the ground, were a number of other silver brackets supporting sconces of the same metal. Large straight-backed benches were arranged along the walls, touching the tapestry; but there was only one table in the room, on which stood a large candelabra of two lights, each supporting a wax taper or candle, not much inferior in size to those set upon the altar by Roman Catholics, and by those who repudiate the name, but follow the practices, of Rome--the mongrel breed, who have not the courage to confess themselves converted, yet have turned tail upon their former faith, and the faith of their ancestors.
At this table was seated, with paper, and pen, and ink before him--not unemployed even at that moment--a man of the middle age, of a very striking and interesting appearance. As none of the sconces were lighted, and the candelabra before him afforded the only light which the room received, he sat in the midst of a bright spot, surrounded almost by darkness, and, though Heaven knows, no saint, looking like the picture of a saint in glory. His face and figure might well have afforded a subject for the pencil; for not only was he handsome in feature and in form, but there was an indescribable charm of expression about his countenance, and a marvelous grace in his person which characterized both, even when in profound repose. We are too apt to confine the idea of grace to action. Witness a sleeping child--witness the Venus de Medici--witness the Sappho of Dannecker. At all other times it is evanescent, shifting, and changing, like the streamers of the Aurora Borealis. But in calm stillness, thought can dwell upon it; the mind can take it in, read it, and ponder upon its innate meaning, as upon the page of some ever-living book, and not upon the mere hasty word spoken by some passing stranger.
He was writing busily, and had apparently uttered the words, "Come in," without ever looking up; but the moment after Jacques Coeur and his young companion had entered, the prince--for he could be nothing else but a prince, let republicans say what they will--lifted his speaking eyes and looked forward.
"Oh, my friend," he said, seeing the great merchant; "come hither. I have been anxiously waiting for you."
Jacques Coeur advanced to within a few paces, while the other still kept his seat, and Jean Charost followed a step or two behind.
"Well, what news do you bring me?" asked the prince, lowering his tone a little; "good, I hope. Come, say you have changed your resolution! Why should a merchant's resolutions be made of sterner stuff than a woman's, or the moon's, or man's, or any other of the light things that inhabit this earth, or whirl around it? Faith, my good friend, the most beneficent of things are always changing. If the Sun himself stuck obstinately to one point, we should be scorched by summer heat, and blinded by too much light. But come, come; to speak seriously, this is absolutely needful to me--you are a friend--a good friend--a well-wisher to your country and myself. Say you have changed your mind."
All this time he had continued seated, while Jacques Coeur, without losing any of that dignity of carriage which distinguished him, stood near, with his velvet cap in his hand, and with an air of respect and deference. "I have told your highness," he replied, bowing his head reverently, "that I can not do it--that it is impossible."
The other started up from the table with some impetuosity. "Impossible?" he exclaimed. "What, would you have me believe that you, reputed the most wealthy merchant of all these realms, can not yourself, or among your friends, raise the small sum I require in a moment of great need? No, no. Say rather that your love for Louis of Orleans has grown cold, or that you doubt his power of repaying you--that you think fortune is against him--that you believe there is a destiny that domineers over his. But say not that it is impossible."
"My lord duke, I repeat," replied Jacques Coeur, in a tone which had a touch of sorrow in it, "I repeat, that it is impossible; not that my affection for your service has grown cold--not that I believe the destiny of any one in these realms can domineer over that of the brother of my king--not that I have not the money, or could not obtain it in Paris in an hour. Nay, more, I will own I have it, as by your somewhat unkind words, mighty prince, you drive me to tell you how it is impossible. I would have fain kept my reasons in respectful silence; but perhaps, after all, those reasons may be better to you than my gold."
"Odd's life, but not so substantial," replied the Duke of Orleans, with a smile, seating himself again, and adding, "speak on, speak on; for if we can not have one good thing, it is well to have another; and I know your reasons are always excellent, MaÎtre Jacques."
"Suppose, my lord," replied Jacques Coeur, "that this wealth of mine is bound up in iron chests, with locks of double proof, and I have lost the key."
"Heaven's queen, send for a blacksmith, and dash the chests to pieces," said the Duke of Orleans, with a laugh.
