Flitting like shadows in a mist, came many a great event in the
history of France about that time, hardly known or appreciated by any
except those who were the immediate actors in them; but amid them all,
with a heavy heart, and a dejected spirit, Jean Charost remained in
exile at Briare. Why he had chosen that small town for the place of
his retreat, he himself hardly knew; for although no human action is
probably without its motive, some motives are so quick and
lightning-like, that all traces of them are instantly lost even in the
cloud from which they issue. It might be that he had been thinking
deeply of the words of Juvenel de Royans, from the second night of the
siege of Bourges till the moment when his sentence of banishment from
the court was spoken, and that he had fully made up his mind to go
thither sooner or later to converse with the Abbot Lomelini. No other
inducement, indeed, could be imagined; for Briare was then, as now, a
very dull small place, with its single street, and hardly defensible
walls, and nothing to recommend it but the smiling banks of the Loire,
and the fine old abbey at the highest point of the whole town. Dull
enough it was, in truth, to Jean Charost, without one object of
interest, one source of occupation. Filial love, too, had deprived him
of the consolation of his mother's company. The journey from De Brecy
to Briare he thought was too long, the difficulties and dangers in the
way too numerous for her to encounter them without risk to her health
or to her life, and he had persuaded her to remain, and keep the
management of his estates in her own hands. Thus, with a few servants,
he remained at the principal inn of the place, poorly lodged, and
poorly fed, but heeding little the convenience or inconvenience of the
body in the dull, heavy anguish of the heart. His spirit fretted sore
within him; but yet he did not venture to resist the sentence of the
king, unjust as it might be. It was a strange state that France was in
at that period. Nobles would actually take arms against the royal
authority at one moment, and submit to the most arbitrary decrees the
next; and not only did De Brecy remain at Briare in obedience to the
king's command, but Richmond, with all his impetuous spirit, lingered
on at Parthenay for months.
For some days after his arrival at his place of exile, occupied with
other thoughts, Jean Charost forgot Lomelini entirely; and when he did
remember him, and recalled the words which De Royans had spoken, he
asked himself, "Why should I seek for information which may probably
confirm the king's claim to the disposal of her I love?"
Man's mind, however, abhors uncertainty. That thirst for knowledge
which was kindled in Paradise is upon us still. We would rather know
evil than know not. On the fourth day, toward eventide, he set out and
walked up to the abbey, and paused in the gray light, looking at the
gray gates. One of the brethren, gazing forth, asked him if he would
come in and see the church, and then De Brecy inquired for the abbot,
and if he were still brother Lomelini.
The monk replied in the affirmative, but said the abbot seldom
received any one after sunset, unless he came on business of
importance, or was an old friend.
"I am an old friend," replied Jean Charost. "Tell him Monsieur De
Brecy is here. I will wait till you return."
He was speedily admitted, and Lomelini seemed really glad to see him.
He had become an old man, indeed, with hair as white as silver, had
grown somewhat bowed and corpulent, and was slightly querulous withal.
He complained of many things--of man's ingratitude--the dullness of
the place of his abode--the forgetfulness of friends--the perils of
the land, and all those things easily borne by the robust spirit of
youth, which age magnifies into intolerable burdens. Still, he seemed
gratified with Jean Charost's visit, and besought him to stay and take
a homely supper with him--poor monastic fare. But during the course of
the evening, and the meal with which it concluded, the young nobleman
found that his old acquaintance had lost none of that quiet subtlety
which had distinguished him in other days, and that his taste for good
things was in no degree diminished. It had increased, indeed. Like an
old dog, eating had become his only pleasure. He had become both a
glutton and an epicure.
Before he took his departure, the young nobleman asked openly and
boldly for the papers which De Royans had mentioned. Lomelini looked
surprised and bewildered, and assured him that Monsieur de Royans had
made a mistake. "I recollect nothing about them whatever," he said,
with an air of so much sincerity, that Jean Charost, though he had
acquired a keener insight into character than in former times, did not
even doubt him.
He went back from lime to time to see the old man, who always seemed
glad of his society, and, indeed, Jean Charost could not doubt that
company of any kind was a relief to one who was certainly not formed
by nature to pass his days in a monastery. He remarked, however, that
Lomelini from time to time would look at him from under his shaggy
white eyebrows with a look of cunning inquiry, as if he expected
something, or sought to discover something; but the moment their eyes
met, the abbot's were averted again, and he never uttered a word which
could give any clue to what was passing in his mind at such moments.
Thus had time passed away, not altogether without relief; a few hasty
lines, sometimes from his mother, sometimes from Agnes Sorel,
sometimes from his own Agnes, gave him information of the welfare of
the latter, and cheered his spirits for a day. But often would the
momentary sunshine be clouded by dark anxieties and fears.
He had not heard any thing for some weeks; and after a long ride
through the neighboring country, he was about to retire to rest, when
steps came rapidly through the long gallery of the inn, and stopped at
his chamber door. It was a young monk come to tell him that the abbot,
after supper, had been seized with sudden and perilous sickness, and
earnestly desired to see him instantly. Jean Charost hurried up with
the messenger to the abbey, and being brought into the old man's
chamber, instantly perceived that the hand of death had touched him:
the eyes spoke it, the temples spoke it, it was written in every line.
Lomelini welcomed him faintly; and as Jean Charost bent kindly over
him, he said, almost in a whisper, "Bid all the others leave the
room--I have something to say to you."
As soon as they were alone together, the old man said, "Put your hand
beneath my pillow. You will find something there."
Jean Charost obeyed, and drew forth a packet, yellow and soiled. His
own name was written on it in a hand which he recognized at once.
