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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER II.</h4> There was a small, square room, of a very plain, unostentatious appearance, in the turret of a tall house in the city of Paris. The walls were of hewn stone, without any decoration whatever, except where at the four sides, and nearly in the centre of each, appeared a long iron arm, or branch, with a socket at the end of it, curved and twisted in a somewhat elaborate manner, and bearing some traces of having been gilt in a former day. The ceiling was much more decorated than the walls, and was formed by two groined arches of stone-work, crossing each other in the middle, and thus forming, as it were, four pointed arches, the intervals between one mass of stone-work and another being filled up with dark-colored oak, much after the fashion of a cap in a coronet. The spot where the arches crossed was ornamented with a richly-carved pendant, or corbel, in the centre of which was embedded a massive iron hook, probably intended to sustain a large lamp, while the iron sockets protruding from the walls were destined for flambeaux or lanterns. The floor was of stone, and a rude mat of rushes was spread over about one eighth of the surface, toward the middle of the room, where stood a table of no very large dimensions, covered with a great pile of papers and a few manuscript books. No lamp hung from the ceiling; no lantern or flambeau cast its light from the walls as had undoubtedly been the case in earlier times: the tall, quaint-shaped window, besides being encumbered by a rich tracery of stone-work, could not admit even the moonbeams through the thick coat of dust that covered its panes, and the only light which that room received was afforded by a dull oil lamp upon the table, without glass or shade. All the furniture looked dry and withered, as it were, and though solid enough, being balkily formed of dark oak, presented no ornament whatever. It was, in short, an uncomfortable-looking apartment enough, having a ruinous and dilapidated appearance, without any of the picturesqueness of decay. Under the table lay a large, brindled, rough-haired dog, of the stag-hound breed, but cruelly docked of his tail, in accordance with some code of forest laws, which at that time were very numerous and very various in different parts of France, but all equally unjust and severe. Apparently he was sound asleep as dog could be; but we all know that a dog's sleep is not as profound as a metaphysician's dream, and from time to time he would raise his head a little from his crossed paws, and look slightly up toward the legs of a person seated at the table. Now those legs--to begin at the unusual end of a portrait--were exceedingly handsome, well-shaped legs, indeed, evidently appertaining to a young man on the flowery side of maturity. There was none of the delicate, rather unsymmetrical straightness of the mere boy about them, nor the over-stout, balustrade-like contour of the sturdy man of middle age. Nor did the rest of the figure belie their promise, for it was in all respects a good one, though somewhat lightly formed, except the shoulders, indeed, which were broad and powerful, and the chest, which was wide and expansive. The face was good, though not strictly handsome, and the expression was frank and bright, yet with a certain air of steady determination in it which is generally conferred by the experience of more numerous years than seemed to have passed over that young and unwrinkled brow. The dress of the young scribe--for he was writing busily--was in itself plain, though not without evident traces of care and attention in its device and adjustment. The shoes were extravagantly long, and drawn out to a very acute point, and the gray sort of mantle, with short sleeves, which he wore over his ordinary hose and jerkin, had, at the collar, and at the end of those short sleeves, a little strip of fur--a mark, possibly, of gentle birth, for sumptuary laws, always ineffectual, were issued from time to time, during all the earlier periods of the French monarchy, and generally broken as soon as issued. There was no trace of beard upon the chin. The upper lip itself was destitute of the manly mustache, and the hair, combed back from the forehead, and lying in smooth and glossy curls upon the back of the neck, gave an appearance almost feminine to the head, which was beautifully set upon the shoulders. The broad chest already mentioned, however, the long, sinewy arms, and the strong brown hand which held the pen, forbade all suspicion that the young writer was a fair lady in disguise, although that was a period in the world's history when the dames of France were not overscrupulous in assuming any character which might suit their purposes for the time. There was a good deal of noise and bustle in the streets of Paris, as men with flambeaux in their hands walked on before some great lord of the court, calling "Place! place!" to clear the way for their master as he passed; or as a merry party of citizens returned, laughing and jesting, from some gay meeting; or as a group of night-ramblers walked along, insulting the ear of night with cries, and often with blasphemies; or as lays and songs were trolled up from the corners of the streets by knots of persons, probably destitute of any other home, assembled round the large bonfires, lighted to give warmth to the shivering poor--for it was early in the winter of the great frost of one thousand four hundred and seven, and the miseries of the land were great. Still, the predominant sounds were those of joy and revelry; for the people of Paris were the same in those days that they are even now; and joy, festivity, and frolic, then, as in our own days, rolled and caroled along the highways, while the dust was yet wet with blood, and wretchedness, destitution, and oppression lurked unseen behind the walls. No sounds, however, seemed to disturb the lad at his task, or to withdraw his thoughts for one moment from the subject before him. Now a loud peal of laughter shook the casement; but still he wrote on. Now a cry, as if of pain, rang round the room from without, but such cries were common in those days, and he lifted not his head. And then again a plaintive song floated on the air, broken only by the striking of a clock, jarring discordantly with the mellow notes of the air; but still the pen hurried rapidly over the page, till