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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER IX.</h4> Long before the hour appointed for him to wait upon the duke, Jean Charost was up and dressed, expecting every moment to see the servant he had engaged present himself, but no Martin Grille appeared. The attendant of the duke, who had waited upon him the preceding evening, brought him a breakfast not to be despised, consisting of delicacies from various parts of France, and a bottle of no bad wine of Beaugency; but he could tell nothing of Martin Grille, and by the time the meal was over, the hour appointed by the duke had arrived. On being admitted to the prince's dressing-chamber, Jean Charost found him in his robe de chamber, seated at a table, writing. His face, the young man could not help thinking, was even graver and sadder than on the preceding night; but he did not raise his eyes at the secretary's entrance, and continued to write slowly, often stopping to correct or alter, till he had covered one side of the paper before him. When that was done, he handed the sheet to the young secretary, saying, "There, copy me that;" and, on taking the paper, Jean Charost was surprised to see that it was covered with verse; for he was not aware that the duke possessed any of that talent which was afterward so conspicuous in his son. He seated himself at the table, however, and proceeded to fulfill the command he had received, not without difficulty, for the duke's writing, though large and bold, was not very distinct. <div style="margin-left:10%; font-size:10pt"> To will and not to do, Alas! how sad! Man and his passions too Are mad--how mad! Oh! could the heart but break The heavy chain That binds it to this stake Of earthly pain, And see for joys all pure, And hopes all bright, For pleasures that endure, And wells of light, And purge away the dross With life allied, I ne'er had mourn'd love's loss, Nor ever cried. To will and not to do, Alas! how sad! Man and his passions too Are mad--how mad! </div> "Read it, read it," said the Duke of Orleans; and, with some timidity, the young secretary obeyed, feeling instinctively how difficult it is to give in reading the exact emphasis intended by the writer. He succeeded well, however. The duke was pleased, perhaps as much with his own verses as with the manner in which they were read. But, after a few words of commendation, he fell into a fit of thought again, from which he was at length startled by the slow tolling of the bell of a neighboring church. He raised his eyes suddenly to the face of Jean Charost as the sounds struck upon his ear, and gazed at him with a strange, inquiring, but sorrowful expression of countenance, as if he would fain have asked, "Do you know what that bell means? Can you comprehend the feelings it begets in me?" The young man bent his eyes gravely to the ground, and that sort of reverence which we all feel for deep grief, and the sort of awe excited, especially in young minds, by the display of intense passion, gave his countenance naturally an expression of sympathy and sorrow. A moment after, the duke started up, exclaiming, "I can not let her go without a look or a tear! Come with me, my friend, come with me. God knows I need some support, even in my wrong, and my weakness, and my punishment." "Oh, that I could give it you, sir!" said Jean Charost, in a low tone; but the duke merely grasped his arm, and, leaning heavily upon him, quitted the chamber by a door through which Jean Charost had not hitherto passed. It led into the prince's bed-room, and from that, through what seemed a private passage, to a distant suite of rooms on another front of the house. The duke proceeded with a rapid but irregular pace, while the bell was still heard tolling, seeming to make the roof shudder with its slow and heavy vibrations. Through five or six different vacant chambers, fitted up with costly decorations, but apparently long unused, the prince hurried forward till he reached that side of the house which looked over the wall of the gardens into the Rue Saint Antoine, but there he paused before a window, and gazed forth. There was nothing to be seen. The street was almost deserted. A youth in a fustian jacket and wide hose, with a round cap on his head--evidently some laboring mechanic--passed along toward the Bastile, gazing forward with a look of stupid eagerness, and then set off running, as if to see some sight which he was afraid would escape him; and still the bell was heard tolling slow and solemnly, and filling the whole air with melancholy trembling. The duke quitted his hold of Jean Charost and crossed his arms upon his breast, setting his teeth hard, as if there were a terrible struggle within, in which he was determined to conquer. A moment after, a song rose upon the air--a slow, melancholy chant, well marked in time, with swelling flow and softening cadence, and now a pause, and then a full burst of song, sometimes one or two voices heard alone, and then a full chorus; but all sad, and solemn, and oppressive to the spirit. At length a man bearing a banner appeared, and then two or three couple of mendicant friars, and then a small train of Celestin monks in their long, flowing garments, and then some boys in white gowns with censers, then priests in their robes, and then two white horses drawing a car, with a coffin upon it--a closed coffin, which was not usual in those days at the funerals of the great. Men on horseback and on foot followed, but Jean Charost did not clearly distinguish who or what they were. He only saw the priests and the boys with their censers, and the Celestins in their white gowns and their black scapularies, and the coffin, and the flowers that strewed it, even in the midst of winter, in an indistinct and confused manner, for his attention was strongly called in another direction, though he did not venture to look round. The moment the head of the procession had appeared from beyond one of the flanking towers of the garden wall, the Duke of Orleans had laid a hand upon his shoulder, and grasped him tight, as if for support. Heavier and heavier pressed the hand, and then the young man felt that the prince's head was bowed down and rested upon him, while the long-drawn, struggling breath--the