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 C[oe]ur; 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur 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
C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur'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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur 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."