There are periods in the life of every man daring which accidents,
misadventures, annoyances even, if they be not of too great magnitude,
are of service to him. When, from within or from without, some dark
vapor has risen up, clouding the sunlight, and casting the soul into
darkness--when remorse, or despair, or bitter disappointment, or
satiety, or the dark pall of grief, has overshadowed all things, and
left us in a sort of twilight, where we see every surrounding object
in gloom, we bless the gale, even though it be violent, that arises to
sweep the tempest-cloud from our sky. Still greater is the relief when
any thing of a gentler and happier kind comes along with the breeze
that dispels the mists and darkness, like a sun-gleam through a storm;
and the little accident which had occurred, and the escape from
danger, did a great deal to rouse the Duke of Orleans from a sort of
apathetic heaviness which had hung upon him for the last two or three
days.
Dinner had been prepared for him at the great inn at Juvisy; but, with
one of those whims in which high and mighty princes indulged
frequently in those days, he paused before the gates of the old abbey,
on the left hand side of the road, saying, in a low tone, to Jean
Charost, but with a gay smile, "We will go in and dine with the good
fathers. They are somewhat famous for their cheer, and it must be
about the dinner hour."
The little crowd of attendants had followed; slowly behind their
princely master, leaving the distance of a few paces between him and
them, for reverence' sake; and he now beckoned up Lomelini, and told
him to go forward and let the household dine, adding, "We will dine at
the abbey."
"How many shall remain with your highness?" asked Lomelini, with a
profound bow.
"None, signor," replied the duke; "none but Monsieur De Brecy. Go
on--I would be incognito;" and turning up the path, he struck the bell
at the gates with the iron hammer that hung beside it.
"Now, De Brecy," he said, in a light and careless tone, very different
from any his young companion had ever heard him use before, "here we
forget our names and dignities. I am Louis Valois, and you Jean
Charost, and there are no titles of honor between us. Some of the good
friars may have seen me, and perhaps know me; but they will take the
hint, and forget all about me till I am gone. I would fain see them
without their frocks for awhile. It will serve to divert my thoughts
from sadder things."
With a slow and faltering step, and mumbling something, apparently not
very pleasant, as he came, an old monk walked down to the _grille_ or
iron gate of the convent, with the keys in his hand indeed, but an
evident determination not to use them, except in case of necessity.
Seeing two strangers standing at the gate, he first spoke with them
through the bars, and it required some persuasion to induce him to
open and let them pass, although, to say sooth, the duke's
announcement that he came to ask the hospitality of the refectory, was
spoken more as a command than a petition, notwithstanding the air of
easy familiarity which he sought to give it.
"Well, well; come in," he said, at length; "I have nothing to do with
it, but to open and shut the door. The people within will tell you
whether you can eat with them or not. They eat enough themselves, God
wot, and drink too; but they are not over-fond of sharing with those
they don't know, except through the buttery hole or the east wicket;
and there it is only what they can't eat themselves. Ay, we had
different times of it when Abbot Jerome was alive."
Before the long fit of grumbling was at an end, the Duke of Orleans
and his young companion were at the inner door of the building; and a
little bell, ringing from a distant corner, gave notice that the
mid-day meal of the monks was about to begin.
"Come along--come along, Jean," said the duke, seeming to participate
in the eagerness with which several monks were hurrying along in one
direction; "they say the end of a feast is better than the beginning
of a fray; but, to say truth, the beginning is the best part of
either."
On they went; no one stopped them--no one said a word to them. The
impulse of a very voracious appetite was upon the great body of the
monks, and deprived them of all inclination to question the strangers,
till they were actually at the door of the refectory, where a burly,
barefooted fellow barred the way, and demanded what they wanted. "A
dinner," answered the Duke of Orleans, with a laugh. "You are
hospitable friars, are you not?"
The man gazed at him for a moment without reply, but with a very
curious expression of countenance, ran his eye over the duke's
apparel, which, though by no means very splendid, was marked by all
the peculiar fopperies of high station; then gave a glance at Jean
Charost, and then replied, in a much altered tone, "We are, sir. But
it so happens that to-day my lord abbot has visitors who dine here.