some minutes after the hour of nine had struck, when he laid it down with a deep respiration, as if some allotted task were ended. At length the dog which was lying at his feet lifted his head suddenly and gazed toward the door. The youth was reading over what he had written, and caught no sound to withdraw his attention; but the beast was right. There was a step--a familiar step--upon the stair-case, and the good dog rose up, and walked toward the entrance of the room, just as the door was opened, and another personage entered upon the scene. He was a grave man, of the middle age, tall, well formed, and of a noble and commanding presence. He was dressed principally in black velvet, with a gown of that stuff, which was lined with fur, indeed, though none of that lining was shown externally. On his head he had a small velvet cap, without any feather, and his hair was somewhat sprinkled with gray, though in all probability he had not passed the age of forty. "Well, Jean," he said, in a deliberate tone, as he entered the room with a firm and quiet tread, "how many have you done, my son?" "All of them, sir," replied the young man. "I was just reading over this last letter to Signor Bernardo Baldi, to see that I had made no mistake." "You never mistake, Jean," said the elder man, in a kindly tone; and then added, thoughtfully, "All? You must have written hard, and diligently." "You told me to have them ready against you returned, sir," said the youth. "Yes, but I have returned an hour before the time," rejoined his elder companion; and then, as the young man moved away from the chair which he occupied, in order to leave it vacant for himself, the elder drew near the table, and, still standing, glanced his eye over some six or seven letters which lay freshly written, and yet unfolded. It was evident, however, that though, by a process not uncommon, the mind might take in, and even investigate, to a certain degree, all that the eye rested upon, a large part of the thoughts were engaged with other subjects, and that deeper interests divided the attention of the reader. "There should be a comma there," he said, pointing with his finger, and at the same time seating himself in the chair. The young man took the letter and added the comma; but when he looked up, his companion's eyes were fixed upon the matting on the floor, and it was apparent that the letters, and all they contained, had passed away from his memory. The dog rose from the couchant attitude in which he had placed himself, and laid his shaggy head upon the elder man's knee; and, patting him quietly, the newcomer said, in a meditative tone, "It is pleasant to have some one we can trust. Don't you think so, Jean?" "It is indeed, sir," replied the young man; "and pleasant to be trusted." "And yet we must sometimes part with those we most trust," continued the other. "It is sad, but sometimes it is necessary." The young man's countenance fell a little, but he made no reply, and the other, looking toward the wide fire-place, remarked, "You have let the fire go out, Jean, and these are not days in which one can afford to be without warmth." The young man gathered the embers together, threw on some logs of wood, and both he and his companion mused for several minutes without speaking a word. At length the youth seemed to summon sudden courage, and said, abruptly, "I hope you are not thinking of parting with me, sir. I have endeavored to the utmost to do my duty toward you well, and you have never had occasion to find fault; though perhaps your kindness may have prevented you from doing so, even when there was occasion." "Not so, not so, my son," replied the other, warmly; "there has been no fault, and consequently no blame. Nay more, I promised you, if you fulfilled all the tasks I set you well, never to part with you but for your own advantage. The time has come, however, when it is necessary to part with you, and I must do so for your own sake." There was a dead silence for a moment or two, and then the elder man laid his finger quietly on the narrow strip of fur that bordered his companion's dress, saying, with a slight smile, "You are of noble blood, Jean, and I am a mere bourgeois." "I can easily strip that off, if it offends you, sir," replied the young man, giving him back his smile. "It is soon done away." "But not the noble blood, Jean," answered his companion; "and this occupation is not fitted for you." An air of deep and anxious grief spread over the young man's face, and he answered earnestly, "There is nothing derogatory in it, sir. To write your letters, to transact any honorable business which you may intrust to me, can not in any way degrade me, and you know right well that it was from no base or ignoble motive that I undertook the task. My mother's poverty is no stain upon our honorable blood, nor surely can her son's efforts be so to change that poverty into competence." His companion smiled upon him kindly, saying, "Far from it, Jean; but still, if there be an opportunity of your effecting your object in a course more consonant with your birth and station, it is my duty as your friend to seize it for you. Such an opportunity now presents itself, and you must take advantage of it. It may turn out well; I trust it will; but, should the reverse be the case--for in these strange, unsettled times, those who stand the highest have most to fear a fall--if the reverse should be the case, I say, you will always find a resource in Jacques Cœur; his house, his purse, his confidence will be always open to you. Put on your chaperon, then, and come with me: for Fortune, like Time, should always be taken by the forelock. The jade is sure to kick if we get behind her." The young man took down one of the large hoods in which it was still customary, for the bourgeoisie especially, to envelop their heads, when walking in the streets of Paris. Beneath it, however, he placed a small cap, fitting merely the crown of the head, and over the sort of tunic he wore he cast a long mantle, for the weather was very cold. When fully accoutered, he ventured to ask where Maître Cœur was going to take him; but the good merchant answered with a smile, "Never mind, my son, never mind. If we succeed as I expect, you will soon know; if not, there is no need you should. Come with me, Jean, and trust to me." "Right willingly," replied the young man, and followed him. The house was a large and handsome house, as things went