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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER XVII.</h4> Human weaknesses and human follies, human vices and human crimes, are undoubtedly very excellent and beneficial things. It may seem paradoxical to say that the fact of one man cutting another man's throat, or of another ruining a friend's peace, robbing him of his fortune, or depriving him of his honor, can have any beneficial result whatsoever; or that the cunning, the selfishness, the credulity, the ignorance, the fanaticism, the prejudice, the vanity, the absurdity or the passion of the many millions who at various times have exhibited themselves with such appendages about them, should have conferred boons upon the whole or any part of society. And yet, dearly beloved reader, I am not at all sure that--considering man's nature as man's nature is and looking at society as I see it constituted around me--I am not at all sure, I say, that the very greatest crimes that ever were committed have not produced a greater sum of enjoyment and of what people vulgarly term happiness, than they have inflicted pain or discomfort--that is to say, as far as this world is concerned: I don't deal with another. Not very fond am I of painting disagreeable pictures of human nature; but yet one can not shut one's eyes; and if it has been our misfortune to be in any spot or neighborhood where something very wicked has been perpetrated, the sums of pleasure and of pain produced are forced into the two scales, where we may weigh them both together, if we choose but to raise the balance. Take the worst case that ever was known: a murder which has deprived a happy family--four young children and an amiable wife--of a father and a husband--poor things, they must have suffered sadly, and the father not a little, while his brains were being knocked out. 'Tis a great amount of evil, doubtless. But now let us look at the other side of the account. While they are weeping, one near neighbor is telling the whole to another near neighbor, and both are in that high state of ecstasy which is called a terrible excitement. They are horrified, very true; but, say what they will, they are enjoying it exceedingly. It has stirred up for them the dull pond of life, and broken up the duckweed on the top. Nor is the enjoyment confined to them. Every man, woman, and child in the village has his share of it. Not only that, but wider and wider, through enlarging circles round, newspapers thrive on it, tea-tables delight in it, and multitudes rejoice in the "Barbarous Murder!" that has lately been committed. I say nothing of the lawyers, the constables, the magistrates, the coroner. I say nothing of the augmented gratuities to the one, or the increased importance of the other; of the thousands who grin and gape with delight at the execution; but I speak merely of the pleasure afforded to multitudes by the act itself, and the report thereof. Nor is this merely a circle spreading round on one plane, such as is produced by a stone dropped into the water, but it is an augmenting globe, the increment of which is infinite. The act of the criminal is chronicled for all time, affords enjoyment to remote posterity, and benefits a multitude of the unborn generation. The newspaper has it first; the romance writer takes it next; it is a subject for the poet--a field for the philosopher; and adds a leaf to the garland of the tragic dramatist. What would the world have done if Macbeth had not murdered Duncan, or Œdipus had not done a great many things too disagreeable to mention? This is a wicked world, undoubtedly; but, nevertheless, the most virtuous enjoy its wickedness very much, in some shape or another. The above is my short excuse for deviating from my usual course, as I am about to do, and betraying, as I must, some of the little secret tricks of a science of great gravity practiced in former days by bearded men, but now fallen into the hands of old women and Egyptians. Jean Charost, in issuing forth from the Duke of Burgundy's presence, found Martin Grille in a deplorable state of anxiety concerning him, and, to say the truth, not without cause. It was in vain, however, that the poor man endeavored to draw his young master into some secret corner to confer with him apart. The whole house was occupied by the attendants of the Duke of Burgundy or of Madame De Giac; and, although the young secretary felt some need of thought and counsel, he soon saw that the only plan open to him was to mount his horse as speedily as possible and quit the inn. Armand Chauvin, the courier or chevaucheur; of the Duke of Orleans, was sitting in the wide hall of the inn, with a pot of wine before him, apparently taking note of nothing, but, in reality, listening to and remarking every thing that passed; and toward him Jean Charost advanced, after having spoken a single word to