No season is without its beauty, no scene without its peculiar
interest. If the great mountain, with its stony peak shooting up into
the sky, has sublimity of one kind, the wide expanse of open country,
moor, or heath, or desert, with its limitless horizon and many-shaded
lines, has it of another. To an eye and a heart alive to the
impressions of the beautiful and the grand, something to charm and to
elevate will be found in almost every aspect of nature. The storm and
the tempest, as well as the sunshine and the calm, will afford some
sources of pleasure; and, as the fading away of the green leaf in the
autumn enchants the eye by the resplendent coloring produced, decay
will be found to decorate, and ruin to embellish.
Take a winter scene, for instance, with the whole country covered with
a white mantle of the snow, the trees and the forests raising
themselves up brown and dim, the masses of dark pines and firs
standing out almost black upon the light ground from which they rise,
and the view extending far over a nearly level country, with here and
there a rounded hill rising detached and abruptly from the plain,
perhaps unbroken in its monotonous line, perhaps crowned by the sharp
angles and hard lines of fortress or town. The description does not
seem very inviting. But let us show how this scene varied during the
course of the evening, as three travelers rode along at a quick pace,
although their horses seemed somewhat tired, and the distance they had
journeyed had undoubtedly been considerable. Toward three o'clock a
heavy, gray cloud, apparently portending more snow, stretched over the
greater part of the sky, cutting off the arch of the concave, and
seeming like a flat canopy spread overhead. To the southwest the
heavens remained clear, and there the pall of cloud was fringed with
gold, while from underneath streamed the horizontal light, catching
upon and brightening the slopes, and throwing the dells into deeper
shadow. The abrupt hills looked blue and grand, and raised their heads
as if to support the heavy mass of gray above. Gradually, as the sun
descended lower, that line of open sky became of a brighter and a
brighter yellow. The dun canopy parted into masses, checkering the
heavens with black and gold. The same warm hues spread over every
eminence, and, as the sun descended further still, a rosy light,
glowing brighter and brighter every instant, touched the snowy summits
of the hills, flooded the plain, and seeking out in all its
sinuosities the course of the ice-covered river, flashed back from the
glassy surface as if a multitude of rubies had been scattered across
the scene, while the gray wood, which fringed the distant sky, blazed,
with a ruddy brightness pouring through the straggling branches, as if
a vast fire were kindled on the plains beyond.
It was the last effort of the beauty-giving day, and all those three
travelers felt and enjoyed it in their several ways. The sun went
down; the hills grew dark and blue; every eminence, and even wave of
the ground, appeared to rise higher to the eye; the grayness of
twilight spread over all the scene; but still, upon the verge of the
sky, lingered the yellow light for full half an hour after day was
actually done. Then, through the broken cloud, gleamed out the
lustrous stars, like the brighter and the better hopes that come
sparkling from on high after the sunshine of this life is done, and
when the clouds and vapors of the earth are scattering away.
Still the three rode on. An hour before, there had been visible on the
distant edge of the sky a tall tower like that of a cathedral, and one
or two spires and steeples scattered round. It told them that a town
was in that direction--the town to which they were bending their
steps; but all was darkness now, and they saw it no more. The road was
fair, however, and well tracked: and though it had been intensely cold
during the greater part of the day, the evening had become somewhat
milder, as if a thaw were coming on. A light mist rose up from the
ground as they entered the wood, not sufficient to obscure the way,
but merely to throw a softening indistinctness over objects at any
distance, and, as they issued forth from among the larger trees, upon
a piece of swampy ground, covered with stunted willows, Jean Charost,
for he was at the head of the party, fancied he saw a light moving
along at some little distance on the left.
"There is some one with a lantern," he said, turning to a stout man
who was riding beside him.
"_Feu follet_," replied the other. "We must not follow that, my lord,
or we shall be up to our neck in a quagmire."
"Why, such exhalations are not common at this time of year, Chauvin,"
replied the young man.
"Exhalations or no exhalations," rejoined the other, "they come at all
times, to mislead poor travelers. All I know is, that the short road
to Pithiviers turns off a quarter of a league further on."
"Exhalations!" said Martin Grille; "I never heard them called that
name before. Malignant spirits, I have always heard say, who have
lured many a man and horse to their death. Don't follow it, sir; pray,
don't follow it. That would be worse than the baby business."
