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Agnes Sorel

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<h4>CHAPTER XXIII.</h4> Standing in the street, at the door of the house to which he had been directed, Jean Charost found a common-looking man, whose rank or station was hardly to be divined by his dress; and drawing up his horse beside him, he asked if Madame De Giac lived there. "She is here," replied the man. "What do you want with her?" "I have a letter to deliver to her," answered lean Charost, briefly. "Give it to me," replied the man. "That can not be," answered the young secretary. "It must be delivered by me into her own hand." "Who is it from?" inquired the other. "She does not see strangers at this hour of the night." The young secretary was somewhat puzzled what to reply, for a lingering suspicion made him unwilling to give the name of the duke; but he had not been told to conceal it, and seeing no other way of obtaining admission, he answered, after a moment's consideration, "It is from his highness of Orleans, and I must beg you to use dispatch." "I will see if she will admit you," replied the man; "but come into the court, at all events. You will soon have your answer." Thus saying, he opened the large wooden gates of the yard, and, as soon as Jean Charost had entered, closed and fastened them securely. There was a certain degree of secrecy and mystery about the whole proceeding, a want of that bustle and parade common in great houses in Paris, which confirmed the preconceived suspicions of Jean Charost, and made him believe that a woman of gallantry was waiting for the visit of a prince whose devotion to her sex was but too well known. Dismounting, he stood by his horse's side, while the man quietly glided through a door, hardly perceivable in the obscurity of one dark corner in the court-yard. The moon had already sunk low, and the tall houses round shadowed the whole of the open space in which the young secretary stood, so that he could but little see the aspect of the place, although he had ample time for observation. Nearly ten minutes elapsed before the messenger's return; but then he came, attended by a page bearing a flambeau, and, in civil terms, desired the young gentleman to follow him to his mistress's presence. Through ways as narrow and as crooked as the ways of love usually are, Jean Charost was conducted to a small room, which would nowadays probably be called a boudoir, where, even without the contrast of the poor, naked stone passages through which he had passed, every thing would have appeared luxurious and splendid in the highest degree. Rumor attributed to the beautiful lady whom he went to visit, a princely lover, who some years before had commanded an army against the Ottomans, had received a defeat which rendered him morose and harsh throughout the rest of life, but had acquired, during an easy captivity among the Mussulmans, a taste for Oriental luxury, which never abandoned him. All within the chamber to which Jean Charost was now introduced spoke that the lady had not been uninfluenced by her lover's habits. Articles of furniture little known in France were seen in various parts of the room; piles of cushions, carpets of innumerable dyes, and low sofas or ottomans; while, even in the midst of winter, the odor of roses pervaded the whole apartment. Madame de Giac herself, negligently dressed, but looking wonderfully beautiful, was reclining on cushions, with a light on a low table by her side, and, on the approach of Jean Charost, she received him more as an old and dear friend than a mere accidental acquaintance. A radiant smile was upon her lips; she made him sit down beside her, and in her tone there was a blandishing softness, which he felt was very engaging. For a minute or two she held the letter of the Duke of Orleans unopened in her hand, while she asked him questions about his journey from Pithiviers to Blois, and his return. At length, however, she opened the billet and read it, not so little observed as she imagined herself; for Jean Charost's eyes were fixed upon her, marking the various expressions of her countenance. At first, her glance at the note was careless; but speedily her eyes fixed upon the lines with an intense, eager look. Her brow contracted, her nostril expanded, her beautiful upper lip quivered, and that fair face for an instant took upon it the look of a demon. Suddenly, however, she recollected herself, smoothed her brow, recalled the wandering lightning of her eyes and folding the note, she curled it between her fingers, saying, "I must write an answer, my dear young friend. I will not be long; wait for me here;" and rising gracefully, she gathered her flowing drapery around her, and passed out by a door behind the cushions. The door was closed carefully; but Jean Charost had good reason to believe that the time of Madame De Giac was occupied in other employment than writing. A murmur of voices was heard, in which her own sweet tones mingled with others harsher and louder. The words used could not be distinguished, but the conversation seemed eager and animated, beginning the moment she entered, and rising and falling in loudness, as if the speakers were sometimes carried away by the topic, sometimes fearful of being overheard. Jean Charost was no great casuist, and certainly, in all ordinary cases, he would have felt ashamed to listen to any conversation not intended for his ears. Neither, on this occasion, did he actually listen. He moved not from his seat; he even took up and examined a beautiful golden-sheathed poniard with a jeweled hilt, which lay upon the table where stood the light. But there was a doubt, a suspicion, an apprehension of he knew not what in his mind, which, if well-founded, might perhaps have justified him in his own eyes in actually trying to hear what was passing; for assuredly he would have thought it no want of honor thus to detect the devices of an enemy. The voice of Madame De Giac was not easily forgotten by one who had once heard it; and the rougher, sterner tones that mingled in the conversation seemed likewise familiar to the young secretary's ear. Both those who were speaking he believed to be inimical to his royal master. He heard nothing distinctly, however, but the last few words that were spoken. It would seem that Madame De Giac had approached close to the door, and laid her hand upon the lock, and the other speaker raised his voice, adding to some words which were lost, the following, in an imperative tone, "As long as possible, remember--by any means!" Madame De Giac's murmured reply was not intelligible to the young secretary; but then came a coarse laugh, and the deeper voice answered, "No, no. I do not mean