In the court-yard of the château of Beauté--a long, but somewhat
narrow parallelogram--were assembled most of the male members of the
Duke of Orleans's household, two days after the return of Jean Charost
from Blois. Some were on horseback, and some on foot; and nine or ten
of the younger men were armed with a long ash staff, shaped somewhat
like a lance, while the rest of the party were in their ordinary
riding-dresses, with no arms but the customary sword and dagger. All
these were gathered together at one end of the court, while a
trumpeter, holding his trumpet with its bell-shaped mouth leaning on
his hip, was placed a little in advance.
At the other end of the court stood a column of wood, perhaps six feet
in height, surmounted by a grotesque-looking carved image,
representing the upper part of a man, with both arms extended, and a
long, heavy cudgel in each hand. After a moment's pause, and a
consultation among the elder heads, one of the inferior servants was
sent forward for purposes that will speedily be shown, to act as, what
was called, master of the _Quintain_; but he took care to place
himself beyond the sweep of the cudgel in the hand of the image so
called.
The sport about to begin was of very ancient date, and had been
generally superseded by somewhat more graceful exercises; but the Duke
of Orleans was very fond of old customs, and had revived many
chivalrous sports which had fallen out of use. At a signal from
Monsieur Blaize, who was on foot, the trumpeter put his instrument of
noise to his lips, and blew a blast which, well understood, ranged the
young cavaliers instantly in line, and then, after a moment's pause,
sounded a charge. One of the party instantly sprung forward, lance in
rest, toward the Quintain, aiming directly at the centre of the head
of the figure. He was quite a young lad, and his arm not very steady,
so that he somewhat missed his mark, and struck the figure on the
cheek. Moving on a pivot, the Quintain whirled round under the blow,
with the arms still extended, and, as the horse carried the youth on,
he must have received a tremendous stroke from the wooden cudgel on
his back, had he not bent down to his horse's neck, so that the blow
passed over him. Some laughed; but Juvenel de Royans, who was the next
but one to follow, exclaimed aloud, "That's not fair."
"Quite fair, I think," replied Jean Charost, who was near.
"What do you know about it?" cried the other, impetuously. "Keep
yourself to pens, and things you understand."
"I may, perhaps, understand it better than you, Monsieur De Royans,"
replied Jean Charost, quite calmly. "It is the favorite game at
Bourges, and we consider that the next best point to hitting the
Quintain straight, is to avoid the blow."
"That's the coward's point, I suppose," said Juvenel de Royans.
"Hush! hush!" cried Monsieur Blaize. "Silence, sir. Sound again,
trumpet!"
Another ran his course, struck the Quintain better, but did not
dismount it; and De Royans succeeded striking the figure right in the
middle of the forehead, and shaking the whole post, but still leaving
the wooden image standing.
The great feat of the game was, not only to aim the spear so fair as
to avoid turning the figure in the least, but so low that the least
raising of the point at the same time threw it backward from its
pivot. But this was a somewhat dangerous man[oe]uvre; for the chest of
the image being quite flat, and unmarked by any central point, the
least deviation to the right or left swung round one of the cudgels
with tremendous force, and the young gentleman did not venture to
attempt it.
Jean Charost, however, who, as a mere boy, had been trained to the
exercise by his father, aimed right at the breast; but he paid for his
temerity by a severe blow, which called forth a shout of laughter from
De Royans and his companions. Others followed, who fared as badly,
without daring as much.
Each time the Quintain was moved, the servant who had been sent
forward readjusted it with the greatest care, and when each of the
young men had run his course, the troop commenced again.
The rivalry between De Royans and De Brecy was by this time a
well-understood thing in the château, and little heed was paid to the
running of the rest till it came to the turn of the former. He then,
with a sort of mock courtesy, besought Jean Charost to take his turn,
saying, "You are the superior officer, sir, and, to say truth, I would
fain learn that dexterous trick of yours, if you venture upon it
again."
"I certainly shall," replied Jean Charost, "and I shall be happy to
teach you that, or better things. I will run first. The Quintain is
not straight," he continued, calling to the master of the Quintain.
"Advance the right arm an inch."
There was some little dispute as to whether the Quintain was straight
or not, but in the end the trumpet again sounded. Jean Charost, with a
better aim, hit the figure in the middle of the chest, and raising his
arm lightly at the same instant, threw it back upon the ground. Then
wheeling his horse, while the servant replaced it, he returned to his
post. But no one said "Well done," except old Monsieur Blaize; and
Juvenel de Royans bit his lip, with a red spot on his cheek.