Jean Charost laughed, as he replied, "I shall only follow the guidance
of Monsieur Chauvin here. He will lead me better than any lantern. But
it certainly does seem to me that the light moves on by our side. It
can not be more than two or three hundred yards distance either."
"That's their trick, sir," said Chauvin. "They always move on, and
seem quite near; but if you hunted them, you would never come up with
them, I can tell you. I did so once when I was a boy, and well-nigh
got drowned for my pains. Hark! I thought I heard some one calling.
That's a new trick these devils have got, I suppose, in our bad
times."
All pulled up their horses and listened; but heard nothing more, and
rode on again, till, just as they were beginning to ascend a little
rise where the snow had been drifted off the road, and the horses'
hoofs rang clear upon the hard ground, a loud shout was heard upon the
left.
"Halloo, halloo! who goes there?" cried a I voice some fifty or sixty
yards distant. "Give us some help here. We have got into a quagmire,
and know not which way to turn."
"For Heaven's sake, don't go, sir," cried Martin Grille. "It's a new
trick of the devil, depend upon it, as Monsieur Chauvin says."
"Pooh, nonsense," replied Jean Charost; and then raising his voice, he
cried, "Who is it that calls?"
"What signifies that," cried a stern voice.
"If you are Christians, come and help us. If you are not, jog on your
way, and the devil seize you."
"Well, call again as we come, to guide us to you," said Jean Charost,
"for there is no need of us getting into the quagmire too."
"Let me go first, sir, and sound the way," said the courier.
"Halloo, halloo!" cried two or three voices, as a signal; and,
following the sound, Jean Charost and the courier, with Martin Grille
a good way behind, proceeded slowly and cautiously toward the party of
unfortunate travelers, till at length they could descry something like
a group of men and horses among the willows, about twenty yards
distant. It is true, some of the horses seemed to have no legs, or to
be lying down, and one man dismounted, holding hard by a willow.
"Keep up, keep up--we are coming to you," replied Jean Charost. "It is
firm enough here, if you could but reach us."
The guide, who was in advance, suddenly cried, "Halt, there!" and, at
the same moment, his horse's fore feet began to sink in the ground.
"Here, catch my rein, Chauvin," cried the young secretary, springing
to the ground; "I think I see a way to them."
"Take care, sir--take care," cried the courier.
"No fear," answered Jean Charost; "from tree to tree must give one
footing. There are some old roots, too, rising above the level. Stay
there, Chauvin, to guide us back." Proceeding cautiously, trying the
firmness of every step, and sometimes springing from tree to tree, he
came within about six feet of the man whom he had seen dismounted,
and, calling to him to give him his hand, he leaned forward as far as
he could, holding firmly the osier near which he stood with his left
arm. But neither that personage nor his companions were willing to
leave their horses behind them, and it was a matter of much more
difficulty to extricate the beasts than the men; for some of them had
sunk deep in the marsh, and seemed to have neither power nor
inclination to struggle. Nearly an hour was expended in efforts, some
fruitless and others successful, to get the animals out; but at length
they were all rescued, and Jean Charost found his little party
increased by six cavaliers, in a somewhat woeful plight.
The man whom he had first rescued, and who seemed the principal
personage of the troop, thanked him warmly for his assistance, but in
a short, sharp, self-sufficient tone which was not altogether the most
agreeable.
"Where are you going, young man?" he said, at length, as they were
remounting their horses.
"To Pithiviers," answered Jean Charost, as laconically.
"Then we will go with you," replied the other; "and you shall guide
us; for that is our destination too."
"That will depend upon whether your horses can keep up with mine,"
replied Jean Charost; "for I have spent more time here than I can well
spare."
"We will see," replied the other, with a laugh; "you have rendered us
one service, we will try if you can render us another, and then thank
you for both at the end of our journey."
"Very well," replied Jean Charost, and rode on.
The other kept by his side, however; for the tall and powerful horse
which bore him seemed none the worse for the accident which had
happened. Armand Chauvin and Martin Grille followed close upon their
young leader, and the other five strangers brought up the rear.