"Such, perhaps, is the way his highness of Burgundy would deal with them," replied Jacques Coeur. "But you, sir, think differently, I believe. But let me explain to you that the chests--these iron chests, are conscience--the locks, faith and loyalty--the only key that can open them, conviction. But to leave all allegories, my lord duke, I tell your highness frankly, that did you ask this sum for your own private need, my love and affection to your person would bid me throw my fortune wide before you, and say, 'Take what you will.' But when you tell me, and I know that your object is, with this same wealth of mine, to levy war in this kingdom, and tear the land with the strife of faction, I tell you I have not the key, and say it is impossible. I say it is impossible for me, with my convictions, to let you have this money for such purposes."
"Now look you here," cried the Duke of Orleans; "how these good men will judge of matters that they know not, and deal with things beyond their competence! Here, my good friend, you erect yourself into a judge of my plans, my purposes, and their results--at once testify against me, and pronounce the judgment."
"Nay, my good lord, not so," replied Jacques Coeur. "You ask me to do a thing depending on myself; and many a man would call various considerations to counsel before he said yea or nay; would ask himself whether it was convenient, whether there was a likelihood of gain, whether there was a likelihood of loss, whether he affected your side or that of Burgundy. Now, so help me Heaven, as not one of these considerations weighs with me for a moment. I have asked myself but one question: 'Is this for the good of my country? Is it for the service of my king?' Your highness laughs, but it is true; and the answer has been 'No.'"
"Jacques Coeur, thou art a good and honest man," replied the duke, laying his hand upon the merchant's sleeve, and looking in his face gravely; "but you drive me to give you explanations, which I think, as my friend and favorer, you might have spared. The spendthrift gives such explanations, summons plausible excuses, and tells a canting tale of how he came in such a strait, when he goes to borrow money of a usurer; but methinks such things should have no place between Louis of Orleans, the king's only brother, and his friend Jacques Coeur."
"Ah, noble prince," cried the merchant, very much touched. But the duke did not attend to his words; and, rising from his seat, threw back his fine and stately head, saying, "The explanation shall be given, however. I seek not one denier of this money for myself. My revenues are ample, more than ample for my wishes. My court is a very humble one, compared with that of Burgundy. But I seek this sum to enable me to avert dangers from France, which I see coming up speedily, like storms upon the wind. I need not tell you, Jacques Coeur, my brother's unhappy state, nor how he, who has ever possessed and merited the love of all his subjects, is, with rare intervals, unconscious of his kingly duties. The hand of God takes from him, during the greater part of life, the power of wielding the sceptre which it placed within his grasp."
"I know it well, your highness," replied the merchant.
"His children are all young, Jacques Coeur," continued the duke; "and there are but two persons sufficiently near in blood, and eminent in station, to exercise the authority in the land which slips from the grasp of the monarch--the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Orleans. The one, though a peer of France and prince of its blood royal, holds possessions which render him in some sorts a foreigner. Now God forbid that I should speak ill of my noble cousin of Burgundy; but he is a man of mighty power, and not without ambition--honorable, doubtless, but still high-handed and grasping. Burgundy and Flanders, with many a fair estate and territory besides, make up an almost kingly state, and I would ask you yourself if he does not well-nigh rule in France likewise. Hear me out, hear me out! You would say that he has a right to some influence here, and so he has. But I would have this well-nigh, not quite. I pledge you my word that my sole object is to raise up such a power as to awe my good cousin from too great and too dangerous enterprises. Were it a question of mere right--whose is the right to authority here, till the king's children are of an age to act, but the king's brother? Were it a question of policy--in whom should the people rely but in him whose whole interests are identified with this monarchy? Were it a question of judgment--who is so likely to protect, befriend, and direct aright the children of the king as the uncle who has fostered their youth, and loved them even as his own? There is not a man in all France who suspects me of wishing aught but their good. I fear not the Duke of Burgundy so much as to seek to banish him from all power and authority in the realm; but I only desire that his authority should have a counterpoise, in order that his power may never become dangerous. And now tell me, Jacques Coeur, whether my objects are such as you can honestly refuse to aid, remembering that I have used every effort, in a peaceful way, to induce my cousin of Burgundy to content himself with a lawful and harmless share of influence."
"My lord, I stand rebuked," replied Jacques Coeur. "But, if your highness would permit me, I would numbly suggest that efforts might strike others, to bring about the happy object you propose, which may have escaped your attention."
"Name them--name them," cried the Duke of Orleans, somewhat warmly. "By heaven's queen, I think I have adopted all that could be devised by mortal man. Name them, my good friend," he added, in a milder tone.
