Standing in the street, at the door of the house to which he had been
directed, Jean Charost found a common-looking man, whose rank or
station was hardly to be divined by his dress; and drawing up his
horse beside him, he asked if Madame De Giac lived there.
"She is here," replied the man. "What do you want with her?"
"I have a letter to deliver to her," answered lean Charost, briefly.
"Give it to me," replied the man.
"That can not be," answered the young secretary. "It must be
delivered by me into her own hand."
"Who is it from?" inquired the other. "She does not see strangers at
this hour of the night."
The young secretary was somewhat puzzled what to reply, for a
lingering suspicion made him unwilling to give the name of the duke;
but he had not been told to conceal it, and seeing no other way of
obtaining admission, he answered, after a moment's consideration, "It
is from his highness of Orleans, and I must beg you to use dispatch."
"I will see if she will admit you," replied the man; "but come into
the court, at all events. You will soon have your answer."
Thus saying, he opened the large wooden gates of the yard, and, as
soon as Jean Charost had entered, closed and fastened them securely.
There was a certain degree of secrecy and mystery about the whole
proceeding, a want of that bustle and parade common in great houses in
Paris, which confirmed the preconceived suspicions of Jean Charost,
and made him believe that a woman of gallantry was waiting for the
visit of a prince whose devotion to her sex was but too well known.
Dismounting, he stood by his horse's side, while the man quietly
glided through a door, hardly perceivable in the obscurity of one dark
corner in the court-yard. The moon had already sunk low, and the tall
houses round shadowed the whole of the open space in which the young
secretary stood, so that he could but little see the aspect of the
place, although he had ample time for observation.
Nearly ten minutes elapsed before the messenger's return; but then he
came, attended by a page bearing a flambeau, and, in civil terms,
desired the young gentleman to follow him to his mistress's presence.
Through ways as narrow and as crooked as the ways of love usually are,
Jean Charost was conducted to a small room, which would nowadays
probably be called a boudoir, where, even without the contrast of the
poor, naked stone passages through which he had passed, every thing
would have appeared luxurious and splendid in the highest degree.
Rumor attributed to the beautiful lady whom he went to visit, a
princely lover, who some years before had commanded an army against
the Ottomans, had received a defeat which rendered him morose and
harsh throughout the rest of life, but had acquired, during an easy
captivity among the Mussulmans, a taste for Oriental luxury, which
never abandoned him. All within the chamber to which Jean Charost was
now introduced spoke that the lady had not been uninfluenced by her
lover's habits. Articles of furniture little known in France were seen
in various parts of the room; piles of cushions, carpets of
innumerable dyes, and low sofas or ottomans; while, even in the midst
of winter, the odor of roses pervaded the whole apartment. Madame de
Giac herself, negligently dressed, but looking wonderfully beautiful,
was reclining on cushions, with a light on a low table by her side,
and, on the approach of Jean Charost, she received him more as an old
and dear friend than a mere accidental acquaintance. A radiant smile
was upon her lips; she made him sit down beside her, and in her tone
there was a blandishing softness, which he felt was very engaging. For
a minute or two she held the letter of the Duke of Orleans unopened in
her hand, while she asked him questions about his journey from
Pithiviers to Blois, and his return. At length, however, she opened
the billet and read it, not so little observed as she imagined
herself; for Jean Charost's eyes were fixed upon her, marking the
various expressions of her countenance. At first, her glance at the
note was careless; but speedily her eyes fixed upon the lines with an
intense, eager look. Her brow contracted, her nostril expanded, her
beautiful upper lip quivered, and that fair face for an instant took
upon it the look of a demon. Suddenly, however, she recollected
herself, smoothed her brow, recalled the wandering lightning of her
eyes and folding the note, she curled it between her fingers, saying,
"I must write an answer, my dear young friend. I will not be long;
wait for me here;" and rising gracefully, she gathered her flowing
drapery around her, and passed out by a door behind the cushions.