The rest of the journey, of well-nigh two leagues, passed without
accident, and the two foremost horsemen were gradually led into
something like a general conversation, in which Jean Charost's new
companion, though he could not be said to make himself agreeable,
showed a great knowledge of the world, of life, of courts, of foreign
countries; and displayed a somewhat rough but keen and trenchant wit,
which led his young fellow-traveler to the conclusion that he was no
common man. The last two miles of the journey were passed by
moonlight, and Jean Charost had now an opportunity of distinguishing
the personal appearance of his companion, which perhaps was more
prepossessing than his speech. He was a man of the middle age, not
very tall, but exceedingly broad across the chest and shoulders; and
his face, without being handsome, had something fine and commanding in
it. He rode his horse with more power than grace, managing him with an
ease that seemed to leave the creature no will of his own, and every
movement, indeed, displayed extraordinary personal vigor, joined with
some dignity. His dress seemed rich and costly, though the colors were
not easily distinguished. But the short mantle, with the long, furred
sleeves, hanging down almost to his horse's belly, betokened at once,
to a Frenchman of those days, the man of high degree.
Although the young secretary examined him certainly very closely, he
did not return the scrutiny, but merely gave him a casual glance, as
the moonlight fell upon him, and then continued his conversation till
they entered the town of Pithiviers.
"To what inn do we go, Chauvin?" asked Jean Charost, as they passed in
among the houses; but, before the other could answer, the stranger
exclaimed, "Never mind--you shall come to my inn. I will entertain
you--for to-night, at least. Indeed," he added, "there is but one inn
in the place worthy of the name, and my people are in possession of
it. We will find room for you and your men, however; and you shall sup
with me--if you be noble, as I suppose."
"I am, sir," replied Jean Charost, and followed where the other led.
As they were entering the principal street, which was quiet and still
enough, the stranger pulled up his horse, called up one of his
followers, and spoke to him in a language which Jean Charost did not
understand. Then turning to the young gentleman, he said, "Let us
dismount. Here is a shorter way to the inn, on foot. Your men can go
on with mine."
Jean Charost hesitated; but, unwilling to show doubt, he sprang from
his horse's back, after a moment's consideration, gave the rein to
Martin Grille, and walked on with his companion up a very narrow
street, which seemed to lead round the back of the buildings before
which they had just been passing.
The stranger walked slowly, and, as they advanced, he said, "May I
know your name, young gentleman?"
"Jean Charost de Brecy," replied the duke's secretary; and, though he
had a strong inclination, he refrained from asking the name of his
companion in return. There was a something, he could not well tell
what, that inspired respect about the stranger--a reverence without
love; and the young secretary did not venture to ask any questions. A
few moments after, a small house presented itself, built of stone, it
is true, whereas the others had been mainly composed of wood; but
still it was far too small and mean in appearance to accord with the
idea which Jean Charost had formed of the principal _auberge_ of the
good town of Pithiviers. At the door of this house, however, the elder
gentleman stopped, as if about to enter. The door was opened almost at
the same moment, as if on a preconcerted plan, and a man appeared with
a torch in his hand.
Jean Charost hesitated, and held back; but the other turned, after
ascending the three steps which led to the door, and looked back,
saying, "Come in--what are you afraid of?"
The least suspicion of fear has a great influence upon youth at all
times, and Jean Charost was by no means without the failings of youth,
although early misfortune and early experience had rendered him, as I
have before said, older than his years.
"I am not afraid of any thing," he replied, following the stranger.
"But this does not look like an inn."
"It is the back way," replied the other; "and you will soon find that
it is the inn."
Thus saying, he walked through a narrow passage which soon led into a
large court-yard, the man with the torch going before, and displaying
by the light he carried a multitude of objects, which showed the young
secretary that his companion had spoken nothing but the truth, and
that they were, indeed, in the court-yard of one of those large and
very handsome _auberges_--very different from the _cabarets_, the
_gites_, and _repues_, all inns of different classes at that time in
France.
Two or three times as they went, different men, some in the garb of
the retainers of a noble house dressed in gaudy colors, some in the
common habiliments of the attendants of an inn, came from different
parts of the court toward the man who carried the torch; but as often,
a slight movement of his hand caused them to fall back again from the
path of those whom he was lighting.
