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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER XXI.</h4> In the court-yard of the château of Beauté--a long, but somewhat narrow parallelogram--were assembled most of the male members of the Duke of Orleans's household, two days after the return of Jean Charost from Blois. Some were on horseback, and some on foot; and nine or ten of the younger men were armed with a long ash staff, shaped somewhat like a lance, while the rest of the party were in their ordinary riding-dresses, with no arms but the customary sword and dagger. All these were gathered together at one end of the court, while a trumpeter, holding his trumpet with its bell-shaped mouth leaning on his hip, was placed a little in advance. At the other end of the court stood a column of wood, perhaps six feet in height, surmounted by a grotesque-looking carved image, representing the upper part of a man, with both arms extended, and a long, heavy cudgel in each hand. After a moment's pause, and a consultation among the elder heads, one of the inferior servants was sent forward for purposes that will speedily be shown, to act as, what was called, master of the Quintain; but he took care to place himself beyond the sweep of the cudgel in the hand of the image so called. The sport about to begin was of very ancient date, and had been generally superseded by somewhat more graceful exercises; but the Duke of Orleans was very fond of old customs, and had revived many chivalrous sports which had fallen out of use. At a signal from Monsieur Blaize, who was on foot, the trumpeter put his instrument of noise to his lips, and blew a blast which, well understood, ranged the young cavaliers instantly in line, and then, after a moment's pause, sounded a charge. One of the party instantly sprung forward, lance in rest, toward the Quintain, aiming directly at the centre of the head of the figure. He was quite a young lad, and his arm not very steady, so that he somewhat missed his mark, and struck the figure on the cheek. Moving on a pivot, the Quintain whirled round under the blow, with the arms still extended, and, as the horse carried the youth on, he must have received a tremendous stroke from the wooden cudgel on his back, had he not bent down to his horse's neck, so that the blow passed over him. Some laughed; but Juvenel de Royans, who was the next but one to follow, exclaimed aloud, "That's not fair." "Quite fair, I think," replied Jean Charost, who was near. "What do you know about it?" cried the other, impetuously. "Keep yourself to pens, and things you understand." "I may, perhaps, understand it better than you, Monsieur De Royans," replied Jean Charost, quite calmly. "It is the favorite game at Bourges, and we consider that the next best point to hitting the Quintain straight, is to avoid the blow." "That's the coward's point, I suppose," said Juvenel de Royans. "Hush! hush!" cried Monsieur Blaize. "Silence, sir. Sound again, trumpet!" Another ran his course, struck the Quintain better, but did not dismount it; and De Royans succeeded striking the figure right in the middle of the forehead, and shaking the whole post, but still leaving the wooden image standing. The great feat of the game was, not only to aim the spear so fair as to avoid turning the figure in the least, but so low that the least raising of the point at the same time threw it backward from its pivot. But this was a somewhat dangerous manœuvre; for the chest of the image being quite flat, and unmarked by any central point, the least deviation to the right or left swung round one of the cudgels with tremendous force, and the young gentleman did not venture to attempt it. Jean Charost, however, who, as a mere boy, had been trained to the exercise by his father, aimed right at the breast; but he paid for his temerity by a severe blow, which called forth a shout of laughter from De Royans and his companions. Others followed, who fared as badly, without daring as much. Each time the Quintain was moved, the servant who had been sent forward readjusted it with the greatest care, and when each of the young men had run his course, the troop commenced again. The rivalry between De Royans and De Brecy was by this time a well-understood thing in the château, and little heed was paid to the running of the rest till it came to the turn of the former. He then, with a sort of mock courtesy, besought Jean Charost to take his turn, saying, "You are the superior officer, sir, and, to say truth, I would fain learn that dexterous trick of yours, if you venture upon it again." "I certainly shall," replied Jean Charost, "and I shall be happy to teach you that, or better things. I will run first. The Quintain is not straight," he continued, calling to the master of the Quintain. "Advance the right arm an inch." There was some little dispute as to whether the Quintain was straight or not, but in the end the trumpet again sounded. Jean Charost, with a better aim, hit the figure in the middle of the chest, and raising his arm lightly at the same instant, threw it back upon the ground. Then wheeling his horse, while the servant replaced it, he returned to his post. But