Rash, confident, and angry, he took no pains to see that the figure
was exactly straight, but dashed forward when the trumpet sounded,
resolved not to be outdone, aiming directly at the chest. Whether his
horse swerved, or the figure was not well adjusted, I do not know; but
he hit it considerably to the right of the centre, and, as he was
carried forward, the merciless cudgel struck him a blow on the back of
the neck which hurled him out of the saddle to the ground.
Jean Charost did not laugh; but he could not refrain from a smile,
which caught De Royans's eyes as he led his horse back again. The
latter was dizzy and confused, however, and for a moment, after he had
given his horse to a servant, he stood gnawing his lip, without
uttering a word to any one. At length, as the others were running
their course, however, he walked up to the side of Jean Charost, who
was now a little apart from the rest, and some quick words and meaning
glances were seen to pass between them. Their voices grew louder; De
Royans touched the hilt of his sword; and Jean Charost nodded his
head, saying something in a low tone.
"For shame! for shame!" said Monsieur Blaize, approaching; but, ere he
could add more, a casement just above their heads opened, and the
voice of the Duke of Orleans was heard.
"Juvenel de Royans," he said, "have you any inclination for a dungeon?
There are cells to fit you under the castle; and, as I live, you shall
enjoy one if you broil in my household. I know you, sir; so be warned.
De Brecy, come here; I want you."
Jean Charost immediately dismounted, gave his horse to Martin Grille,
and ascended to the gallery from which the Duke of Orleans had been
watching the sports of the morning. It was a large room,
communicating, by a door in the midst and a small vestibule, with that
famous picture-gallery which has been already mentioned. Voices were
heard talking beyond; but the duke, after his young secretary's
arrival, continued for a few minutes walking up and down the same
chamber in which Jean Charost found him, leaning lightly on his arm.
"I know not how it is, my young friend," he said, in a sort of musing
tone, "but the people here are clearly not very fond of you. However,
I must insist that you take no notice whatever of that peevish boy, De
Royans."
"I am most willing, sir," said Jean Charost, "to live at peace with
him and every one else, provided they will leave me at peace likewise.
I have given neither him nor them any matter for offense, and yet I
will acknowledge that since my first entrance into your highness's
household, I have met with little but enmity from any but good
Monsieur Blaize and Signor Lomelini, who are both, I believe, my
friends."
The duke mused very gravely, and then replied, "I know not how it is.
To me it seems that there is nothing in your demeanor and conduct but
that which should inspire kindness, and even respect. And yet," he
continued, after a moment's pause, his face brightening with a gay,
intelligent smile, not uncommon upon it when that acuteness, which
formed one point in his very varied character, was aroused, by some
accidental circumstance, from the slumber into which it sometimes
fell--"and yet I am a fool to say I do not know how it is. I do know
right well, my young friend. Men of power and station do not enough
consider that all who surround them are more or less engaged in a
race, whose rivalry necessarily deviates into enmity; and their favor,
whenever it is given, is followed by the ill will of many toward the
single possessor. The more just and the more generous of the
competitors content themselves with what they can obtain, or, at
all events, do not deny some portion of merit to a more fortunate
rival; but the baser and the meaner spirits--and they are the most
numerous--not only envy, but hate; not only hate, but calumniate."
"I am most grateful, sir, for all your kindness toward me," replied
Jean Charost; "but I can not at all attribute the enmity of Monsieur
de Royans, or any of the rest, to jealousy of your favor, for from the
moment I entered your household it was the same."
"Oil and water do not easily mix," answered the duke. "The qualities
for which I esteem you make them hate you; not that your character and
mine are at all alike--very, very different. But there be some
substances, which, though most opposite to others, easily mingle with
them; others which, with more apparent similarity, are totally
repugnant. Your feelings are not my feelings, your thoughts not my
thoughts, yet I can comprehend and appreciate you; these men can not."
"I am afraid, sir," said Jean Charost, "that I owe your good opinion
more to a prepossession in my favor than to any meritorious acts of my
own; for, indeed, I have had no opportunity of serving you."