Doubtless he will not refuse you hospitality, if you let him know who
it is demands it. He has with him Monsieur and Madame Giac, and their
train, high persons at the court of Burgundy. Who shall I say are
here?"
"Two poor simple gentlemen in need of a dinner," replied the duke, in
a careless tone--"Louis Valois and Jean Charost by name. But make
haste, good brother, or the pottage will be cold."
The man retired into the refectory, the door of which was continually
opening and shutting as the monks passed in; and Jean Charost, who
stood a little to the right of the duke, could see the monk hurry
forward toward a gay party already seated at the head of one of the
long tables, with the abbot in the midst.
He returned in a few seconds with another monk, and ushered the duke
and his young companion straight up to the table of the abbot, an
elderly man of jovial aspect, who seemed a little confused and
embarrassed. He rose, sat down again, rose, once more, and advanced a
step or two.
The Duke of Orleans met him half way with a meaning smile, and a few
words passed in a low tone, the import of which Jean Charost did not
hear. The duke, however, immediately after, moved to a vacant seat
some way down the table, and beckoned Jean Charost to take a place
beside him. The young secretary obeyed, and had a full opportunity,
before a somewhat long grace was ended, of scanning the faces of the
guests who sat above him.
On the abbot's right hand was a gentleman of some forty years of age,
gayly dressed, but of a countenance by no means prepossessing, cold,
calculating, yet harsh; and next to him was placed a young girl of
some thirteen or fourteen years of age, not at that time particularly
remarkable for her beauty, but yet with an expression of countenance
which, once seen, was not easily to be forgotten. That expression is
difficult to be described, but it possessed that which, as far as we
can judge from very poor and not very certain portraits, was much
wanting in the countenances of most French women of the day. There was
soul in it--a look blending thought and feeling--with much firmness
and decision even about the small, beautiful mouth, but a world of
soft tenderness in the eyes.
On the other side of the abbot sat a gay and beautiful lady, in the
early prime of life, with her face beaming with witching smiles; and
Jean Charost could not help thinking he saw a very meaning glance pass
between the Duke of Orleans and herself. No one at the table, indeed,
openly recognized the prince; and, although the young secretary had
little doubt that his royal master was known to more than one there
present, it was clear the great body of the monks were ignorant that
he was among them.
The fare upon the table did not by any means belie the reputation of
the convent. Delicate meats, well cooked; fish in abundance, and of
various kinds; game of every sort the country produced; and wine of
exceedingly delicate flavor, showed how completely field, forest,
tank, and vineyard were laid under tribute by the good friars of
Juvisy. Nor did the monks seem to mortify their tongues more than the
rest of their bodies. Merriment, revelry--sometimes wit, sometimes
buffoonery--and conversation, often profane, and often obscene, ran
along the table without any show of reverence for ears that might be
listening. The young man had heard of such things, but had hardly
believed the tale; and not a little scandalized was he, in his
simplicity, at all he saw and heard. That which confounded him more
than all the rest, however, was the demeanor of the Duke of Orleans.
He did not know how often painful feelings and sensations take refuge
in things the most opposite to themselves--how grief will strive to
drown itself in the flood of revelry--how men strive to sweeten the
cup of pain with the wild honey-drops of pleasure. From the first
moment of his introduction to the duke up to that hour, he had seen
him under but one aspect. He had been grave, sad, thoughtful, gloomy.
Health itself had seemed affected by some secret sorrow; and now every
thing was changed in a moment. He mingled gayly, lightly in the
conversation, gave back jest for jest with flashing repartee,
encouraged and shared in the revelry around him, and drank liberally,
although there was a glowing spot in his cheek which seemed to say
there was a fire within which wanted no such feeding.