The door was closed carefully; but Jean Charost had good reason to
believe that the time of Madame De Giac was occupied in other
employment than writing. A murmur of voices was heard, in which her
own sweet tones mingled with others harsher and louder. The words used
could not be distinguished, but the conversation seemed eager and
animated, beginning the moment she entered, and rising and falling in
loudness, as if the speakers were sometimes carried away by the topic,
sometimes fearful of being overheard.
Jean Charost was no great casuist, and certainly, in all ordinary
cases, he would have felt ashamed to listen to any conversation not
intended for his ears. Neither, on this occasion, did he actually
listen. He moved not from his seat; he even took up and examined a
beautiful golden-sheathed poniard with a jeweled hilt, which lay upon
the table where stood the light. But there was a doubt, a suspicion,
an apprehension of he knew not what in his mind, which, if
well-founded, might perhaps have justified him in his own eyes in
actually trying to hear what was passing; for assuredly he would have
thought it no want of honor thus to detect the devices of an enemy.
The voice of Madame De Giac was not easily forgotten by one who had
once heard it; and the rougher, sterner tones that mingled in the
conversation seemed likewise familiar to the young secretary's ear.
Both those who were speaking he believed to be inimical to his royal
master. He heard nothing distinctly, however, but the last few words
that were spoken.
It would seem that Madame De Giac had approached close to the door,
and laid her hand upon the lock, and the other speaker raised his
voice, adding to some words which were lost, the following, in an
imperative tone, "As long as possible, remember--by any means!"
Madame De Giac's murmured reply was not intelligible to the young
secretary; but then came a coarse laugh, and the deeper voice
answered, "No, no. I do not mean that; but by force, if need be."
"Well, then, tell them," said the fair lady; but what was to be told
escaped unheard by Jean Charost; for she dropped her voice lower than
ever, and, a moment after, re-entered the room.
Her face was all fair and smiling, and before she spoke, she seated
herself again on the cushions, paused thoughtfully, and, looking at
the dagger which the young gentleman replaced as she entered, said
playfully, "Do not jest with edged tools. I hope you did not take the
poniard out of its sheath. It comes from Italy--from the very town of
the sweet Duchess of Orleans; and they tell me that the point is
poisoned, so that the slightest scratch would produce speedy death. It
has never been drawn since I had it, and never shall be with my will."
"I did not presume to draw it," said Jean Charost. "But may I crave
your answer to his highness's note?"
"How wonderfully formal we are," said Madame De Giac, with a gay
laugh. "This chivalrous reverence for the fair, which boys are taught
in their school days, is nothing but a sad device of old women and
jealous husbands. It is state, and dress, and grave surroundings, De
Brecy, that makes us divinities. A princess and a page, in a little
cabinet like this, are but a woman and a man. Due propriety, of
course, is right; but forms and reverence all nonsense."
"Beauty and rank have both their reverence, madam," replied Jean
Charost. "But at the present moment, all other things aside, I am
compelled to think of his highness's business; for he is waiting for
me now at the Hôtel Barbette, expecting anxiously, I doubt not, your
answer."
The conversation that followed does not require detail. Madame De Giac
was prodigal of blandishments, and, skilled in every female art,
contrived to while away some twenty minutes without giving the young
secretary any reply to bear to his master.
When at length she found that she could not detain him any longer
without some definite answer, she turned to the subject of the note,
and contrived to waste some more precious time on it.
"What if I were to send the duke a very angry message?" she said.
"I should certainly deliver it," replied Jean Charost. "But I would
rather that you wrote it."
"No, I have changed my mind about that," she answered. "I will not
write. You may tell him I think him a base, ungrateful man, unworthy
of a lady's letter. Will you tell him that?"
"Precisely, madam; word for word," replied Jean Charost.
"Then you are bolder with men than women," replied the lady, with a
laugh slightly sarcastic. "Stay, stay; I have not half done yet. Say
to the duke I am of a forgiving nature, and, if he does proper
penance, and comes to sue for pardon, he may perhaps find mercy.