"Nay, royal sir," replied Jacques Coeur," it is not for one so humble as myself to suggest any remedies in such a serious case; but I doubt not your relatives, the Dukes of AlenÇon and Berri, and the good King of Sicily, so near and dear to you, might, in their wisdom, aid you with advice which would hold your honor secure, promote the pacification of the realm, and attain the great object that you have in view."
The Duke of Orleans made no reply, but walked once or twice up and down the hall, with his arms folded on his chest, apparently in deep thought. At length, however, he stopped before Jacques Coeur, and laid his finger on his breast, saying, in a grave and inquiring tone, "What would men think of me, my friend, if Louis of Orleans, in a private quarrel with John of Burgundy, were to call in the soft counsels of AlenÇon, of Berri, and Anjou? Would not men say that he was afraid?"
The slightest possible smile quivered for an instant on the lips of Jacques Coeur, but he replied, gravely and respectfully, "First, I would remark, your highness, that this is not a private quarrel, as I understand it, but a cause solely affecting the good of the realm."
The Duke of Orleans smiled also, with a gay, conscious, half-detected smile; but Jacques Coeur proceeded uninterrupted, saying, "Secondly, I should boldly answer that men would dare say nothing. The prince who boldly bearded Henry the Fourth of Lancaster on his usurped throne, to do battle hand to hand, in the hour of his utmost triumph and success,[1] could never be supposed afraid of any mortal man. Believe me, my lord, the thought of fear has never been, and never can be joined with the name of Louis of Orleans."
"Ah, Jacques Coeur, Jacques Coeur," replied the prince, laughing, "art thou a flatterer too?"
"If so, an honest one," answered the merchant; "and, without daring to dictate terms to your highness, let me add that, should you--thinking better of this case--employ the counsels of the noble princes I have mentioned, and their efforts prove unsuccessful, then, convinced that the last means for peace have been tried and failed, I shall find my duty and my wishes reconciled, and the last livre that I have, should I beg my bread in the streets as a common mendicant, will be freely offered in your just cause."
There was a warmth, a truth, a sincerity in the great merchant's words that seemed to touch his noble auditor deeply. The duke threw himself into his seat again, and covered his eyes for a moment or two; then, taking Jacques Coeur's hand, he pressed it warmly, saying, "Thanks, my friend, thanks. I have urged you somewhat hardly, perhaps, but I know you wish me well. I believe your advice is good. Pride, vanity, whatever it is, shall be sacrificed. I will send for my noble cousins, consult with them, and, if the bloody and disastrous arbitrement of war can be avoided, it shall be so. Many may bless the man who stayed it; and although, in their ignorance, they may not add the name of Jacques Coeur to their prayers, there is a Being who has seen you step between princes and their wrath, and who himself has said, 'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"
The duke then leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into thought again.
All this time, while a somewhat long and interesting conversation had been taking place in his presence, Jean Charost had been standing a few steps behind Jacques Coeur, without moving a limb; and, in truth, so deeply attentive to all that was passing, that he hardly ventured to draw a breath. The whole scene was a lesson to him, however; a lesson never forgot. He saw the condescension and kindness, the familiar friendship which the brother of the King of France displayed toward the simple merchant; but he saw, also, that no familiarity induced Jacques Coeur for one moment to forget respect, or to abate one tittle of the reverence due to the duke's station. He saw that it was possible to be bold and firm, even with a royal personage, and yet to give him no cause of offense, if he were in heart as noble as in name. Both the principal personages in the room, however, in the mighty interests involved in their discourse, seemed to have forgotten his presence altogether; indeed, one of them, probably, had hardly even perceived him. But at length the duke, waking up, as it were, from the thoughts which had absorbed him, with his resolution taken and his course laid out, raised his eyes toward Jacques Coeur, as if intending to continue the conversation with some further announcement of his purposes. As he did so, he seemed suddenly to perceive the figure of Jean Charost, standing in the half light behind, and he exclaimed, quickly and eagerly, "Ha! who is that? Who is that young man? Whence came he? What wants he?"
Jacques Coeur started too; for he had totally forgotten the fact of his having brought Jean Charost there. For an instant he looked confused and agitated, but then recovered himself, and replied, "This is the young gentleman whom I commended to your highness's service. In the importance of the question you first put to me, I totally forgot to present him to you."
The duke gazed in the face of Jean Charost as he advanced a step or two into the light, seeming to question his countenance closely, and for a moment there was a slight look of annoyance and anxiety in his aspect which did not escape the eyes of Jacques Coeur.