no one said "Well done," except old Monsieur Blaize; and Juvenel de Royans bit his lip, with a red spot on his cheek. Rash, confident, and angry, he took no pains to see that the figure was exactly straight, but dashed forward when the trumpet sounded, resolved not to be outdone, aiming directly at the chest. Whether his horse swerved, or the figure was not well adjusted, I do not know; but he hit it considerably to the right of the centre, and, as he was carried forward, the merciless cudgel struck him a blow on the back of the neck which hurled him out of the saddle to the ground. Jean Charost did not laugh; but he could not refrain from a smile, which caught De Royans's eyes as he led his horse back again. The latter was dizzy and confused, however, and for a moment, after he had given his horse to a servant, he stood gnawing his lip, without uttering a word to any one. At length, as the others were running their course, however, he walked up to the side of Jean Charost, who was now a little apart from the rest, and some quick words and meaning glances were seen to pass between them. Their voices grew louder; De Royans touched the hilt of his sword; and Jean Charost nodded his head, saying something in a low tone. "For shame! for shame!" said Monsieur Blaize, approaching; but, ere he could add more, a casement just above their heads opened, and the voice of the Duke of Orleans was heard. "Juvenel de Royans," he said, "have you any inclination for a dungeon? There are cells to fit you under the castle; and, as I live, you shall enjoy one if you broil in my household. I know you, sir; so be warned. De Brecy, come here; I want you." Jean Charost immediately dismounted, gave his horse to Martin Grille, and ascended to the gallery from which the Duke of Orleans had been watching the sports of the morning. It was a large room, communicating, by a door in the midst and a small vestibule, with that famous picture-gallery which has been already mentioned. Voices were heard talking beyond; but the duke, after his young secretary's arrival, continued for a few minutes walking up and down the same chamber in which Jean Charost found him, leaning lightly on his arm. "I know not how it is, my young friend," he said, in a sort of musing tone, "but the people here are clearly not very fond of you. However, I must insist that you take no notice whatever of that peevish boy, De Royans." "I am most willing, sir," said Jean Charost, "to live at peace with him and every one else, provided they will leave me at peace likewise. I have given neither him nor them any matter for offense, and yet I will acknowledge that since my first entrance into your highness's household, I have met with little but enmity from any but good Monsieur Blaize and Signor Lomelini, who are both, I believe, my friends." The duke mused very gravely, and then replied, "I know not how it is. To me it seems that there is nothing in your demeanor and conduct but that which should inspire kindness, and even respect. And yet," he continued, after a moment's pause, his face brightening with a gay, intelligent smile, not uncommon upon it when that acuteness, which formed one point in his very varied character, was aroused, by some accidental circumstance, from the slumber into which it sometimes fell--"and yet I am a fool to say I do not know how it is. I do know right well, my young friend. Men of power and station do not enough consider that all who surround them are more or less engaged in a race, whose rivalry necessarily deviates into enmity; and their favor, whenever it is given, is followed by the ill will of many toward the single possessor. The more just and the more generous of the competitors content themselves with what they can obtain, or, at all events, do not deny some portion of merit to a more fortunate rival; but the baser and the meaner spirits--and they are the most numerous--not only envy, but hate; not only hate, but calumniate." "I am most grateful, sir, for all your kindness toward me," replied Jean Charost; "but I can not at all attribute the enmity of Monsieur de Royans, or any of the rest, to jealousy of your favor, for from the moment I entered your household it was the same." "Oil and water do not easily mix," answered the duke. "The qualities for which I esteem you make them hate you; not that your character and mine are at all alike--very, very different. But there be some substances, which, though most opposite to others, easily mingle with them; others which, with more apparent similarity, are totally repugnant. Your feelings are not my feelings, your thoughts not my thoughts, yet I can comprehend and appreciate you; these men can not." "I am afraid, sir," said Jean Charost, "that I owe your good opinion more to a prepossession in my favor than to any meritorious acts of my own; for, indeed, I have had no opportunity of serving you." "Yes, you have, greatly," replied the duke; "not perhaps by acts, but by words, which prove often the greatest services. He who influences a man's mind, De Brecy, affects him more than he who influences his mere earthly fortunes. I have often thought," he continued, in a musing tone, "that we are never