at that time in Paris; but the stair-case was merely one of those narrow, twisting spirals which we rarely see, except in cathedrals or ruined castles, in the present times. Windows to that stair-case there were none, and in the daytime the manifold steps received light only through a loophole here and there; for in those days it was not at all inconvenient for the owner, even of a very modest mansion, to have the means of ascending and descending from one part of his house to the other, without the danger of being struck by the arrows which were flying somewhat too frequently in the streets of Paris. At night, a lantern, guarded by plates of horn from the cold blasts through the loopholes, shed a faint and twinkling ray, at intervals of ten or twelve yards, upon the steps. But Jacques Cœur and his young companion were both well acquainted with the way, and were soon at the little door which opened into the court-yard. Jean Charost looked round for the merchant's mule, as they issued forth; but no mule was there, nor any attendant in waiting; and Jacques Cœur drawing his cloak more tightly around him, walked straight out of the gates, and along the narrow streets, unlighted by any thing but the pale stars shining dimly in the wintery sky. The merchant walked fast, and Jean Charost followed a step behind: not without some curiosity: not without some of that palpitating anxiety which, with the young, generally precedes an unexpected change of life, yet with a degree, at least, of external calmness which nothing but very early discipline in the hard school of the world could give. It seemed to him, indeed, that his companion intended to traverse the whole city of Paris; for, directing his course toward the quarter of St. Antoine, he paused not during some twenty minutes, except upon one occasion, when, just as they were entering one of the principal streets, half a dozen men, carrying torches, came rapidly along, followed by two or three on horseback, and several on foot. Jacques Cœur drew back into the shadow, and brought his cloak closer round him; but the moment the cavalcade had passed he walked on again, saying in a whisper, "That is the Marquis de Giac, a favorite of the Duke of Burgundy--or, rather, the husband of the duke's favorite. He owes me a thousand crowns, and, consequently, loves not to see me in his way." Five minutes more brought them to a large stone wall, having two towers, almost like those of a church, one at either end, and a great gate with a wicket near the centre. Monasteries were more common than bee-hives in Paris in those days, and Jean Charost would have taken no notice of the wall, or of a large, dull-looking building rising up behind it, had it not been that a tall man, clad apparently in a long gray gown, rushed suddenly up to the gate, just as the two men were passing, and rang the bell violently. He seemed to hold something carefully on his left arm; but his air was wild and hurried, and Jacques Cœur murmured, as they passed, "Alas, alas! 'Tis still the same, all over the world." Jean Charost did not venture to ask the meaning of his comment, but looked up and marked the building well, following still upon the merchant's rapid steps; and a short distance further on the great towers of the Bastile came in sight, looking over the lesser buildings in the front. Before they reached the open space around the fortress, however, the street expanded considerably, and at its widest point, appeared upon the left a large and massive edifice, surrounded by walls of heavy masonry, battlemented and machicolated, with four small, flanking towers at the corners. In the centre of this wall, as in the case of the monastery, was a large gateway; but the aspect of this entrance was very different from that of the entrance to the religious building. Here was an archway with battlements above, and windows in the masonry looking out on the street. A parapetted gallery, too, of stone-work, from which a porter or warden could speak with any one applying for admission, without opening the gate, ran along just above the arch. No great precaution, however, seemed to be in force at the moment of Jacques Cœur's approach. The gate was open, though not unguarded; for two men, partly armed, were lolling at the entrance, notwithstanding the coldness of the night. Behind the massy chains, too, which ran along the whole front line of the wall, solidly riveted into strong stone posts, cutting off a path of about five feet in width from the street, were eight or nine men and young lads, some well armed, almost as if for war, and some dressed in gay and glittering apparel of a softer texture. The night, as I have said, was in sooth very cold; but yet the air before the building received some artificial warmth from a long line of torches, blazing high in iron sockets projecting from the walls, which looked grim and frowning in the glare. At the gates Jacques Cœur stopped short, and let his mantle fall a little, so as to show his face. One of the men under the arch stared at him, and took a step forward, as if to inquire his business, but the other nodded his head, saying, "Good evening, again, Maître Jacques. Pass in. You will find Guillot at the door." "Come, Jean," said Jacques Cœur, turning to his young companion; and passing under the arch, they entered a small piece of ground laid out apparently as a garden; for the light of some lanterns, scattered here and there, showed a number of trees planted in even rows, in the midst of which rose a palace of a much lighter and more graceful style of architecture than the stern and heavy-looking defenses on the street could have led any one to expect. A flight of steps led up from the garden to a deep sort of open entrance-hall, where a light was burning, showing a door of no very great size, surrounded with innumerable delicate moldings of stone. To the door was fastened, by a chain, a large, heavy iron ring, deeply notched all along the internal circle, and by its side hung a small bar of steel, which, when run rapidly over these notches, produced a loud sound, not altogether unmusical. To this instrument of sound Jacques Cœur applied himself, and the door was immediately opened from within. "Come in, Maître Jacques," said a man of almost gigantic height. "Come in; the duke is waiting for you in the little hall." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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