Hope is nothing but a bit of cork floating on the sea of life, now
tossed up into the sky, now sunk down into the abyss, but rising,
rising again over the crest of the foamy wave, and topping all things
even unto the end.
Joyous and hopeful, Jean Charost presented himself at the gates of the
Duke of Orleans's palace; but the heavy door under the archway was
closed, and some minutes elapsed ere he obtained admission. The tall
man who opened for him seemed doubtful whether he would let him in or
not; and it was not till Jean had explained that the duke had
appointed him, and that he was the person who had accompanied Jacques
C[oe]ur on the preceding night, that the man would let him pass the
wicket. He then told him, however, to go on to the house and inquire
for the master of the pages.
Jean Charost was not very well satisfied with this reply; for, to his
mind, it seemed to indicate that the duke had made up his mind to
place him among his pages, and had given orders accordingly. Now the
position of a page in a great household was not very desirable in the
eyes of Jean Charost; besides, he had passed the age, he thought, when
such a post was appropriate. He had completed his seventeenth year,
and looked much older than he really was.
As he walked on, however, he heard a step behind him, and, looking
round, saw a man following him. There was nothing very marvelous in
this, and he proceeded on his way till he found himself in the
vestibule before described, and asked, as he had been directed, for
the master of the pages. The man to whom he addressed himself said,
"I'll send you to him. You were here last night, were you not, young
gentleman?"
Jean Charost answered in the affirmative, and the man made a sign to
the person who had followed the youth across the garden and had
entered the vestibule with him. Immediately Jean felt his arm taken
hold of, somewhat roughly, by the personage behind him, and, ere he
well knew what was taking place, he was pulled into a small room on
one side of the vestibule, and the door closed upon him. The room was
already tenanted by three or four persons of different conditions. One
seemed an old soldier, with a very white beard, and a scar across his
brow; one was dressed as a mendicant friar; and one, by his round
jacket, knee-breeches, and blue stockings, with broad-toed shoes and a
little square cap, was evidently a mechanic. The old soldier was
walking up and down the room with a very irritable air; the mendicant
friar was telling his beads with great rapidity; the mechanic sat in a
corner, twisting his thumbs round and round each other, and looking
half stupefied. The scene did not explain itself at all, and Jean
stood for a moment or two, not at all comprehending why he was brought
there, or what was to happen next.
"By Saint Hubert, this is too bad!" exclaimed the old soldier, at
length; and approaching the door, he tried to open it, but it was
locked.
"Pray, what is the matter?" asked Jean Charost, simply.
"Why, don't you know?" exclaimed the old man. "On my life, I believe
the duke is as mad as his brother."
"The fact is, my son," said the friar, "some offense was committed
here last night, a robbery or a murder; and the duke has given orders
that every body who was at the house after the hour of seven should be
detained till the matter is investigated."
"He does not suppose I committed a murder!" exclaimed the old soldier,
in a tone of great indignation.
"I can't tell that," replied the friar, with a quiet smile; "gentlemen
of your profession sometimes do."
"I never murdered any body in my life," whined the mechanic.
"Happy for you," said the friar; "and happier still if you get people
to believe you."
He then addressed himself to his beads again, and for nearly an hour
all was silence in the room, except the low muttering of the friar's
paters and aves. But the gay hopes of Jean Charost sunk a good deal
under the influence of delay and uncertainty, although, of course, he
felt nothing like alarm at the situation in which he was placed. At
length a man in a black gown and a square black cap was introduced,
struggling, it is true, and saying to those who pushed him in, "Mark,
I resist! it is not with my own consent. This incarceration is
illegal. The duke is not a lord high justiciary on this ground; and
for every minute I will have my damages, if there be honesty in the
sovereign courts, and justice in France."
The door was closed upon him, however, unceremoniously; for the
servants of great men in those days were not very much accustomed to
attend to punctilios of law; and the advocate, for so he seemed,
turned to his fellow-prisoners, and told them in indignant terms how
he had been engaged to defend the steward of the prince in a little
piece of scandal that had arisen in the Marais; how he had visited him
to consult the night before, and had been seized on his return that
day, and thrust in there upon a pretense that would not bear an
argument.
"I thought," said the old soldier, bitterly, "that you men of the robe
would make any thing bear an argument. I know you argued me out of all
my fortune among you."
The little petulant man of law had not time to reply, when the door
was opened, and the whole party were marched into the presence of the
Duke of Orleans, under the escort of half a dozen men-at-arms.
The duke was seated in the little hall where Jean Charost had seen him
on the preceding night, with his hair rough and disheveled, and his
apparel neglected. His eyes were fixed upon the table before him, and
he only raised them once or twice during the scene that followed; but
a venerable-looking man who sat beside him, and who was, in fact, one
of the judges of the Châtelet, kept his eyes fixed upon the little
party which now entered with one of those cold, fixed, but piercing
looks that seem to search the heart by less guarded avenues than the
lips.
"Ah, Maître Pierrot le Brun," he said, looking at the advocate, "I
will deal with you, brother, first. Pray what was it brought you
hither last night, and again this morning?"