sufficiently grateful to those by whose writings, by whose example, by whose speech, our hearts, our feelings, or our reason have been formed and perfected. The mind has a fortune as well as the body, and the latter is inferior to the former. But set your mind at rest; they can not affect my opinion toward you. There is but one thing which has puzzled me a little; this child, which they tell me has been placed by you at one of the cottages hard by, I would fain know who are its parents." "On that subject I can tell your highness nothing," replied Jean Charost; "but the whole history, as far as I can give it, I will give." "Hush!" said the duke, looking toward the picture-gallery, the door from which was opened by the duchess at that moment. "There is nothing, sir, that I am afraid or ashamed to tell before the duchess," replied Jean Charost. "The case may be strange; but, as far as it affects me, it is a very simple one." "Well, then," said the duke, turning to the duchess, who was advancing slowly and somewhat timidly, "you shall speak on, and your narrative shall be our morning's amusement." His whole air changed in a moment; and, with a gay and sparkling look, he said to the duchess, "Come hither, my sweet wife, and assist at the trial of this young offender. He is charged before me of preaching rather than practicing, of frowning, like a Franciscan, on all the lighter offenses of love; and yet, what think you, I am told he has a fair young lady, who has followed him hither, and is boarded by him in one of the cottages just below the castle, when I do believe that, were I but to give a glance at any pretty maiden, I should have as sour a look as antique abbess ever gave to wavering nun." The duchess looked in Jean Charost's face for an instant, and then said, "I'll be his surety, sir, that the tale is false." "Not so, indeed, your highness," replied Jean Charost. "The tale is mostly true; but the duke should have added that this fair maid can not be three months old." "Worse and worse!" cried the duke; "you can not escape penance for one sin, my friend, by pleading a still greater one. But tell us how all this happened; let us hear your defense." "It is a plain and true one, sir," replied Jean Charost. "The very morning after our arrival here, I rode out for exercise, accompanied only by my lackey, Martin Grille. In a wood, perhaps four miles distant, we saw the smoke of a fire rising up not far from the road. My man is city born, and full of city fears. He fancied that every tree concealed a plunderer, and though he did not infect me with his apprehensions, he excited my curiosity about this fire; so--" "Judging that a fire must have some one to light it," said the duke, "you went to see. That much has been told in every nook of the house, from the garret to the guest-chamber. What happened next?" "I tracked the marks of horse's feet," said Jean Charost, "from the road through the wood, some hundred yards into the bushes, catching the smoke still rising blue among the dark brown trees, and, of course, appearing nearer as I went. I heard people talking loud, too, and therefore fancied that I could get still nearer without being seen. But suddenly, two men, who were lying hid hard by the path I had taken, started out and seized me, crying 'Here is a spy--a spy!' A number of others rushed up shouting and swearing, and I was soon dragged on to the spot where the fire was lighted, which was a small open space beneath an old beech-tree. There I found some three or four others lying on the snow, all fully armed but one. Horses were standing tied around. A lance was here and there leaning against the trees, and battle-axes and maces were at many a saddle-bow; but I must say that the harness was somewhat rusty, and the faces of my new acquaintances not very clean or trim. The one who was unarmed, and who I supposed was a prisoner like myself, stood before the fire with his arms crossed on his chest. He was a tall man of middle age, with his hair very gray, somewhat plainly dressed, but with an air of stern, grave dignity not easily forgotten." "Had he no arms at all?" asked the duke. "None whatever, sir," replied Jean Charost; "not even sword or dagger. One large, bulky man, lying as quietly on the snow as if it had been a bed of down, had his feet to the fire, and, resting between them, I saw, to my surprise, a young child, well wrapped up, with nothing but the face peeping out, and sleeping soundly on a bed of pine branches. I should weary your highness with all that happened. At first it seemed that they would take my life, vowing that I had come to spy out their movements; then they would have had me go with them and make one of their band, giving me the choice of that or death. As I chose the latter, they were about to give it me without much ceremony, when the unarmed man interfered, in a tone of authority I had not expected to hear him use. He commanded them, in short, to desist; and, after whispering for a moment or two with the bulky man I have mentioned, he pointed to the child, and told me that, if I would swear most solemnly to guard and protect her, to be a father to her, and to see that she was nourished and