Martin Grille. "The horses must be rested by this time, Armand," said the young gentleman, aloud. "You had better get them ready, and let us go on." "Certainly, sir," replied the man, rising at once; and then, quickly passing by the young gentleman, he added, in a whisper, "They are saddled and bridled; follow quick. The horseboys are paid." Jean Charost paused for a moment, spoke a word or two, in a quiet tone, to Martin Grille, with the eyes of a dozen men, in all sorts of dresses, upon them, and then sauntered out to the door of the inn. The stable was soon reached, the horses soon mounted, and, in less than five minutes after he had quitted the presence of the Duke of Burgundy, Jean Charost was once more upon the road to Blois. Twice the young gentleman looked back up the street in the clear moonlight. Nobody was seen following; but he could hear some loud calls, as if from the stables of the inn, and turning to the courier, he said, "I fear our horses are not in fit case to ride a race to-night." "I think not, sir," replied the man, briefly. "We had better get out of the town, and then turn into a wood." "I know a better plan than that," replied Martin Grille. "Let us turn down here by the back of the town, and take refuge in the house of the astrologer. He will give us refuge for the night, and the duke departs by sunrise to-morrow." "Do you know him?" demanded Jean Charost. "I thought you had never been in Pithiviers before." "Nor have I," replied the man. "But I'll tell you all about it by-and-by. He will give us lodging, I will answer for it--hide us in his cabinet of the spheres, among his other curiosities, and those who seek will seek for us in vain. But there is no time to be lost. Mine is the best plan, depend upon it." "Perhaps it is," replied Jean Charost, turning his horse's head. "We might be overtaken ere we could reach any other place of concealment. My horse moves as if his joints were frozen. Come on, Monsieur Chauvin. Do you know the house, Martin?" "Well, sir--right well," replied the valet. "Hark! I hear horses stamping;" and riding on, down a side street, he turned back to the east, passing along between the old decayed wall and the houses of the suburb. Little was said as they rode, for every ear was on the alert to catch any sounds from the main street, lest, mayhap, their course should be traced, and they should be followed. It is hardly possible for any one in the present day--at least for any dweller in the more civilized parts of earth, where order is the rule and disorder the exception--to form any correct idea of those times in France, when order was the exception, and disorder the rule; when no man set out upon a journey without being prepared for attack and defense; when the streets of a great city were in themselves perilous places; when one's own house might, indeed, be a castle, but required to be as carefully watched and guarded as a fortress, and when the life of every day was full of open and apparent danger--when, in short, there was no such thing as peace on earth, or good-will among men. Yet it is wonderful how calmly people bore it, how much they looked upon it as a matter of course, how much less anxiety or annoyance it occasioned them. Just as an undertaker becomes familiar with images of death, and strangely intimate with the corpses which he lays out and buries, jokes with his assistant in the awful presence of the dead, and takes his pot of beer, or glass of spirits, seated on the coffin, with the link of association entirely cut by habit, and no reference of the mind between his fate and the fate of him whom he inters; so men, by the effect of custom, went through hourly peril in those times, saw every sort of misery, sorrow, and injustice inflicted on others, and very often endured them themselves, merely as a matter of course, a part of the business of the day. I do not, and I will not pretend, therefore, that Jean Charost felt half the annoyance or apprehension that any one of modern days would experience, could he be carried back some four or five centuries; but he did feel considerable anxiety, not so much lest his own throat should be cut, though that was quite within the probabilities of the case, as lest he should be seized, and the letters of the Duke of Orleans which he bore taken from him. That anxiety was considerably aggravated, as he rode along, by hearing a good deal of noise from the streets on the right, orders and directions delivered in loud tones, the jingle of arms, and the dull beat of horses' hoofs upon ground covered by hardened snow. For a moment or two it was doubtful whether the pursuers--if pursuers they were--would or would not discover that he had quitted the highway and follow on his track; but at length Armand Chauvin, who had hardly spoken a word, said, in a tone of some relief, "They have passed by the turning. They will have a long ride