The advocate replied, but in a tone greatly subdued, as compared with
that which he had used in the company of his fellow-prisoners. His
case was soon proved, and he was suffered to depart, offering somewhat
humiliating thanks for his speedy dismissal.
The old soldier, however, maintained his surly tone, and when asked
what brought him thither the night before and again that day, replied
boldly, "I came to see if the Duke of Orleans would do something for a
man-at-arms of Charles the Fifth. I fought for his father, and was one
half ruined by my services to my king, the other half by such men as
the one who has just gone out. I can couch a lance, or wield a sword
as well as ever, and I don't see why, being a gentleman of name and
arms, I should be thrown on one side like a rusty plastron."
The Duke of Orleans suddenly raised his head, asked the old man's
name, wrote something on a bit of paper, and gave it to him, seeming
to raise no small emotions of joy and satisfaction; for the soldier
caught his hand and kissed it warmly, as if his utmost wishes were
gratified.
The judge was for asking some more questions, but the duke interfered,
saying, "I know him--let him pass. He had no share in this."
The mendicant friar was next examined, and, to say truth, his account
of himself did not seem, to the ears of Jean Charost at least, to be
quite as satisfactory as could be desired. His only excuse for being
twice in the palace of the duke within four-and-twenty hours was, that
he came to beg an alms for his convent, and there was a look of shrewd
meaning in his countenance while he replied, which to one who did not
know all the various trades exercised by gentry of his cloth, seemed
exceedingly suspicious. The duke and the magistrate, however, appeared
to be satisfied, and the former then turned his eyes upon Jean
Charost, while the judge called up the mechanic and put some questions
to him.
"Who are you, young gentleman?" said the Duke of Orleans, motioning
Jean to approach him. "I have seen your face somewhere--who are you?"
"I waited upon your highness last night," replied Jean Charost, with
the rear-guard of all his hopes and expectations routed by the
discovery that the duke did not even recollect him. "I was brought
hither by Monsieur Jacques C[oe]ur; and by your own command, I
returned this morning at nine o'clock."
"I remember," said the duke, "I remember;" and, casting down his eyes
again, he fell into a fit of thought which had not come to an end when
the judge concluded his examination of the poor mechanic. That
examination had lasted longer than any of the others; for it seemed
that the man had been working till a late hour on the previous evening
on the bolts of some windows which looked from a neighboring house
into the gardens of the Orleans palace, and that shortly before the
hour at which the murder was committed he had seen a tall man pass
swiftly along the corridor, near which he was employed. He could not
describe his apparel, the obscurity having prevented his remarking the
color; but he declared that it looked like the costume of a priest or
a monk, and was certainly furnished with a hood, much in the shape of
a cowl. This was all that could be extracted from him, and, indeed, it
was evident that he knew no more; so, in the end, he was suffered to
depart.
The judge then turned to Jean Charost, who remained standing before
the Duke of Orleans, in anxious expectation of what was to come next.
The duke was still buried in thought; for the young man's reply to his
question had probably revived in his mind all the painful feelings
first produced by the intelligence which had interrupted his
conversation with Jacques C[oe]ur on the preceding night.
"What is your name, your profession, and what brought you to the
Orleans palace last night, young man?" asked the judge, in a grave,
but not a stern tone.
"My name is Jean Charost de Brecy," replied the young man, "a
gentleman by name and arms; and I came hither last night--"
But the Duke of Orleans roused himself from his revery, and waved his
hand, saying, "Enough--enough, my good friend. I know all about this
young man. He could have no share in the dark deed: for he was with me
when it was done. I forgot his face for a moment; but I remember him
well now, and what I promised him."
"Suffer me, your highness," said the judge. "We know not what he may
have seen in coming or going. Things which seem trifles often have
bearings of great weight upon important facts--at what time came you
hither, young gentleman? Were you alone, and, if not, who was with
you?"
Jean Charost answered briefly and distinctly, and the judge then
inquired, "Did you meet any one, as you entered this house, who seemed
to be quitting it?"
"No," replied Jean Charost, "several persons were lingering about the
gate, and in front, between the walls and the chain; but nobody seemed
quitting the spot."
"No one in a long flowing robe and cowl, the habit of a priest or a
friar?" asked the judge.
"No," replied Jean Charost; "but we saw, a few moments before, a man
such as you describe, seeking admission at the gates of a large house
like a monastery. He seemed in haste, too, from the way he rang the
bell."
The judge questioned him closely as to the position of the house he
described; and when he had given his answer, turned to the duke,
saying, "The Celestins."
"They have had naught to do with it," replied the duke, at once. "The
good brethren love me too well to inflict such grief upon me."
"They have cause, my lord," replied the judge; "but we do not always
find that gratitude follows good offices. By your permission, I will
make some inquiry as to who was the person who entered their gates
last night at the hour named."