"Yes, you have, greatly," replied the duke; "not perhaps by acts, but
by words, which prove often the greatest services. He who influences a
man's mind, De Brecy, affects him more than he who influences his mere
earthly fortunes. I have often thought," he continued, in a musing
tone, "that we are never sufficiently grateful to those by whose
writings, by whose example, by whose speech, our hearts, our feelings,
or our reason have been formed and perfected. The mind has a fortune
as well as the body, and the latter is inferior to the former. But set
your mind at rest; they can not affect my opinion toward you. There is
but one thing which has puzzled me a little; this child, which they
tell me has been placed by you at one of the cottages hard by, I would
fain know who are its parents."
"On that subject I can tell your highness nothing," replied Jean
Charost; "but the whole history, as far as I can give it, I will
give."
"Hush!" said the duke, looking toward the picture-gallery, the door
from which was opened by the duchess at that moment.
"There is nothing, sir, that I am afraid or ashamed to tell before the
duchess," replied Jean Charost. "The case may be strange; but, as far
as it affects me, it is a very simple one."
"Well, then," said the duke, turning to the duchess, who was advancing
slowly and somewhat timidly, "you shall speak on, and your narrative
shall be our morning's amusement."
His whole air changed in a moment; and, with a gay and sparkling look,
he said to the duchess, "Come hither, my sweet wife, and assist at the
trial of this young offender. He is charged before me of preaching
rather than practicing, of frowning, like a Franciscan, on all the
lighter offenses of love; and yet, what think you, I am told he has a
fair young lady, who has followed him hither, and is boarded by him in
one of the cottages just below the castle, when I do believe that,
were I but to give a glance at any pretty maiden, I should have as
sour a look as antique abbess ever gave to wavering nun."
The duchess looked in Jean Charost's face for an instant, and then
said, "I'll be his surety, sir, that the tale is false."
"Not so, indeed, your highness," replied Jean Charost. "The tale is
mostly true; but the duke should have added that this fair maid can
not be three months old."
"Worse and worse!" cried the duke; "you can not escape penance for one
sin, my friend, by pleading a still greater one. But tell us how all
this happened; let us hear your defense."
"It is a plain and true one, sir," replied Jean Charost. "The very
morning after our arrival here, I rode out for exercise, accompanied
only by my lackey, Martin Grille. In a wood, perhaps four miles
distant, we saw the smoke of a fire rising up not far from the road.
My man is city born, and full of city fears. He fancied that every
tree concealed a plunderer, and though he did not infect me with his
apprehensions, he excited my curiosity about this fire; so--"
"Judging that a fire must have some one to light it," said the duke,
"you went to see. That much has been told in every nook of the house,
from the garret to the guest-chamber. What happened next?"
"I tracked the marks of horse's feet," said Jean Charost, "from the
road through the wood, some hundred yards into the bushes, catching
the smoke still rising blue among the dark brown trees, and, of
course, appearing nearer as I went. I heard people talking loud, too,
and therefore fancied that I could get still nearer without being
seen. But suddenly, two men, who were lying hid hard by the path I had
taken, started out and seized me, crying 'Here is a spy--a spy!' A
number of others rushed up shouting and swearing, and I was soon
dragged on to the spot where the fire was lighted, which was a small
open space beneath an old beech-tree. There I found some three or four
others lying on the snow, all fully armed but one. Horses were
standing tied around. A lance was here and there leaning against the
trees, and battle-axes and maces were at many a saddle-bow; but I must
say that the harness was somewhat rusty, and the faces of my new
acquaintances not very clean or trim. The one who was unarmed, and who
I supposed was a prisoner like myself, stood before the fire with his
arms crossed on his chest. He was a tall man of middle age, with his
hair very gray, somewhat plainly dressed, but with an air of stern,
grave dignity not easily forgotten."
"Had he no arms at all?" asked the duke.
"None whatever, sir," replied Jean Charost; "not even sword or dagger.
One large, bulky man, lying as quietly on the snow as if it had been a
bed of down, had his feet to the fire, and, resting between them, I
saw, to my surprise, a young child, well wrapped up, with nothing but
the face peeping out, and sleeping soundly on a bed of pine branches.
I should weary your highness with all that happened. At first it
seemed that they would take my life, vowing that I had come to spy out
their movements; then they would have had me go with them and make one
of their band, giving me the choice of that or death. As I chose the
latter, they were about to give it me without much ceremony, when the
unarmed man interfered, in a tone of authority I had not expected to
hear him use. He commanded them, in short, to desist; and, after
whispering for a moment or two with the bulky man I have mentioned, he
pointed to the child, and told me that, if I would swear most solemnly
to guard and protect her, to be a father to her, and to see that she
was nourished and educated in innocence and truth, they would let me
go."