for their pains. Heaven bless them with a snow-shower, and freeze them to the saddle!" "There's the house, sir," said Martin Grille, pointing to a building of considerable size, the back of which stood out toward the dilapidated wall somewhat beyond the rest, with a stone tower in the extreme rear, and a light burning in one of the windows. "I should like to hear how you know, all about this place, Master Martin," replied his young master, "and whether you can assure me really a good reception." "That I'll answer for--that I'll answer for," cried Martin Grille, gayly. "Oh, you men of battle and equitation can't do every thing. We people of peace and policy sometimes have our share in the affairs of life. This way, sir--this way. The back door into the court is the best. On my life! if I were to turn astrologer any where, it should be at Pithiviers. They nourish him gayly, don't they? Every man from sixty downward, and every woman from sixteen upward, must have their horoscope drawn three times a day, to keep our friend of the astrolabe in such style as this?" As he spoke, he rode up to a pair of great wooden gates in the wall, and dismounting from his horse, pushed them open. Bending their heads a little, for the arch was not very high, Jean Charost and the chevaucheur; rode into a very handsome court-yard, surrounded on three sides by buildings, and having at one corner the tower which they had before observed. Martin Grille followed, carefully closed the gates, and fastened them with a wooden bar which lay near, to prevent any one obtaining as easy access as himself. Then advancing to a small back door, he knocked gently with his hand, and almost immediately a pretty servant girl appeared with a light. "Ah, my pretty demoiselle! here I am again, and have brought this noble young gentleman to consult the learned doctor," said Martin Grille, as soon as he saw her. "Is he at home now?" "No, kind sir," answered the girl, giving a coquettish glance at Jean Charost and his companion. "Two rude men came and dragged him away from his supper almost by force; but I dare say he will not be long gone." "Then we will come in and wait," said Mar tin Grille. "Where can we put our horses this cold night?" The girl seemed to hesitate, although her own words had certainly led the way to Martin's proposal. "I don't know where to put you or your horses either," she said, at length; "for there is a gentleman waiting, and it is not every one who comes to consult the doctor that wishes to be seen. Pedro the Moor, too, is out getting information about the town; so that I have no one to ask what to do." "Well, we don't want to be seen either," replied Martin Grille; "so we will just put our horses under that shed, and go into the little room where the doctor casts his nativities." "But he's in there--he's in there," said the girl; "the tall, meagre man with the wild look. I put him in there because there's nothing he could hurt. No, no; you fasten up your horses, and then come into the great hall. I think the man is as mad as a March hare. You can hear him quite plain in the hall; never still for a moment." The girl's plan was, of course, followed; and, passing through a low and narrow door, arched with stone, according to the fashion of those days, Jean Charost and his two companions were ushered into a large room, from the end of which two other doors led to different parts of the building. The maid left the lamp which she carried to give the strangers some light, but the greater part of the room remained in obscurity; nor, probably, would it have exhibited any thing very interesting to the eyes of Jean Charost; for all the walls seemed to be covered with illuminated pieces of vellum, each figuring the horoscope of some distinguished man long dead. Those of Charlemagne, Pope Benedict the Eighth, Julius Cæsar, Alexander the Great, Homer, and Duns Scotus, were all within the rays of the lamp, and the young secretary looked no further, but, turning to Martin Grille, asked once more, but in a low tone, how he happened to have made himself acquainted so thoroughly with the astrologer's house and habits. "Why bless you, sir," replied the lackey, "when I saw you carried off by a man I knew nothing about, and found myself in an inn where not even the landlord would tell who his guests were, I got frightened, and as it is a part of my business to know every thing that may be of service to you, I bethought me how I might best get information. As every town in France has its astrologer, either official or accidental, I determined I would find him out, and I seduced one of the marmitons; to show me the way hither for a bribe of two sous. Very little had I in my pocket to consult an astrologer with; but we Parisians have a way of bartering one piece of news for another; and as information regarding every body and every thing is what an astrologer is