The characters around would bear a long description; for monastic
life--begun generally when habits of thought were fixed--had not the
power ascribed by a great orator to education, of dissolving the
original characters of men, and recrystallizing them in a different
form. At one part of the table there was the rude broad jester,
rolling his fat body within his wide gown, and laughing riotously at
his own jokes. At a little distance sat the keen bright satirist, full
of flashes of wit and sarcasm, but as fond of earthly pleasures as all
the rest; and a little nearer was the man of sly quiet humor, as grave
as a judge himself, but causing all around him to roar with laughter.
The abbot, overflowing with the good things of this life, and enjoying
them still with undiminished powers, notwithstanding the sixty years
and more which had passed over his head, was evidently well accustomed
to the somewhat irreverent demeanor of his refectory, and probably
might not have relished his dinner without the zest of its jokes.
Certain it is, at all events, though his own parlor was a more
comfortable room, and universal custom justified his dining in
solitude, he was seldom absent at the hour of dinner, and only
abstained from being present at supper likewise, lest he should hear
and see more than could be well passed over in safety.
When the meal was at an end, however, the abbot rose, and, inviting
his lay guests to his own particular apartments, left his monks to
conduct the exercises of the afternoon as they might think fit. With
his cross-bearer before him, he led the way, followed by the rest in
the order which the narrowness of the passages compelled them to take;
and Jean Charost found himself coupled, for the time, with the young
girl he had seen on the opposite side of the table. He was too much of
a Frenchman to hesitate for a moment in addressing her; for, in that
country, silence in a woman's society is generally supposed to proceed
either from awkwardness or rudeness. She answered with as little
constraint; and they were in the full flow of conversation when they
entered a well-tapestried room, which, though large in itself, seemed
small after the great hall of the refectory.
The abbot, and the nobleman who had sat by his side, in whom Jean
Charost recognized the Monsieur De Giac whom he had seen by torch-light
in the streets of Paris, were already talking to each other with some
eagerness, while the Duke of Orleans followed a step or two behind,
conversing in low tones with the beautiful lady who had sat upon the
abbot's other hand.
Gay and light seemed their conference; and both laughed, and both
smiled, and both whispered, but not apparently from any reverence for
the persons or place around them. But no one took any notice. Monsieur
De Giac was very blind to his wife's coquetry, and the abbot was well
accustomed to the feat of shutting his eyes without dropping his
eyelids. Nay, he seemed to think the merriment hardly sufficient for
the occasion; for he ordered more wines to be brought, and those the
most choice and delicate of his cellar, with various preserved fruits,
gently to stimulate the throat to deeper potations.
"Not very reverend," said Jean Charost, in answer to some observation
of the young lady, shortly after they entered, while the rest remained
scattered about in different groups. "I wonder if every monastery
throughout France is like this."
"Very like, indeed," answered his fair companion, with a smile.
"Surely this is not the first religious house you have ever visited."
"The first of its kind," replied Jean Charost; "I have been often in
the Black Friars at Bourges, but their rule is somewhat more austere,
or more austerely practiced."
"Poor people," said the girl. "It is to be hoped there is a heaven,
for their sakes. These good folks seem to think themselves well enough
where they are, without going further. But in sorry truth, all
monasteries are very much like this--those that I have seen, at
least."
"And nunneries?" asked Jean Charost.
"Somewhat better," she answered, with a sigh. "Whatever faults women
may have, they are not such coarse ones as we have seen here to-night;
but I know not much about them, for I have been long enough in one
only to judge of it rightly; and now I feel like a bird with its
prison doors unclosed, because I am going to join the court of the
Queen of Anjou: that does not speak ill of the nunnery, methinks. Who
knows, if they reveled as loud and high there as here, but I might
have loved to remain."
"I think not," answered her young companion, "if I may judge by your
face at dinner. You seemed not to smile on the revels of the monks."
"They made my head ache," answered the girl; and then added, abruptly,
"so you are an observer of faces, are you? What think you of that face
speaking with the abbot?"
"Nay, he may be your father, brother, or any near relation," answered
Jean Charost. "I shall not speak till I know more."
"Oh, he is nothing to me," replied the girl. "He is my noble Lord of
Giac, who does me the great honor, with my lady, his wife, of
conveying me to Beaugency, where we shall overtake the Queen of Anjou.