Whither are you going so fast? You can not get out of this enchanted
castle as easily as you think, good youth; at least not without my
consent."
"I pray, then, give it to me, madam," said Jean Charost; "for I really
fear that his highness will be angry at my long delay."
"Poor youth! what a frightened thing it is," said the lady. "Well, you
shall go; but let me look at the duke's note again, in case I have any
thing to add;" and she unfolded the billet, which she still held in
her hand, and looked at it by the light. Again Jean Charost marked
that bitter, fiend-like scowl come upon her countenance, and, in this
instance, the feelings that it indicated found some expression in
words.
"Either you or his priest are making a monk of him," she said,
bitterly; "but it matters not. Tell him what I have said." And
murmuring a few more indistinct words to herself, she rang a small
silver bell which lay upon the cushions beside her, and the man who
had given Jean Charost admission speedily appeared.
The lady looked at him keenly for an instant, and the young secretary
thought he saw a glance of intelligence pass from his face to hers.
"Light this young gentleman out," said Madame De Giac. "You are a
young fool, De Brecy," she added, laughingly; "but that is no fault of
yours or mine. Nature made you so, and I can not mend you; and so,
good-night."
Jean Charost bowed low, and followed the man out of the room; but, as
he did so, he drew his sword-hilt a little forward, not well knowing
what was to come next. Madame De Giac eyed him with a sarcastic smile,
and the door closed upon him.
The man lighted him silently, carefully along the narrow, tortuous
passage, and down the steep stair-case by which he had entered,
holding the light low, that he might see his way. When they reached
the small door which led into the court, he unbolted it, and held it
back for the young gentleman to go forth; but the moment Jean Charost
had passed out, the door was closed and bolted.
"Not very courteous," thought Jean Charost. "But doubtless he takes
his tone from his lady's last words. What a dark night it is?"
For a minute or two, in the sudden obscurity after the light was
withdrawn, he could discern none of the objects around him, and it was
not till his eye had become more accustomed to the darkness that he
discovered his horse standing fastened to a ring let into the
building. He detached him quickly, and led him to the great gates; but
here a difficulty presented itself. The large wooden bar was easily
removed, and the bolts drawn back; but still the gates would not open.
The young gentleman felt them all over in search of another fastening;
but he could find none; and he then turned to a little sort of
guardroom on the right of the entrance, attached to almost all the
large houses of Paris in that day, and transformed, in after and more
peaceable times, into a porter's lodge. All was dark and silent
within, however: the door closed; and no answer was returned when the
young gentleman knocked. He then tried another door, in the middle of
the great façade of the building; but there, also, the door was
locked, and he could make no one hear. His only resource, then, was
the small postern by which he had been admitted; but here also he was
disappointed, and he began to comprehend that he was intentionally
detained. He was naturally the more impatient to escape; and,
abandoning all ceremony, he knocked hard with the hilt of his dagger
on the several doors, trying them in turns. But it was all in vain.
There were things doing which made his importunity of small
consequence.
With an angry and impatient heart, and a mind wandering through a
world of conjecture, he at length thrust his dagger back into the
sheath, and stood and listened near the great gates, determined, if he
heard a passing step in the street, to call loudly for assistance. All
was still, however, for ten minutes, and then came suddenly a sound of
loud voices and indistinct cries, as if there was a tumult at some
distance. Jean Charost's heart beat quick, though there seemed no
definite link of connection between his own fate and the sounds he
heard. A minute or two after, however, he was startled by a nearer
noise--a rattling and grating sound--and he had just time to draw his
horse away ere the gates opened of their own accord, and rolled back
without any one appearing to move them. A hoarse and unpleasant laugh,
at the same moment, sounded on Jean Charost's ear, and, looking forth
into the street, he saw two or three dark figures running quickly
forward in one direction.