always in search of, I trucked the tidings of your arrival at the auberge; for the name of the great man whose servants had possession of the inn. That frightened me still more; but the learned doctor bought an account of all that had happened to us on the road with a leathern bottle of the finest wine that was ever squeezed out of the grape, and added over and above, that Madame de Giac, the duke's mistress, was expected at the inn, and had sent her husband away to Blois. That frightened me more than ever." "Why so?" asked Jean Charost. "Why should you be frightened by any of these things you heard? Their highnesses of Burgundy and Orleans are now in perfect amity I understand, and Madame de Giac, when I saw her before, seemed any thing but ill disposed toward my royal master." "Ah! sir," replied Martin Grille; "the amity of princes is a ticklish thing to trust to; and the friendship of a lady of many loves is somewhat like the affection of a spider. God send that the Duke of Burgundy be as well disposed to the royal duke as you think, and that Madame de Giac work no mischief between them; for the one, I think, is as sincere as the other, and I would not trust my little finger in the power of either, if it served their purpose to cut it off." "Nay," answered Jean Charost; "I certainly do not now think that the Duke of Burgundy is well disposed to his highness of Orleans; for I have had good reason to believe the contrary." "There is no one believes he is, but the duke himself," said Armand Chauvin. "His highness is too frank. He rides out in a furred gown to meet a man armed with all pieces. But hark! how that man is walking about! He must be troubled with some unquiet spirit." All listened in silence for a moment or two, and a slow, heavy footfall was heard pacing backward and forward in the adjoining room, from which the hall was only separated by one of the doors that has been mentioned. Jean Charost thought that he heard a groan too, and there was something in the dull and solemn tread, unceasing and unvaried as it was, that had a gloomy and oppressive effect. No one spoke for several minutes, and the time of the astrologer's return seemed long; but at length the steps in the adjoining room ceased, the door was thrown open, and a low, deep voice exclaimed, "If you have returned, why do you keep me waiting? Ha! strangers all!" The speaker, who had taken one step into the room, was, as the maid had described him, a tall, thin, gaunt man, of the middle age, with a stern, wild, impetuous expression of countenance. His gray hair and his gray beard seemed not to have been trimmed for weeks, and his apparel, though costly, was negligently cast on. There was a wrinkle between his brows, so deep that one might have laid a finger in it, fixed and immovable, as if it had grown there for years, deepening with time. But the brow, with its heavy frown, seemed the only feature that remained at rest; for the eye flashed and wandered, the lip quivered, and the nostrils expanded, as if there were an infinite multitude of emotions passing ever through the heart, and writing their transient traces oil the countenance as they went. He paused for a single moment, almost in the doorway, holding a lamp high in his hand, and glancing his eyes from the face of Martin Grille, who was next to him, to that of Armand Chauvin, and then to the countenance of Jean Charost. As he gazed at the latter, however, a look of doubt, and then of recognition, came upon his countenance, and taking another step forward, he exclaimed, "Ha! young man; is that you? Something strange links our destiny together. I came hither to inquire of Fate concerning you; and here you are, to meet me." "I am glad to see you without your late companions, sir," replied Jean Charost. "I feared you might be in some peril." "No danger--no danger," answered the other. "They were ruffians--but what am I? Not a man there but had fought under my pennon on fields of honorable warfare. Wrong, injustice, baseness, ingratitude, had made gallant soldiers low marauders--what has the same made me--a demon, with hell in my heart, with hell behind me, and hell before!" He paused for an instant, and pressed his hand hard upon his brow; then raising his eyes again to the face of Jean Charost, he said, in a tone more calm, but stern and commanding, "Come with me, youth--I would speak with you alone;" and he returned to the other chamber. "For the blessed Virgin's sake, don't go with him, sir," exclaimed Martin Grille. "You had better not, Monsieur De Brecy," said Armand Chauvin. "The man seems mad." "No fear, no fear," answered Jean Charost, walking toward the door. "Well, give one halloo, and you shall have help," said Chauvin; and the young gentleman passed out and closed the door behind him. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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