educated in innocence and truth, they would let me go." "Did you know the man?" asked the Duke of Orleans, with a look of more interest than he had before displayed. "No, sir," replied the young secretary. "A faint, faint recollection of having somewhere seen a face like his I assuredly did feel; but he certainly seemed to know me, spoke of me as one attached to your highness, and asked how long I had left Paris. His words were wild and whirling, indeed; a few sentences he would speak correctly enough; but they seemed forced from him, as if with pain, straining his eye upon the fire or upon the ground, and falling into silence again as soon as they were uttered." "Was he some merchant, perhaps?" asked the duke; "some one who has had dealings with our friend, Jacques Cœur?" "He was no merchant, sir," said Jean Charost; "but I think, if ever I did see him before, it must have been with Jacques Cœur, for he had dealings with many men of high degree; and I doubt not that this person, however plain his garb and strange his demeanor, is a man of noble blood and a high name." The young man paused, as if there were more to be said which he hesitated to utter; and then, after giving a somewhat anxious glance toward the duchess, he added, "I may remember more incidents hereafter, sir, which I will not fail to tell you." "Did he give you no sign or token with this child," asked the duke, "by which one may trace her family and history? Did he tell you nothing of her parents?" "He said he was not her father," replied Jean Charost, gravely; "but that was all the information he afforded. He gave me this ring, too," continued the young man, producing one, "and a purse of gold pieces to pay for her nourishment." The duke took the ring and examined it carefully; but it was merely a plain gold circle without any distinctive mark. Nevertheless, Jean Charost thought his master's hand shook a little as he held the ring, and the duchess, who was looking over her husband's shoulder, said, "It is a strange story. Pray, tell me, Monsieur de Brecy, was this gentleman the same who spoke to you at the inn-door upon the road?" "The same, madam," replied Jean Charost. "Who was he? Did you ever see him before?" asked the duke, turning toward his wife with an eager look. "Never," answered the duchess; "but he was a very singular and distinguished-looking man. He was a gentleman assuredly, and I should think a soldier; for he had a deep scar upon the forehead which cut straight through the right eyebrow." The duke returned the ring to Jean Charost in silence; but the moment after he turned so deadly pale that the duchess exclaimed, "You are ill, my lord. You have exerted yourself too much to-day. You forget your late sickness, and how weak you are." "No, no," replied the duke. "I feel somewhat faint: it will pass by in a moment. Let us go into the picture-gallery. I will sit down there in the sunshine." Without reply, the duchess put her arm through his, and led him onward to the gallery, making a sign for Jean Charost to follow; and the duke, seating himself in a large chair, gazed over the walls, still marked by a lighter color here and there where a picture had lately hung. "Those walls must be cleaned," he said, at length; "though I doubt if the traces can be obliterated." "Oh, yes," answered the duchess, in a tone of sportive tenderness; "there is no trace of any of man's acts which can not be effaced, either by his own deeds, or his friend's efforts, or his God's forgiveness." She spoke to his thoughts rather than to his words, and the duke took her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. Then, turning to Jean Charost, he pointed to the picture of the duchess, saying, "Is not that one worthy to remain when all the rest are gone?" "Most worthy, sir," replied the young secretary, a little puzzled what to answer. "The others were mere daubs to that." "What, then, you saw them?" said the duchess. "His hands burned them," replied the duke. "That strange man whom we met," replied the duchess, "declared that he was faithful and true, where all were false and deceitful; and so he will be to us, Louis. Trust him, my husband--trust him." "I will," replied the duke. "But here comes Lomelini." The duchess drew herself up, cast off the tender kindliness of her look, and assumed a cold and icy stateliness; and the duke, inclining his head to Jean Charost, added, "Leave us now, my young friend. This afternoon or evening I shall have need of you. Then we will speak further; so be not far off." Jean Charost bowed and retired; and, turning to the maître d'hôtel, the duke said, in a low voice, "Set Blaize, or some one you can trust, to watch that young man. There have been high words between him and Juvenel de Royans. See that nothing comes of it. If you remark any thing suspicious, confine De Royans to his chamber, and set a guard." "Does your highness mean De Royans alone or both?" asked Lomelini, softly. "De Royans," answered the duke, sharply. "The one in fault, sir--the one always in fault. See my orders in train of execution, and then return." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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