"Did you know the man?" asked the Duke of Orleans, with a look of more
interest than he had before displayed.
"No, sir," replied the young secretary. "A faint, faint recollection
of having somewhere seen a face like his I assuredly did feel; but he
certainly seemed to know me, spoke of me as one attached to your
highness, and asked how long I had left Paris. His words were wild and
whirling, indeed; a few sentences he would speak correctly enough; but
they seemed forced from him, as if with pain, straining his eye upon
the fire or upon the ground, and falling into silence again as soon as
they were uttered."
"Was he some merchant, perhaps?" asked the duke; "some one who has had
dealings with our friend, Jacques C[oe]ur?"
"He was no merchant, sir," said Jean Charost; "but I think, if ever I
did see him before, it must have been with Jacques C[oe]ur, for he had
dealings with many men of high degree; and I doubt not that this
person, however plain his garb and strange his demeanor, is a man of
noble blood and a high name."
The young man paused, as if there were more to be said which he
hesitated to utter; and then, after giving a somewhat anxious glance
toward the duchess, he added, "I may remember more incidents
hereafter, sir, which I will not fail to tell you."
"Did he give you no sign or token with this child," asked the duke,
"by which one may trace her family and history? Did he tell you
nothing of her parents?"
"He said he was not her father," replied Jean Charost, gravely; "but
that was all the information he afforded. He gave me this ring, too,"
continued the young man, producing one, "and a purse of gold pieces to
pay for her nourishment."
The duke took the ring and examined it carefully; but it was merely a
plain gold circle without any distinctive mark. Nevertheless, Jean
Charost thought his master's hand shook a little as he held the ring,
and the duchess, who was looking over her husband's shoulder, said,
"It is a strange story. Pray, tell me, Monsieur de Brecy, was this
gentleman the same who spoke to you at the inn-door upon the road?"
"The same, madam," replied Jean Charost.
"Who was he? Did you ever see him before?" asked the duke, turning
toward his wife with an eager look.
"Never," answered the duchess; "but he was a very singular and
distinguished-looking man. He was a gentleman assuredly, and I should
think a soldier; for he had a deep scar upon the forehead which cut
straight through the right eyebrow."
The duke returned the ring to Jean Charost in silence; but the moment
after he turned so deadly pale that the duchess exclaimed, "You are
ill, my lord. You have exerted yourself too much to-day. You forget
your late sickness, and how weak you are."
"No, no," replied the duke. "I feel somewhat faint: it will pass by in
a moment. Let us go into the picture-gallery. I will sit down there in
the sunshine."
Without reply, the duchess put her arm through his, and led him onward
to the gallery, making a sign for Jean Charost to follow; and the
duke, seating himself in a large chair, gazed over the walls, still
marked by a lighter color here and there where a picture had lately
hung.
"Those walls must be cleaned," he said, at length; "though I doubt if
the traces can be obliterated."
"Oh, yes," answered the duchess, in a tone of sportive tenderness;
"there is no trace of any of man's acts which can not be effaced,
either by his own deeds, or his friend's efforts, or his God's
forgiveness."
She spoke to his thoughts rather than to his words, and the duke took
her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. Then, turning to Jean Charost,
he pointed to the picture of the duchess, saying, "Is not that one
worthy to remain when all the rest are gone?"
"Most worthy, sir," replied the young secretary, a little puzzled what
to answer. "The others were mere daubs to that."
"What, then, you saw them?" said the duchess.
"His hands burned them," replied the duke.
"That strange man whom we met," replied the duchess, "declared that he
was faithful and true, where all were false and deceitful; and so he
will be to us, Louis. Trust him, my husband--trust him."
"I will," replied the duke. "But here comes Lomelini."
The duchess drew herself up, cast off the tender kindliness of her
look, and assumed a cold and icy stateliness; and the duke, inclining
his head to Jean Charost, added, "Leave us now, my young friend. This
afternoon or evening I shall have need of you. Then we will speak
further; so be not far off."
Jean Charost bowed and retired; and, turning to the maître d'hôtel,
the duke said, in a low voice, "Set Blaize, or some one you can trust,
to watch that young man. There have been high words between him and
Juvenel de Royans. See that nothing comes of it. If you remark any
thing suspicious, confine De Royans to his chamber, and set a guard."
"Does your highness mean De Royans alone or both?" asked Lomelini,
softly.
"De Royans," answered the duke, sharply. "The one in fault, sir--the
one always in fault. See my orders in train of execution, and then
return."