It was past ten o'clock at night, when a litter, escorted by four men
on horseback, passed the gates of Paris. A short detention took place
before the guards at the gates would suffer the party to proceed, and
one man went into the guardhouse, and brought out a lantern to examine
the inside of the litter and the countenances of the cavaliers. He
used it also to examine the pass, though, to say truth, he could not
read a word, albeit an officer of some standing. In this respect none
of his companions were in better case than himself; and they all
declared that the handwriting was so bad that nobody on earth could
read it. It seemed likely, at one time, that this illegibility of the
writing, or want of the reading faculty on the part of the guards,
might be made an excuse for detaining the whole party till somebody
with better eyes or better instruction should come up. But one of the
horsemen dismounted, saying, "I will read it to you;" and looking over
the officer's shoulder, he proceeded thus, "I, William, Marquis De
Giac, do hereby strictly enjoin and command you, in the name of the
high and mighty prince, John, duke of Burgundy, to pass safely through
the gates of Paris, without let or impediment, Maître Jacques C[oe]ur,
clerk, his wife, and three serving-men, and to give them aid and
comfort in case of need, signed, De Giac."
"Is that it?" asked the officer, staring on the paper.
"Yes, don't you see?" answered Jacques C[oe]ur, pointing with his
finger. "To let pass the gates of the city of Paris."
"Well, well, go along," said the man; and, mounting his horse again,
the merchant led the way; and the litter, with those that it
contained, followed.
For a wonder, Martin Grille held his tongue all this time; but ere
they had gone half a dozen furlongs, he approached the side of the
litter, and, putting in his head, asked how his young master was.
"Better, Martin, better," replied Jean Charost. "Every hour I feel
better."
"Well, thank God, we are out of the city," said Martin Grille. "My
heart has been so often in my mouth during this last half hour, that I
thought I should bite it if I did but say a word. I wonder which way
we are to direct our steps now."
"Toward Bourges, Martin," replied Jacques C[oe]ur, who was riding
near.
"Toward Bourges!" said Martin Grille. "Then what's to become of the
baby?"
"The baby!" repeated Madame De Brecy, in a tone as full of surprise as
that in which Martin had repeated the words "toward Bourges."
"In Heaven's name, what baby?"
Jean Charost laid his hand gently on his mother, saying, "It is very
true, dear mother. A young child--quite an infant--has been given into
my care, and I have promised to protect and educate her."
"But whose child is she?" asked Madame De Brecy, in a tone of some
alarm and consternation.
"I can not tell," replied her son. "I believe she is an orphan; but I
am ignorant of all the facts."
"She is an orphan in a double sense," said Jacques C[oe]ur, mingling
in the discourse; "at least I believe so. I have nothing to guide me
but suspicion, it is true; but my suspicion is strong. Ay, my young
friend: you are surprised that I know aught of this affair; but a
friend's eye is often as watchful as a parent's. I saw the child, some
days after it was given into your charge, and there is a strong
likeness--as strong as there can be between an infant and a grown
person--between this poor thing and one who is no more."
"Who--who?" asked Jean Charost, eagerly.
"One whom you never saw," replied Jacques C[oe]ur; and Jean Charost
was silent; for although he himself entertained suspicions, his
friend's words were quite adverse to them.
"It was well bethought of, Martin," continued Jacques C[oe]ur, after a
short pause. "We had better take our way by Beauté. It is not far
round, and we shall all the sooner get within the posts of the Orleans
party; for they are already preparing for war. We can not take the
child with us, for she is too young to go without a nurse; but we can
make arrangements for her coming hereafter; and of course that which
you promised when in peril of your life had you refused, must be
performed to the letter, my young friend."
"Assuredly," replied Jean Charost. "Can we reach Beauté to-night?"
"I fear not," answered the merchant. "But we must go on till we have
put danger behind us. Now draw the curtains of the litter again, and
try to sleep, my son. Sleep is a strange whiler away of weary hours."
But, though the pace of the horse-litter was drowsy enough, it was
long before any thing like slumber came near the eyes of Jean Charost;
and he had just closed them, with a certain sort of heaviness of the
lids, when the words "Halt, halt, whoever you are!" were heard on all
sides, together with the tramp of many horses, and the jingling of
arms. Madame De Brecy and her son drew back the curtains instantly;
and they then found that they were surrounded by a large party of
men-at-arms, two or three of whom were conversing with Jacques
C[oe]ur, a little in advance.
The moon had somewhat declined; but it was shining on the faces of
several of the group; and, after gazing out for a moment or two, Jean
Charost exclaimed, "De Royans--Monsieur De Royans!"
His voice, which was weak, was at first not attended to; but, on
repeating the call, one of the horsemen turned quickly round and rode
up to the side of the litter.
"Ah, De Brecy, is that you?" cried the young, man, holding out his
hand to him. "Here, Messire What's-your-name, we will believe you now;
for here is one who has suffered enough for his faithfulness to the
good duke. Why, how is this, De Brecy? In a litter--when we want every
man in the saddle. But I heard you were very ill. You must get well
soon, and strike a good stroke beside me and the rest, for the memory
of our good lord, whom they sent to heaven before his time. Oh, if I
could get one blow at that Burgundian's head, I would aim better than
I did at the Quintain. Well, you shall come on with us to Juvisy, and
we will lodge and entertain you."
Thus saying, Juvenel de Royans turned away, rode back to his
companions, and gave them explanations which seemed satisfactory; for
the merchant and his party were not only suffered to proceed, but
obtained the escort of some forty or fifty men-at-arms, who had been
about to return to Juvisy when they fell in with the little cavalcade
of Jacques C[oe]ur.
None of the many moral enigmas with which we are surrounded is more
difficult of comprehension to the mind of a man of fixed and resolute
character than the sudden changes which come upon more impulsive and
volatile people. The demeanor of Juvenel de Royans was a matter of
serious and puzzling thought to Jean Charost through the rest of the
journey. He seemed so entirely changed, not only in feelings toward
the young gentleman himself, but in disposition. Frank, active,
impetuous as ever, he had, in the space of a few terrible weeks, lost
the boyish flippancy of manner, and put on the manly character at
once. Jean Charost could not understand it at all; and it seemed to
him most strange that one who would willingly have cut his throat not
a month before, should now, upon the establishment of one very slight
link between them, treat him as a dear and ancient friend. Jean
Charost was less of a Frenchman than Juvenel de Royans, both by birth
and education; for the latter had been born in the gay and movable
south, and had been indulged, if not spoiled, during all his early
life; while the former had first seen the light in much more northern
regions, and had received very early severe lessons of adversity.
Neither, perhaps, had any distinct notion of the real causes of their
former enmity; but Jean Charost was, at least, well satisfied that it
should be terminated; and, as he was of no rancorous disposition, he
gladly received the proffered friendship of his former adversary;
though, to say sooth, he counted it at somewhat less than it was
worth, on account of the suddenness with which it had arisen. He knew
not that some of the trees which spring up the most rapidly are
nevertheless the most valuable.