Right in front was a great entrance door, and a large passage from
which a blaze of light streamed forth, showing a great number of
people coming and going within; but to the left was a flight of half a
dozen stone steps leading to a smaller door, now closed. To it the
torch-bearer advanced, opened it, and then drew back reverently to let
those who followed pass in. A single man, with a cap and plume,
appeared within, at a little distance on the left, who opened the door
of a small room, into which the stranger entered, followed by his
young companion. Jean Charost gave a rapid glance at the man who
opened the door, whose dress was now as visible as it would have been
in daylight, and perceived, embroidered in letters of gold upon his
cap, just beneath the feather, the words "_Ich houd_." They puzzled
him; for though he did not remember their meaning, he had some
recollection of having heard that they formed the motto, or rallying
words, of some great man or some great faction.
The stranger advanced quietly to a chair, seated himself, turned to
the person at the door who had given him admittance, and merely
pronounced the word "Supper."
"For how--" said the attendant, in an inquiring tone, and it is
probable that he was about to add the word "many," with some title of
reverence or respect, but the other stopped him at once, saying, "For
two--speak with Monsieur D'Ipres, and take his orders. See that they
be obeyed exactly."
Then turning to Jean Charost, he said, in a good-humored tone, "Sit,
sit, my young friend. And now let me give you thanks. You rendered me
a considerable service--not, perhaps, that it was as great as you
imagine; for I should have got out somehow. These adventures always
come to an end, and I have been in worse quagmires of various kinds
than that; but you rendered me a considerable service, and, what is
more to the purpose, you did it boldly, skillfully, and promptly. You
pleased me, and during supper you shall tell me more about yourself.
Perhaps I may serve you."
"I think not, sir," replied Jean Charost; "for I desire no change in
my condition at the present moment. As to myself, all that I have to
say--all, indeed, that I intend to say, is, that my name, as I told
you, is Jean Charost, Seigneur De Brecy; that my father fought and
died in the service of his country; and that I am his only child; but
still most happy to have rendered you any service, however
inconsiderable."
The other listened in profound silence, with his eyes bent upon the
table, and without the slightest variation of expression crossing his
countenance.
"You talk well, young gentleman," he said, "and are discreet, I see.
Do you happen to guess to whom you are speaking?"
"Not in the least," replied Jean Charost. "I can easily judge, sir,
indeed, that I am speaking to no ordinary man--to one accustomed to
command and be obeyed; who may be offended, perhaps, at my plain
dealing, and think it want of reverence for his person that I speak
not more frankly. Such, however, is not the case, and assuredly I can
in no degree divine who you are. You may be the King of Sicily, who, I
have been told, is traveling in this direction. The Duke de Berri, I
know you are not; for I have seen him very lately. I am inclined to
think, from the description of his person, however, that you may be
the Count of St. Paul."
The other smiled, gravely, and then replied, "The first ten steps you
take from this door after supper, you will know; for the greatest
folly any man commits, is to believe that a secret will be kept which
is known to more than one person. But for the next hour we will forget
all such things. Make yourself at ease: frankness never displeases me:
discretion, even against myself, always pleases me. Now let us talk of
other matters. I have gained an appetite, by-the-way, and am wondering
what they will give me for supper. I will bet you a link of this gold
chain against that little ring upon your finger, that we have lark
pies, and wine of Gatinois; for, on my life and soul, I know nothing
else that Pithiviers is famous for--except blankets; odds, my life, I
forgot blankets, and this is not weather to forget them. Prythee,
throw a log on the fire, boy, and let us make ourselves as warm as two
old Flemish women on Martinmas eve. But here comes the supper."
He was not right, however. It was the same attendant whom Jean Charost
had before seen, that now returned and whispered a word or two in his
lord's ear.
"Ha!" said the stranger, starting up "Who is with her? Our good
friend?"
"No," replied the other. "He has gone on, for a couple of days, to
Blois, and she has no one with her but a young lady and the varletry."
"Beseech her to come in and partake our humble meal," cried the other,
in a gay tone. "Tell her I have a young guest to sup with me, who will
entertain her young companion while I do my _devoir_ toward herself.
But tell her we lay aside state, and that she condescends to sup with
plain John of Valois. Ah, my young friend! you have it now, have you?"
he continued, looking shrewdly at Jean Charost, who had fallen into a
fit of thought. "Well--well, let no knowledge spoil merriment. We will
be gay to-night, whatever comes to-morrow."
Almost as he spoke, the door was again thrown open, and fair Madame De
Giac entered, followed by the young girl whom Jean Charost had seen at
Juvisy.