His face would not curdle milk, nor turn wine sour; but yet there is
something in it not of honey exactly."
"He seems to leave all the honey to his fair lady," replied Jean
Charost.
"Yes, to catch flies with," replied the girl; and then she added, in a
lower tone, "and he is the spider to eat them."
The wine and the preserved fruits had by this time been placed upon a
large marble table in the centre of the hall; and a fair sight they
made, with the silver flagons, and the gold and jeweled cups, spread
out upon that white expanse, beneath the gray and fretted arches
overhead, while on the several groups around in their gay apparel, and
the abbot in his robes, standing by the table, with a serving brother
at his side, the many-colored light shone strongly through the window
of painted glass.
"Here's to you, noble sir, whom I am to call Louis Valois, and to your
young friend, Jean Charost," said the abbot, bowing to the duke, and
raising a cup he had just filled. "I pray you do me justice in this
excellent wine of Nuits."
"I will but sip, my lord," replied the duke, taking up a cup. "I have
drank enough already somewhat to heat me."
"Nay, nay, good gentleman," cried the fair lady with whom he had been
talking, "let me fill for you! Drink fair with the lord abbot, for
very shame, or I will inform the Duke of Orleans, who passes here,
they say, to-day."
The last words were uttered with a meaning smile; but the duke let her
pour the wine out for him, drank it down, and then, with a graceful
inclination to the company, took a step toward the door, saying, "The
Duke of Orleans has gone by, madam. At least, his train passed us
while we were at the gates. My lord abbot, I give you a thousand
thanks for your hospitality. Ladies all, farewell;" and then passing
Madame De Giac, he added, in a whisper, which reached, however, the
ears of Jean Charost who was following. "In Paris, then."
The lady made no answer with her lips; but her eyes spoke
sufficiently, and to the thoughts of Jean Charost somewhat too much.
The serving brother opened the door of the parlor for the guests to
pass out, and he had not yet closed it, when the name of the Duke of
Orleans was repeated from more than one voice within, and a merry peal
of laughter followed.
The duke hastened his steps, holding the arm of his young companion;
and though the smile still lingered on his lips for awhile, yet before
they had reached the gate of the convent, it had passed away.
Gradually he fell into a fit of deep thought, which lasted till they
nearly descended to Juvisy. Then, however, he roused himself, and
said, with an abrupt laugh, "I sometimes think men of pleasure are
mad, De Brecy."
"I think so too, your highness," replied Jean Charost.
The duke started, and looked suddenly in his face; but all was calm
and simple there; and, after a moment's silence, the prince rejoined,
"Too true, my young friend; too true! A lucid interval often comes
upon them, full of high purposes and good resolves: they see light,
and truth, and reality for a few short hours, when suddenly some
accident--some trifle brings the fit again, and all is darkness and
delusion, delirious dreams, and actions of a madman. I have heard of a
bridge built of broken porcelain; and such is the life of a man of
pleasure. The bridge over which his course lies, from time to
eternity, is built of broken resolutions, and himself the architect."
"A frail structure, my lord, by which to reach heaven," replied Jean
Charost, "and methinks some strong beams across would make us surer of
even reaching earthly happiness."
"Where can one find them?" asked the duke.
"In a strong will," answered Jean Charost.
The duke mused for a moment or two, and then suddenly changed the
conversation, saying, "Who was the girl you were speaking with?"
"In truth, your highness, I do not know," replied Jean Charost. "She
said that she was going, under the escort of Monsieur and Madame De
Giac, to Beaugency."
"Oh, then, I know," replied the duke. "It is the fair Agnes, whom my
good aunt talked about. They say she has a wit quite beyond her years.
Did you find it so?"
"I can not tell," replied Jean Charost, "for I do not know her age.
She seemed to me quite a girl; and yet spoke like one who thought much
and deeply."
"You were well matched," said the duke, gayly; and, at the same
moment, some of his attendants came up, and the conversation stopped
for the time.