"As you will," replied the duke, shaking his head; "but I repeat,
there is something within me which tells me better than the clearest
evidence, who was the man that did this horrid act; and he is not at
the Celestins. Inquire, if you please; but it is vain, I know. He and
I will meet, however, ere our lives end. My conscience was loaded on
his account. He has well balanced the debt; and when we meet--"
He added no more, but clasped his hands tight together, and set his
teeth bitterly.
"Nevertheless, I will inquire," said the judge, who seemed somewhat
pertinacious in his own opinions. "It is needful that this should be
sifted to the bottom. Such acts are becoming too common."
As he spoke, he rose and took his leave, bidding the artisan follow
him; and Jean Charost remained alone in the presence of the Duke of
Orleans, though two or three servants and armed men passed and
repassed from time to time across the further end of the hall.
For several minutes the duke remained in thought; but at length he
raised his eyes to Jean Charost's face, and gazed at him for a few
moments with an absent air. Then rising, he beckoned him to follow,
saying, "Come with me. There is a weight in this air; it is heavy with
sorrow."
Thus saying, he led the way through a small door at the end of the
hall--opposite to that by which the young gentleman had entered--into
a large, square, inner court of the palace, round three sides of which
ran an arcade or cloister.
"Give me your arm," said the duke, as they issued forth; and, leaning
somewhat heavily on his young companion, he continued to pace up and
down the arcade for more than an hour, sometimes in silence--sometimes
speaking a few words--asking a question--making some observation on
the reply--or giving voice to the feelings of his own heart, in words
which Jean Charost did not half understand.
More than once a page, a servant, or an armed officer would come and
ask a question, receive the duke's answer, and retire. But in all
instances the prince's reply was short, and made without pausing in
his walk. It was evidently one of those moments of struggle when the
mind seeks to cast off the oppression of some great and heavy grief,
rousing itself again to resist, after one of all the many stunning
blows which every one must encounter in this mortal career. And it is
wonderful how various is the degree of elasticity--the power of
action--shown by the spirits of different men in the same
circumstances. The weak and puny, the tender and the gentle fall,
crushed, as it were, probably never to recover, or crawl away from a
battle-field, for which they are not fitted, to seek in solitude an
escape from the combat of life. The stern and hardy warrior,
accustomed to endure and to resist, may be cast down for a moment by
the shock, but starts on his feet again, ready to do battle the next
instant; and the light and elastic leaps up with the very recoil of
the fall, and mingles in the melee again, as if sporting with the ills
of the world. In the character of the Duke of Orleans there was
something of both the latter classes of mind. From his very infancy he
had been called upon to deal with the hard things of life. Strife,
evil, sorrow, care, danger, had been round his cradle, and his youth
and his manhood had been passed in contests often provoked by himself,
often forced upon him by others.
It was evident that, in the present case, the prince had suffered
deeply, and we have seen that he yielded, more than perhaps he had
ever done before, to the weight of his sorrow. But he was now making a
great effort to cast off the impression, and to turn his mind to new
themes, as a relief from the bitterness of memory. He was in some
degree successful, although his thoughts would wander back, from time
to time, to the painful topic from which he sought to withdraw them;
but every moment he recovered himself more and more. At first, his
conversation with Jean Charost consisted principally of questions, the
replies to which were hardly heard or noticed; but gradually he began
to show a greater interest in the subject spoken of, questioned the
young man much, both in regard to Jacques C[oe]ur and to his own fate
and history, and though he mused from time to time over the replies,
yet he soon returned to the main subject again, and seemed pleased and
well satisfied with the answers he received.
Indeed, the circumstances attending both the first introduction and
second interview of Jean Charost with the duke were of themselves
fortunate. He became associated, as it were, in the prince's mind with
moments sanctified by sorrow, and filled with deep emotion. A link of
sympathy seemed to be established between them, which nothing else
could have produced, and the calm, graceful, thoughtful tone of the
young man's mind harmonized so well with the temporary feelings of the
prince, that, in the hour which followed, he had made more progress in
his regard than a gayer, a lighter, a more brilliant spirit could have
done in double the time.
Still, nothing had been said of the position which Jean Charost was to
occupy in the prince's household, when a man bearing a long white wand
entered, and informed the duke that the Duke de Berri was coming that
way to visit him. Orleans turned, and advanced a few steps toward a
door leading from the court into the interior of the building, as if
to meet his noble relation. But before he was half down the arcade,
the Duke de Berri was marshaled in, with some state, by the prince's
officers.
"Leave us," said the Duke of Orleans, speaking to the attendants, as
soon as he had embraced his relation; and Jean Charost, receiving the
command as general, was about to follow. But the prince stopped him,
beckoning him up, and presented him to the Duke de Berri, saying,
"This is my young secretary, noble uncle; given to me by my good
friend Jacques C[oe]ur. I have much to say to you; some part of which
it may be necessary to reduce to writing. We had better, therefore,
keep him near us."
The Duke de Berri merely bowed his head, gazing at Jean Charost
thoughtfully; and the prince added, "But the air is shrewd and keen,
even here, notwithstanding the sunshine. Let us go into the octagon
chamber. No, not there, it overlooks that dreadful room. This way, my
uncle."