"Sir, I have committed a great fault," he said; "but it might have been greater; for, although this young gentleman has heard all that we have said, I will answer for his faith, his honesty, and his discretion with my life."
Ere the words were uttered, however, the Duke of Orleans had recovered himself entirely, and looking up frankly in Jacques Coeur's face, he answered, "As far as I can recollect our conversation, my good friend, it contained not one word which either you or I should fear to have blazoned to the whole realm of France. Come hither, young gentleman. Are you willing to serve me?"
"If not willing before, sir," answered Jean Charost, "what I have heard to-night would make me willing to shed the last drop of my blood for your highness."
The duke smiled upon him kindly. "Good," he said; "good. You are of noble race, my friend tells me."
"On all sides," answered Jean Charost. "Of the nobility of the sword."
"Well, then," said the duke, "we will soon find an office for you. Let me think for a moment--"
But, ere the words had left his lips, there was a sharp rap at the door, and, without waiting for permission, a man, dressed as a superior servant, hurried in, followed by an elderly woman in an extravagantly high hennin--a head-dress of the times--both bearing eagerness and alarm on their countenance.
"I am sorry to tell your highness--" cried the man.
But the duke stopped him, exclaiming, "Hush!" with a look of anxiety and alarm, and then advanced a step or two toward the newcomers, with whom he spoke for a few moments in an eager whisper. He then took several rapid strides toward the door, but paused ere he reached it, and looking back, almost without stopping, exclaimed, "To-morrow, my young friend; be with me to-morrow by nine. I will send for you in the evening, MaÎtre Jacques. I trust then to have news for you. Excuse me now; something has happened."
CHAPTER IV.
For a moment after the Duke of Orleans had quitted the hall, Jacques Coeur and his young companion stood looking at each other in silence; for the agitation which the prince had displayed was far greater than persons in his rank usually suffered to appear. Those were the days when strong passions lay concealed under calm exteriors, and terrible deeds were often meditated and even executed under cover of the most tranquil aspect.
"Come, Jean, my friend." said the merchant, at length; "let us go. We must not pause here with these papers on the table."
As he spoke, he walked toward the door; but, before he quitted the house, he sought diligently in the outer vestibule and the neighboring rooms for some of the domestics. All seemed to be in confusion, however, and though steps were heard moving about in various directions, as if some general search were being made, several minutes elapsed before even a page or a porter could be found. At length a boy of about twelve years of age presented himself, and him Jacques Coeur directed, in a tone of authority, to place himself at the door of the little hall, and neither to go in himself nor let any one enter till he had an opportunity of letting the duke know that he had left the papers he was writing on the table.
"Something has moved his highness very greatly," said Jacques Coeur, as he walked through the streets with his young companion. "He is not usually so careless of what he writes."
"I have always heard him called the gay Duke of Orleans," said Jean Charost, "and I certainly was surprised to find him so grave and thoughtful."
"There are many ways of being thoughtful, my young friend," replied the merchant, "and a light and smiling air, a playful fancy, and a happy choice of words, with many persons--as has been the case with the duke--conceal deep meaning and great strength of mind. He is, indeed, one of the most thoughtful men in France. But his imagination is somewhat too strong, and his passions, alas, stronger still. He is frank, and noble, and generous, however--kind and forgiving; and I do sincerely believe that he deeply regrets his faults, and condemns them as much as any man in France. Many are the resolutions of reformation that he makes; but still an ardent temperament, a light humor, and a joyous spirit carries him away impulsively, and deeds are done, before he well knows they are undertaken, which are bitterly repented afterward."
Jacques Coeur paused, and seemed to hesitate, as if he thought he had almost gone too far with his young companion; but there were more serious considerations pressing upon his mind at that moment than Jean Charost, or even the Duke of Orleans, at all comprehended, though both were affected by them. He was one of the most remarkable men of his age; and although he had not at that time risen to the high point of either honor or wealth which he afterward attained, he was in the high road to distinction and to fortune--a road opened to him by no common means. His vast and comprehensive mind perceived opportunities which escaped the eyes of men more limited in intellect; his energetic and persevering character enabled him to grasp and hold them; and, together with these powers, so serviceable to any man in commercial or political life, he possessed a still higher characteristic--a kindly and a generous spirit, prompting to good deeds as well as to great ones, always under the guidance of prudence and wisdom. He had, moreover, that which I know not whether to call an art or a quality--the capability of impressing almost all men with the truth of his character. Few with whom he was brought in any close connection doubted his judgment or his sincerity, and his true beneficence of heart had the power of attaching others to him so strongly that even persecution, sorrow, and misfortune could not break the bond.