"Something more--something more," said Lomelini; and searching again,
he found another packet, also addressed to himself; but the seals of
this had been broken, though those on the other cover had been left
undisturbed. Without ceremony he unfolded the paper, and found within
a case of sandal wood inlaid with gold, and bearing the letters
M. S. F. twisted into a curious monograph. It opened with two small
clasps, and within were two rows of large and brilliant diamonds.
De Brecy's examination had been quick and eager, and while he made it,
the dying man's eyes had been fixed upon his countenance. As he closed
the case, Lomelini raised his voice, saying, "Listen, Seigneur De
Brecy."
Jean Charost put up the packets, and sat down by the old man's side.
He could not find it in his heart at that moment to speak harshly,
although he now easily divined why the packets had been kept from him,
so long.
"What is it, father?" he said, bending his head.
"What, not an angry word?" asked Lomelini.
"Not one," replied Jean Charost. "I have too many sorrows of my own,
father, to add to yours just now."
"Well, then, I will tell you all," said Lomelini. "You think I kept
these packets on account of the diamonds. That had something to do
with it; but there was more. After you entered the Orleans palace you
were trusted more than me. I had been the keeper of all secrets; you
became so. The duke's daughter was put under your charge,
notwithstanding your youth; and I resolved you should never be able to
prove her his daughter."
"I knew not that she was so," replied Jean Charost. "The duke himself
knew it not."
"Nay, nay, do not lie," said Lomelini, somewhat bitterly. "I watched
you--I watched you both well--I followed you to the convent of the
Celestins, where the murderer had taken sanctuary; and I know the
child was made over to you then, though you pretended to find it in
the forest."
"On my Christian faith, and honor as a knight," replied De Brecy, "I
heard nothing either of murderer or child at the convent of the
Celestins. The dear babe _was_ given to me in the forest by a tall,
strange, wild-looking man, who seemed to me half crazed."
"St. Florent himself," murmured Lomelini.
"I call Heaven to witness," continued Jean Charost, "I never even
suspected any connection between the duke and that child till long
after--I am not sure of it even yet."
"Be sure, then," said Lomelini, faintly. "The duke took her mother
from that mother's husband--carried her off by force one night as she
returned from a great fête, with those very diamonds on her neck."
"By force!" murmured De Brecy; and then from a feeling difficult to
define, he added, "thank God for that!"
"For what?" said Lomelini. "Doubtless she went willingly enough. Women
will scream and declare they are made miserable for life, and all
that. At all events, she stayed when she was there, and that was her
daughter; for I knew the child again as soon as I saw it at the
cottage, by a mark upon her temple; and the old father died of grief,
and the mad husband stole in one night and stabbed his wife, and
carried away the child; and that is all."
He seemed to ramble, and a slight convulsion passed over his face. "I
know the whole," he added, "for I had a share in the whole," and a
deep groan followed.
"Let me call in a priest," said De Brecy. "You have need of the
consolations of the Church."
"Ay, ay; call in a priest," answered Lomelini, partly raising himself
on his arm. "I would not have my corpse kicked about the streets like
the carcass of a dog; but do not suppose I believe in any priestly
tales, young man. When life goes out, all is ended. I have enjoyed
this life. I want no other; I expect no other--I--I fear no
other--surely there is no other. Well, call in a priest--haste, or you
will be too late--is this faintness--is this death?"
Jean Charost sprang to the door, near which he found several of the
monks. The penitentiary was called for in haste. But he was, as
Lomelini had said, too late. They found the abbot passed away, the
chin had dropped, the wide open eyes seemed to gaze at nothing, and
yet to have nothing within them. Something had departed which man
vainly tries to define by words, or to convey by figures. A spirit had
gone to learn the emptiness of the dreams of earth.
With a slow step, and deep gloom upon his mind, Jean Charost turned
back to his dwelling. As he went, his thoughts were much occupied
with the dark, sad, material doctrines--philosophy I can not call
them--creed I can not call them--which at that time were but too
common among Italian ecclesiastics. When he was once more in his own
chamber, however, he took forth the packets he had received from
Lomelini, and opened the cover of the one which had the seals
unbroken. It contained a letter from the Duke of Orleans, brief and
sad, speaking of the child which De Brecy had adopted, of her mother,
and of the jewels contained in the other packet. The duke acknowledged
her as his child, saying, "I recognized her at once by the ring which
you showed me, as the daughter of her whom I wronged and have lost. It
was taken at the same time that my poor Marie's life was taken; for,
as you doubtless know, she was murdered under my very roof--yes, I say
murdered. Had the dagger found my heart instead of hers, another word,
perhaps, would have been better fitted; for mine was a wrong which
merited death. I wronged her; I wronged her murderer."
He then went on to urge Jean Charost to perform well the task which he
had undertaken, and which he had certainly well performed without
exhortation; and the duke ended by saying, "I have seen you so far
tried, Monsieur De Brecy, that I can trust you entirely. I know that
you will be faithful to the task; and, as far as I have power to give
authority over my child, I hereby give it to you."
Those were joyful words to Jean Charost, and for a moment he gave way
to wild and daring hopes. He thought he would claim that right, even
against the king himself; but short consideration, and what he knew of
the law of France, soon dimmed all expectation of success.
The other papers which the packet contained were merely letters in a
woman's hand, signed Marie de St. Florent; but they were pleasant to
Jean Charost's eyes, for they showed how the unhappy girl had
struggled against her evil fate. In more than one of them, she
besought the duke to let her go--to place her in a convent, where,
unknown to all the world, she might pass the rest of life in penitence
and prayer. They spoke a spirit bowed down, but a heart uncorrupted.
Several hours passed; not so much in the examination of these papers,
as in the indulgence of thoughts which they suggested; and it was
midway between midnight and morning when Jean Charost at length lay
down upon his bed.