De Brecy woke with a start just in the gray of the dawn. His thoughts
were confused. He had had troublous dreams. He had fancied himself in
the midst of war and strife again, and the well-known sounds,
"_Alerte! alerte! Aux armes! aux armes!_" seemed to ring in his ears.
In an instant he had thrown on the furred gown which lay beside him,
and had seized his sword; but the only sound he now heard was a sharp
tap at the door, and a voice saying, "Monsieur De Brecy! Monsieur De
Brecy! Pray let me in. I wish to speak to you in haste."
Jean Charost opened the door, and, to his surprise, beheld the face of
his good servant, Martin Grille, who had been especially left at the
court with Agnes, to attend upon and watch over her. A vague feeling
of alarm instantly took possession of De Brecy's heart, and he
exclaimed, ere the man could tell his errand, "How is your lady? Is
she ill?"
"No, sir; not ill," replied Martin Grille; "though ill at ease, I have
a notion. But I have hastened here with such speed that I believe I
have left my horse no lungs, nor myself either, any more than a
cracked pair of bellows, to warn you, my lord, of a danger that
menaces you. So I beseech you, before you hear it, to order all your
people to get upon horseback, and make ready to set out yourself, for
there is no great time to lose."
"Nay, I must hear the danger first," replied Jean Charost "What is the
matter, my good friend?"
"Well, tell the people to get ready, at all events," said Martin,
earnestly; "then you can do as you like. Stories are sometimes long in
telling, questions long in asking, and longer in being answered. It is
better always, my lord, to be ready to act upon the news when it
comes, than to have to wait to make ready after you have got it."
There was some truth in what he said; and Jean Charost sent by him the
orders he desired, nor was he long in giving them.
"Now tell me all, while I am dressing," said his master, as soon as he
had returned. "I know no cause for fearing any thing; but it is an
uncertain world, good Martin, and there are unseen dangers around our
every step."
"This one is plain enough," answered Martin Grille. "Nôtre Dame is not
plainer. It is simply, sir, that the king has sent a certain sergeant
of his, with a long troop of archers at his back, to arrest and bring
you to his presence. He is now at Bourges, in the house of good
Messire Jacques C[oe]ur, which he fills tolerably well; and the
distance not being very great from Bourges to Briare, you may expect
our friend the sergeant every hour. It was late at night, however,
when the order was given, and master sergeant vowed that he would have
a nap first, king or no king. But, vowing I would have no nap, I came
away at once; and so you have three good hours, and perhaps a few
minutes more."
De Brecy mused, and then asked, "Do you know any motive for this
order?"
"None at all," replied Martin Grille; "nor can I even guess. But I'll
tell you all that happened, as I have it from one who saw all. There
is one Jeanne de Vendôme about the court; they call her also Marquise
De Mortaigne--"
"I have seen her," said Jean Charost. "What of her? Go on."
"Why, she has a nephew, sir, one Peter of Vendôme," replied Martin
Grille, "whom she is very fond of; but he is an enemy of yours."
"I never even saw him," replied De Brecy.
"Well, sir, the king's mind is poisoned against you," said Martin
Grille, "that is clear enough; and I know not what else to attribute
it to. But, upon my word, you had better mount your horse and ride
away. I can tell you the rest of the story as we go. I never was a
very good horseman, and, if the sergeant rides better than I, he may
be here before we are in the saddle."
"Well, be it so," said Jean Charost, thoughtfully. "Gather all those
things together, while I go and reckon with my host. I would rather
not be taken a prisoner into Bourges, and I think I will prevent it."
He spoke with a slight smile, and yet some bitterness of tone; but
Martin Grille applied himself at once to pack up all that was in his
master's room, and in about half an hour Jean Charost and his
followers were in the saddle.
"Were it not better to take the road to Bussiere, my lord?" said
Martin Grille, who rode somewhat near his master's person. "It seems
to me as if you were going toward Oussin."
"No; methinks we shall be safer on this side," said Jean Charost.
"Now, as we ride along, let me hear all that has been passing at the
court. Perhaps I may be able to pick out some cause for this sudden
displeasure of the king."
"Well, sir, I am sorry to be obliged to say what I must say," answered
Martin Grille; "but the king has treated you very ill. This Peter of
Vendôme, whom I was talking about--the devil plague him!--is at the
bottom of it all; though his aunt, who is a worse devil than himself,
manages the matter for him. She has taken it into her head that she
must ally herself to the royal family. Now, it runs every where at the
court that Mademoiselle Agnes is the daughter of the poor Duke of
Orleans, who was killed near the Porte Barbette; that she was
intrusted by him to your care; and that, for ambition, you want to
marry her, and then tell all the world who she is."
Jean Charost had been gazing in his face for the last moment or two in
silence; but now he inclined his head slowly, saying, "Go on. I now
see how it is."