In the present instance, he had two objects in view in placing Jean Charost in the service of the Duke of Orleans; or, rather, he saw at once that two objects might possibly be attained by that kind act. He had provided, apparently, well and happily for a youth to whom he was sincerely attached, and whom he could entirely trust, and he placed near a prince for whom he had a great regard and some admiration, notwithstanding all his faults, one whose character was likely to be not without its influence, even upon a person far higher in station and more brilliant as well as more experienced than himself.
Although he had full confidence in Jean Charost--although he knew that there was an integrity of purpose, and a vigor of determination in the youth, well fitted to stand all trials, he nevertheless thought that some warning, some knowledge, at least of the circumstances in which he was about to be placed, might be serviceable to himself, and give a beneficial direction to any influence he might obtain with the duke. To give this, was his object in turning the conversation at once to the character of Louis of Orleans; but yet the natural delicacy of his mind led him to hesitate, when touching upon the failings of his princely friend. The higher purpose, however, predominated at length, and he went boldly forward.
"It is necessary, Jean," he said, "to prepare you in some degree for the scenes in which you will have to mingle, and especially to afford you some information of the character of the prince you are about to serve. I will mention no names, as there are people passing in the street; but you will understand of whom I speak. He is habitually licentious. The courts of kings are very generally depraved; and impressions received in early life, however reason and religion may fight against them at after periods, still leave a weak and assailable point in the character not easily strengthened for resistance. Man's heart is as a fortress, my young friend; a breach effected in the walls of which is rarely, if ever, repaired with as much firmness as at first. I do not wish to palliate his errors, for they are very great, but merely to explain my anxiety to have good counsels near him."
"It is very necessary, indeed, sir," replied Jean Charost, simply, never dreaming that his counsels could be those to which Jacques Coeur alluded. "I have heard a good deal of the duke since we have been here in Paris, and although all must love and admire his great and noble qualities, yet it is sad to hear the tales men tell of him."
"Age and experience," replied Jacques Coeur, "may have some effect; nay, are already having an effect in rendering good resolutions firmer, and the yielding to temptation less frequent. It is only required now that some person having influence over him, and constantly near him, should throw that influence into the scale of right. I know not, my dear lad, whether you may or may not obtain influence with him. He has promised me to treat you with all favor, and to keep you as near his person as possible, and I feel quite sure that if any opportunities occur of throwing in a word in favor of virtue and good conduct, or of opposing vice and licentiousness, you will not fail to seize it. I do not mean to instigate you to meddle in the affairs of this prince, or to intrude counsels upon him. To do so would be impertinent and wrong in one of your position; but he himself may furnish opportunity. Consult you he will not; but converse with you often, he probably will; and it is quite possible in a calm, quiet, unobtrusive course, to set good counsel before him, without appearing to advise, or pretending to meddle."
"I should fear," replied Jean Charost, "that he would converse very little with a boy like me, certainly not attend much to my opinions."
"That will greatly depend upon the station you obtain in his household," replied Jacques Coeur. "If you are very much near his person, I doubt not that he will. Those who give way to their passion, Jean, and plunge into a sea of intrigue, are often in situations of difficulty and anxiety, where they can find no counsel in their own breasts, no comfort in their own hearts. It is then that they will fly to any one who may happen to be near for help and resource. I only say such things may happen, not that they will; but if they do, I trust to you, Jean Charost, to use them to good purpose."
The conversation proceeded much in the same tone till they reached the lodging of the merchant, and ascended once more to the small chamber in which Jean Charost had been writing. By this time, according to the notions of Jacques Coeur, it was too late for any one to be out of bed, and he and his young companion separated for the night. On the following morning, however, when Jean descended to the counting-room, or office, at an early hour, he found Jacques Coeur already there, and one or two of his servants with him. He heard orders given about horses, and equipments of various kinds, before the great merchant seemed aware of his presence. But when the servants were all dispatched upon their various errands, Jacques turned and greeted him kindly.
"Let us talk of a little business, my son," he said; "for in an hour's time we shall have to part on our several ways; you to the HÔtel d'Orleans, I back again to Bourges; for I am weary of this great city, Jean, and besides, business calls me hence. Now let us, like good merchants, reckon what it is I am in your debt."
