Passing through a small and narrow hall, Jacques C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur
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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur, "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 C[oe]ur. "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 C[oe]ur. "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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur."
"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
C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur," 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
C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur. "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 C[oe]ur," 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur, Jacques C[oe]ur," 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 C[oe]ur'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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur.
"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 C[oe]ur'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."