"Well, sir, about a month ago this Jeanne de Vendôme proposed to the
king that her nephew should marry our young lady, and the king, it
would seem, was willing enough; but a certain beautiful lady you know
of opposed it, and, as she can do nearly what she likes, for some time
the day went with her. Then Jeanne of Vendôme went and curried favor
with Monsieur La Trimouille, who can do nearly what he likes on the
other side, and then the day went against us for some time. The king
was very violent, and swore that if he had any power or authority over
Mademoiselle Agnes, she should marry Peter of Vendôme, though she told
him all the while she would not, and begged him, humbly and devoutly,
rather to let her go into a nunnery. Kings will have their way,
however, sir, and things were looking very bad, when suddenly, three
days ago, our young lady disappeared--"
"Where did she go to? Where is she?" asked Jean Charost, sharply.
"That I can not tell, sir," answered Martin Grille; "but she is safe
enough, I am sure; for when I told Mademoiselle De St. Geran about it,
she said, with one of her enchanting smiles, 'Has she, indeed, my good
man? Well, I dare say God will protect her.' But the king did not take
it so quietly. He was quite furious; and neither Peter of Vendôme nor
his aunt would let his passion cool."
"Doubtless attributed it all to me," said Jean Charost, whose face had
greatly lighted up within the last few minutes. But Martin Grille
replied, to his surprise, "I do not think they did, sir. The painted
old woman hinted, though she did not venture to say so, that the
beautiful young lady you wot of had helped her namesake's escape; and
the nephew said that if the king would but sign the papers, he would
soon find the fugitive, for he had a shrewd notion of where she was."
"He did not sign them!" exclaimed Jean Charost, with a look of dread.
"He had well-nigh done it, my lord," replied Martin Grille. "Last
night, when the king was sitting with the queen in the large black
room on the second floor, which you remember well--very melancholy he
was, for somewhat of a coolness had sprung up between him and her whom
he loves best, and he can not live without her--they brought him in
the papers to sign, that is to say, Peter of Vendôme and his aunt,
looking all radiant and triumphant. Some one watched them, however;
for, just at that minute, in came the chancellor and two or three
others, and among them one of the pages, with a paper in his hand
addressed to the king. The king took it, just looked at the top, and
then handing it up to the chancellor, was about to sign what Peter of
Vendôme demanded, and let him go; but Monsieur Des Ursins--that is the
chancellor--cried, 'Hold, your majesty. This is important; in good and
proper form; and must have your royal attention.' Then he read it out;
but I can not tell you all that it contained. However, it was a
prohibition, in good set form, for any one to dispose of the hand,
person, or property of our young lady, Mademoiselle Agnes, either in
marriage, wardship, or otherwise, and setting forth that the writer
was her true and duly-constituted guardian, according to the laws of
France. It was signed 'St. Florent;' and, though the king was mighty
angry, the chancellor persuaded him not to sign the papers till the
right of the appellant, as he called it, was decided by some competent
tribunal."
"And how came you to know all this so accurately?" asked Jean Charost,
after meditating for several minutes over what he had heard.
"Part one way, part another, my noble lord," replied Martin Grille.
"Principally, however, I learned the facts from a young cousin of
mine, who is now chief violin player to the queen. When she found her
husband so dull that night, she sent for Petit Jean to solace him,
because she could not very well have sent for the person who would
have solaced him best. He heard all, and marked all, and told me all;
for you are a great favorite of his. However, I had something to do
with it afterward myself; for the king, knowing that I was in the
house, sent for me, and made me tell him whether, when you were last
in Berri, you signed your name St. Florent. I was frightened out of my
wits, and said I believed you did. The next minute the king said,
looking sharply at the sergeant, who was standing near, 'Bring him at
once from Briare. Lose no time.' Then he turned to me, with a face
quite savage, and said, 'You may go.' I thought he was going to add,
'to the devil;' but he did not, and I slunk out of the room. The
sergeant went out at the same time; but he laughed, and said, 'Sleep
wasted no time, and he was not going to set off for Briare at
midnight, not he.' So I did, instead of him; for as I feared I had
done some mischief, I thought I might as well do some good."
Jean Charost smiled with a less embarrassed look than he had worn
during the ride; but he made no reply, and during the next half hour
he seemed to hear nothing that Martin Grille said, although it must
not be affirmed that Martin Grille said nothing. It were hardly fair
to look into his thoughts, to inquire whether the injustice he had met
with, the wrong which was meditated against him, and the ingratitude
for services performed and suffering endured in the royal cause had
shaken his love toward the king. Suffice it, they had not shaken his
loyalty toward his country, and that although he might contemplate
flying with his Agnes beyond the reach of an arm that oppressed him,
he never dreamed of drawing his sword against his native land, or of
doing aught to undermine the throne of a prince to whom he had sworn
allegiance.
At length, however, Martin Grille pulled him by the sleeve, saying, "I
can not help thinking, my good lord, that you are taking a wrong
course. You are going on right toward Bourges, and at any point of the
road you may meet with the sergeant and his men. Indeed, I saw just
now a party of horsemen on the hill there. They have come down into
the valley; but that is the high road to Bourges they were upon."
"My good friend, I am going to Bourges," replied Jean Charost; "but as
I do not intend to go as a prisoner, if I can help it, we will turn
aside a little here, and go round Les Barres, that hamlet you see
there. We can then follow the by-roads for eight or ten miles further,
and cross the river at Cosne. I know this country well; for, during
the last twelvemonth, I have had nothing to do but to think, and to
explore it."