"Nay, sir," answered Jean Charost, "it is I that am altogether in yours; I do not mean alone for kindness, but even in mere money. I have received more from you, I believe, than you promised to give me."
"More than the mere stipend, Jean," replied Jacques Coeur; "but not more than what was implied. I promised your mother, excellent lady, God bless her, that I would give you a hundred crowns of the sun by the year, and, moreover, whatever I found your assistance was worth to me besides. I deal with it merely as a matter of account, Jean; and I find that by the transactions with Genoa, partly carried on by yourself in the last year, I have made a profit of sixteen per cent, on invested money; on the business of Amalfi, transacted altogether by yourself nineteen per cent.; on other business of a similar kind, with which I and my ordinary clerks have had to do alone, an average of fifteen per cent. Thus, in all affairs that you have dealt with, there has been a gain over ordinary gains of somewhere between three and four per cent. Now this surplus is to be divided between you and me, according to my view of the case. I have looked into it closely, to do justice to both, and I find that, as the transactions of this year have been somewhat large, I am a debtor to you a sum of two thousand seven hundred and forty-three crowns, two livres Parisis, and one denier. There is a note of the account; I think you will find it correct."
Poor Jean Charost was astonished and overcome. The small patrimony of his father--just sufficient to maintain a man of gentle blood within that narrow limit thronged with petty cares, usually called moderate competence--a sort of myth, embellished by the poets--a kind of economical Arcadia, in which that perfect happiness represented, is as often found as the Arcadian shepherds and shepherdesses in plum-colored velvet coats and pink ribbons are found in the real pastoral--this small estate, I say, had been hypothecated to the amount of three thousand crowns, to enable his father to serve and die for his sovereign on the battle-field; and the great first object of Jean Charost's ambition had been to enable his poor mother to pay off a debt which, with its interest, was eating into the core of the estate. Hitherto the prospect of success had seemed far, far away; he had thought he could see it in the distance; but he had doubted, and feared, and the long journey to travel had seemed to dim even the sunrise of hope. But now the case was reversed; the prospect seemed near, the object well-nigh attained, and for an instant or two he could hardly believe his ears.
"Oh, sir," he exclaimed, after some murmured thanks, "take it to my mother--take it all to my mother. It will make her heart leap for joy. I shall want no money where I am going."
Jacques Coeur gazed at him with the faint, rueful smile of age listening to inexperience. "You will need more than you know, my good youth," he answered. "Courts are very different places from merchant's houses; and if great openings are there found, there are openings of the purse likewise. But I know your object, my dear boy. It is a worthy one, and you can gratify it to a certain extent, while you yet retain the means of appearing as you should in the household of the Duke of Orleans. I will take two thousand crowns to your mother. Then only a thousand will remain to be paid upon the mortgage, which I will discharge; and you shall repay me when your economy and your success, in both of which I have great confidence, shall make it light for you to do so."
Such was the kindly plan proposed by the merchant, and Jean Charost acceded joyfully. It must not be denied that to be in possession of seven hundred crowns seemed, in his young and untaught eyes, to put him among the wealthy of the land. It must not be denied, either, that the thought rose up of many things he wanted, of which he had never much felt the want before. Among the rest, a horse seemed perfectly indispensable but the kindness of Jacques Coeur had beforehand deprived him of all excuse for this not unreasonable expense. He found that a fine horse, taken in payment of a debt from Spain, with bridle and housings all complete, had been destined for his use by the great merchant; and certainly well mounted, and, as he thought, well equipped with all things, Jean Charost set out for the HÔtel d'Orleans, at about half past eight o'clock, carrying a message from Jacques Coeur to the duke, to account for and excuse the sudden departure of the merchant.
CHAPTER V.
To retrace one's steps is always difficult; and it may be as well, whenever the urgency of action will permit it, in life, as in a tale that is told, to pause a little upon the present, and not to hurry on too rapidly to the future, lest the stern Irrevocable follow us too closely. I know nothing more difficult, or more necessary to impress upon the mind of youth, than the great and important fact, that every thing, once done, is irrevocable; that Fate sets its seal upon the deed and upon the word; that it is a bond to good or evil; that though sometimes we may alter the conditions in a degree, the weightier obligations of that bond can never be changed; that there is something recorded in the great Book against us, a balance for, or adverse to us, which speeds us lightly onward, or hampers all our after efforts.