gasp, as if existence were coming to an end--told the terrible anguish of his spirit. Solemn and slow the notes of the chant rose up as the procession swept along before the gates of the palace, and the words of the penitent King of Israel were heard ascending to the sky, and praying the God of mercy and of power to pardon and to succor. The grasp of the hand grew less firm, but the weight pressed heavier and heavier; and, turning suddenly round, Jean Charost cast his arm about the duke, from an instinctive feeling that he was falling to the ground. The prince's face was deadly pale, and his strong limbs shook as if with an ague. Bitter tears, too, were on his cheeks, and his lips quivered. "Get me a chair," he said, faintly, grasping the pillar between the windows; "I feel ill--get me a chair." Although almost afraid to leave him lest he should fall, Jean Charost hurried to obey, brought forward one of the large arm-chairs, and, placing his hand under the duke's arm, assisted him to seat himself in it. Then gazing anxiously in his face, he beheld an expression of deep and bitter grief, such as he had never seen before; no, not even in his mother's face when his father's dead body was brought back to his paternal hall. The young man's heart was touched; the distinction of rank and station was done away, in part; sympathy created a bond between him and one who was comparatively a stranger, and, kneeling at the prince's side, he kissed his hand, saying, "Oh, sir, be comforted. Death ever strikes the dearest and the best beloved. It is the lot of humanity to possess but for a season that which we value most. It is a trial of our faith to yield unrepining to him who lent that which he takes away. Trust--trust in God to comfort and to compensate!" The duke shook his head sadly. "Trust in God!" he repeated, "and him have I offended. His laws have I broken. Young man, young man, you know not what it is to see the bitter consummation of what you yourself have done--to behold the wreck you have made of happiness--the complete desolation of a life once pure, and bright, and beautiful--all done by you. Yes, yes," he added, almost wildly, "I did it all--what matter the instruments--what signifies it that the dagger was not in my hand? I was the cause of all--I tore her from a peaceful home, where she had tranquillity, if not love--I blasted her fair name--I broke up her domestic peace--I took from her happiness--I gave her penitence and remorse--I armed the hand that stabbed her. Mine, mine is the whole crime, though she has shared the sorrow and endured the punishment." "But there is mercy, sir," urged Jean Charost; "there is mercy for all repentance. Surely Christ died not in vain. Surely he suffered not for the few, but for the many. Surely his word is not false, his promises not idle! 'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give ye rest.' He spoke of the weariness of the heart, and the burden of the spirit--He spoke to all men. He spoke to the peasant in his hut, to the king upon his throne, to the saint in his cell, to the criminal in his dungeon, to the sorrowful throughout all the earth, and throughout all time; and to you, oh prince--He spoke also unto you! Weary and heavy laden are you with your grief and your repentance; turn unto him, and he will give you rest!" There was something in the outburst of fervid feeling with which the young man spoke, from the deep interest that had been excited in him by all he had seen and heard, which went straight home to the heart of the Duke of Orleans, and casting his arm around him, he once more leaned his head upon his shoulder, and wept profusely. But now they seemed to be somewhat calmer tears he shed--tears of grief, but not altogether of despair; and when he lifted his head again, the expression of deep, hopeless bitterness was gone from his face. The chant, too, had ceased in the street, though a faint murmur thereof was still heard in the distance. "You have given me comfort, Jean," he said; "you have given me comfort, when none else, perhaps, could have done so. You are no courtier, dear boy. You have spoken, when others would have stood in cold and reverent silence. Oh, out upon the heartless forms that cut us off from our fellow-men, even in the moment when the intensity of our human sufferings makes us feel ourselves upon the level of the lowliest! Out upon the heartless forms that drive us to break through their barrier into the sphere of passion, as much in pursuit of human sympathies as of mere momentary pleasure! Come with me, Jean. It is over--the dreadful moment is past--I will seek him to whom thou hast pointed--I will seek comfort there. But on this earth, the hour just passed has forged a tie between thee and me which can never be broken. Now I can understand how thou hast won so much love and confidence; it is that thou hast some heart, where all, or almost all, are heartless." Thus saying, he raised himself with the aid of the young man's arm, and walked slowly back to his own apartments by the way he had come. When they had entered his toilet-chamber, the duke cast himself into a chair, saying, "Now leave me, De Brecy; but be not far off. I need not tell you not to speak of any thing you have seen. I know you will not. I will send for you soon; but I must have time for thought." Jean Charost withdrew and sought his own room; but it is not to be denied that the moment was a perilous one for his favor with the Duke of Orleans. It is a very dangerous thing to witness the weaknesses of great men--or those emotions which they look upon as weaknesses. Pride, vanity, doubt, fear, suspicion, all whisper hate against those who can testify that they are not so strong as the world supposes. Alas, that it should be so! But so it is; and it was but by a happy quality in the mind of the Duke of Orleans--the native frankness and generosity of his disposition--that Jean Charost escaped the fate of so many who have witnessed the secret emotion of princes. Happily for himself, he knew not that there was any peril, and felt, though in a different sense, that, as the prince had said, there was a new tie between him and his royal master. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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