No, no. There is no going back. As in the fairy tale, the forest closes up behind us as we pass through, and in the great adventure of life our only way is forward.
Life, in some of its phases, should always be the model of a book, and to avoid the necessity of even trying to go far back, it may be as well to pause here, and tell some events which had occurred even within the space of time which our tale has already occupied.
In a chamber, furnished with fantastic splendor, and in a house not far from the palace of the Duke of Orleans, stood a richly-decorated bed. It was none of those scanty, parsimonious, modern contrivances, in which space to turn seems grudged to the unhappy inmate, but a large, stately, elaborate structure, almost a room in itself. The four posts, at the four corners, were carved, and gilt, and ornamented with ivory and gold. Groups of cupids, or cherubim, I know not well which, supported the pillars, treading gayly upon flowers; and, as people were not very considerate of harmony in those days, the sculptor of this bed, for so I suppose we must call him, had added Corinthian capitals to the posts, and crowned the acanthus of dark wood with large plumes of real ostrich feathers. Round the valance, and on many parts of the draperies, which were of a light crimson velvet, appeared numerous inscriptions, embroidered in gold. Some were lines from poets of the day, or old romances of the Langue d'oc, or Langue d'oil, while, strange to say, others were verses from the Psalms of David.
On this bed lay a lady sweetly asleep, beautiful but pale, and bearing traces of recent illness on her face; and beside her lay a babe which seemed ten days or a fortnight old, swathed up according to the abominable custom of the day, in what was then called en mailotin. A lamp was on a table near, a vacant chair by the bedside, from which a heedless nurse had just escaped to take a little recreation during her lady's slumbers. All was still and silent in the room and throughout the house. The long and narrow corridors were vacant; the lower hall was far off. The silver bell, which was placed nigh at hand, might have rang long and loud without calling any one to that bedside; but the nurse trusted to the first calm slumber of the night, and doubtless promised herself that her absence would not be long. It proved long enough--somewhat too long, however.
The door opened almost without a sound, and a tall, gray figure entered, which could hardly have been seen from the bed, in the twilight obscurity of that side of the room, even had any eyes been open there. It advanced stealthily to the side of the bed, with the right hand hidden in the breast; but there, for a moment, whatever was the intent, the figure paused, and the eyes gazed down upon the sleeping woman and the babe by her side. Oh, what changes of expression came, driven like storm-clouds, over that countenance, by some tempest of passions within, and what a contrast did the man's face present to that of the sleeping girl. It might be that the wronger and the wronged were there in presence, and that calm, peaceful sleep reigned quietly, where remorse, and anguish, and repentance should have held their sway; while agony, and rage, and revenge were busy in the heart which had done no evil.
Whether it was doubt, or hesitation, or a feeling of pity which produced the pause, I can not tell; but whatever was the man's purpose--and it could hardly be good--he stopped, and gazed for more than one minute ere he made the intent a deed. At length, however, he withdrew the right hand from his bosom, and something gleamed in the lamp-light.
It is strange: the lady moved a little in her sleep, as if the gleam of the iron had made itself felt, and she murmured a name. Her hand and arm were cast carelessly over the bed-clothes; her left side and breast exposed. The name she murmured seemed to act like a command; for instantly one hand was pressed upon her lips, and the other struck violently her side. The cry was smothered; the hands clutched the air in vain: a slight convulsive effort to rise, an aguish shudder, and all was still.
The assassin withdrew his hand, but left the dagger in the wound. Oh, with what bitter skill he had done the deed! The steel had pierced through and through her heart!
There he stood for a moment, and contemplated his handiwork. What was in his breast--who can tell? But suddenly he seemed to start from his dark revery, took the hand he had made lifeless in his own, and withdrew a wedding ring from the unresisting finger.
Though passion is fond of soliloquy, he uttered but few words. "Now let him come and look," he murmured; and then going rapidly round to the other side of the bed, he snatched up the infant, cast part of his robe around it, and departed.
Oh, what an awful, dreadful thing was the stillness which reigned in that terrible chamber after the murderer was gone. It seemed as if there were something more than silence there--a thick dull, motionless air of death and guilt. It lasted a long while--more than half an hour; and then, walking on tip-toe, came back the nurse. For a moment or two she did not perceive that any thing had happened. All was so quiet, so much as she had left it, that she fancied no change had taken place. She moved about stealthily, arranged some silver cups and tankards upon a dressoir, and smoothed out the damask covering with its fringe of lace.
Presently there was a light tap at the door, and going thither on tip-toe, she found one of the Duke of Orleans's chief servants come to inquire after the lady's health.
"Hush!" said the nurse, lifting up her finger, "she is sleeping like an angel."
"And the baby?" asked the man.
"She is asleep too," replied the nurse; "she has not given a cry for an hour."
"That's strange!" said the man. "I thought babies cried every five minutes."
Upon second thoughts, the nurse judged it strange too; and a certain sort of cold dread came upon her as she remembered her long absence, and combined it with the perfect stillness.
"Stay a moment: I'll just take a peep and tell you more;" and she advanced noiselessly to the side of the bed. The moment she gazed in, she uttered a fearful shriek. Nature was too strong for art or policy. There lay the mother dead; the infant gone; and she screamed aloud, though she knew that the whole must be told, and her own negligence exposed.
The man darted in from the door, and rushed to the side of the bed. The bloody evidences of the deed which had been done were plain before him, and catching the nurse by the arm, he questioned her vehemently.
She was a friend of his, however--indeed, I believe, a relation--and first came a confession, and then a consultation. She declared she had not been absent five minutes, and that the deed must have been done within that short time; that somebody must have been concealed in the room at the time she left, for she had been so close at hand that she must have seen any one pass. She went on to declare that she believed it must have been done by sorcery; and as sorcery was in great repute at that time, the man might have been of her opinion, if the gore and the wound had not plainly shown a mortal agency.
Then came the question of what was to be done. The duke must be told--that was clear; and it was agreed by both the man and the woman that it would be better for them to bear their own tale.
"Do not let us tell him all at once," said the good lady, for horror and grief had by this time been swallowed up in more personal considerations; "he would kill us both on the spot, I do believe. Tell him, at first, that she is very ill; then, when he is going to see her, that she is dying; then that she is dead. And then--and then--let him find out himself that she has been murdered. Good gracious! I should not wonder if the murderer was still in the room. Did you not think you saw the curtain move?" and she gave a fearful glance toward the bed.
The man unsheathed his sword, and for the first time they searched the room, which they had never thought of before.
Nothing, however, could be found--not a vestige of the murderer--the very dagger that had done the deed was now gone; and after some further consultation, and some expressions of horror and regret, they set out to bear the intelligence to the Duke of Orleans, neglecting, in the fear of any one forestalling them, to give any directions for pursuit of the murderer.
The house lay close to the Orleans palace, with an entrance from it into the gardens of the latter. Through that door they passed, walked down a short avenue of trees and vases, crossed a walk, and entered the palace by a side door. The man made his way straight toward the little hall, closely followed by the woman, and found the duke, as I have shown, in conversation with Jacques Coeur and Jean Charost. As had been agreed, the prince was at first informed that the lady was very ill, and even that intelligence caused the agitation which I have depicted. But how can I describe his state of mind when the whole truth was known, the fire of his rage, the abyss of his sorrow, and more, far more than all, the depth--the poignancy of his remorse? When he looked upon that beautiful and placid face, lying there in the cold, dull sleep of death--when he saw the fair bosom deluged in purple gore--when he remembered that, for the gratification of his light love, he had torn her from the arms of a husband who doted on her, from peaceful happiness and tranquil innocence, if not from joy and splendor--when he thought he had made her an adulteress--had brought disgrace upon her name--that he had been even, as he felt at that moment, accessory to her death, the worm that never dies seemed to fix itself upon his heart, and, casting himself down beside the bed, he cursed the day that he was born, and invoked bitterer maledictions on his own head than his worst enemy would have dared to pile upon him.
True, in his anguish he did not altogether forget his energy. Instant orders were given to search for and pursue the murderer; and especial directions to beset all the doors of a small hotel in the neighborhood of the Temple, and to mark well who went out or came in. But this done, he fell again into the dark apathy of despair, and, seated in the chamber of death, slept not, took no refreshment throughout the livelong night. Priests came in, tall tapers were set in order, vases of holy water, and silver censers, and solemn voices were raised in holy song. But the duke sat there unmoved; his arms crossed upon his chest; his eyes fixed with a stony glare upon the floor. No one dared to speak to him or to disturb him; and the dark, long night of winter waned away, and the gray morning sunlight entered the chamber, ere he quitted the side of her he had loved and ruined.