that; but by force, if need be." "Well, then, tell them," said the fair lady; but what was to be told escaped unheard by Jean Charost; for she dropped her voice lower than ever, and, a moment after, re-entered the room. Her face was all fair and smiling, and before she spoke, she seated herself again on the cushions, paused thoughtfully, and, looking at the dagger which the young gentleman replaced as she entered, said playfully, "Do not jest with edged tools. I hope you did not take the poniard out of its sheath. It comes from Italy--from the very town of the sweet Duchess of Orleans; and they tell me that the point is poisoned, so that the slightest scratch would produce speedy death. It has never been drawn since I had it, and never shall be with my will." "I did not presume to draw it," said Jean Charost. "But may I crave your answer to his highness's note?" "How wonderfully formal we are," said Madame De Giac, with a gay laugh. "This chivalrous reverence for the fair, which boys are taught in their school days, is nothing but a sad device of old women and jealous husbands. It is state, and dress, and grave surroundings, De Brecy, that makes us divinities. A princess and a page, in a little cabinet like this, are but a woman and a man. Due propriety, of course, is right; but forms and reverence all nonsense." "Beauty and rank have both their reverence, madam," replied Jean Charost. "But at the present moment, all other things aside, I am compelled to think of his highness's business; for he is waiting for me now at the Hôtel Barbette, expecting anxiously, I doubt not, your answer." The conversation that followed does not require detail. Madame De Giac was prodigal of blandishments, and, skilled in every female art, contrived to while away some twenty minutes without giving the young secretary any reply to bear to his master. When at length she found that she could not detain him any longer without some definite answer, she turned to the subject of the note, and contrived to waste some more precious time on it. "What if I were to send the duke a very angry message?" she said. "I should certainly deliver it," replied Jean Charost. "But I would rather that you wrote it." "No, I have changed my mind about that," she answered. "I will not write. You may tell him I think him a base, ungrateful man, unworthy of a lady's letter. Will you tell him that?" "Precisely, madam; word for word," replied Jean Charost. "Then you are bolder with men than women," replied the lady, with a laugh slightly sarcastic. "Stay, stay; I have not half done yet. Say to the duke I am of a forgiving nature, and, if he does proper penance, and comes to sue for pardon, he may perhaps find mercy. Whither are you going so fast? You can not get out of this enchanted castle as easily as you think, good youth; at least not without my consent." "I pray, then, give it to me, madam," said Jean Charost; "for I really fear that his highness will be angry at my long delay." "Poor youth! what a frightened thing it is," said the lady. "Well, you shall go; but let me look at the duke's note again, in case I have any thing to add;" and she unfolded the billet, which she still held in her hand, and looked at it by the light. Again Jean Charost marked that bitter, fiend-like scowl come upon her countenance, and, in this instance, the feelings that it indicated found some expression in words. "Either you or his priest are making a monk of him," she said, bitterly; "but it matters not. Tell him what I have said." And murmuring a few more indistinct words to herself, she rang a small silver bell which lay upon the cushions beside her, and the man who had given Jean Charost admission speedily appeared. The lady looked at him keenly for an instant, and the young secretary thought he saw a glance of intelligence pass from his face to hers. "Light this young gentleman out," said Madame De Giac. "You are a young fool, De Brecy," she added, laughingly; "but that is no fault of yours or mine. Nature made you so, and I can not mend you; and so, good-night." Jean Charost bowed low, and followed the man out of the room; but, as he did so, he drew his sword-hilt a little forward, not well knowing what was to come next. Madame De Giac eyed him with a sarcastic smile, and the door closed upon him. The man lighted him silently, carefully along the narrow, tortuous passage, and down the steep stair-case by which he had entered, holding the light low, that he might see his way. When they reached the small door which led into the court, he unbolted it, and held it back for the young gentleman to go forth; but the moment Jean Charost had passed out, the door was closed and bolted. "Not very courteous," thought Jean Charost. "But doubtless he takes his tone from his lady's last words. What a dark night it is?" For a minute or two, in the sudden obscurity after the light was withdrawn, he could discern none of the objects around him, and it was not till his eye had become more accustomed to the darkness that he discovered his horse standing fastened to a ring let into the building. He detached him quickly, and led him to the great gates; but here a difficulty presented itself. The large wooden bar was easily removed, and the bolts drawn back; but still the gates would not open. The young gentleman felt them all over in search of another fastening; but he could find none; and he then turned to a little sort of guardroom on the right of the entrance, attached to almost all the large houses of Paris in that day, and transformed, in after and more peaceable times, into a porter's lodge. All was dark and silent within, however: the door closed; and no answer was returned when the young gentleman knocked. He then tried another door, in the middle of the great façade of the building; but there, also, the door was locked, and he could make no one hear. His only resource, then, was the small postern by which he had been admitted; but here also he was disappointed, and he began to comprehend that he was intentionally detained. He was naturally the more impatient to escape; and, abandoning all ceremony, he knocked hard with the hilt of his dagger on the several doors, trying them in turns. But it was all in vain. There were things doing which made his importunity of small consequence. With an angry and impatient heart, and a mind wandering through a world of conjecture, he at length thrust his dagger back into the sheath, and stood and listened near the great gates, determined, if he heard a passing step in the street, to call loudly for assistance. All was still, however, for ten minutes, and then came suddenly a sound of loud voices and indistinct cries, as if there was a tumult at some distance. Jean Charost's heart beat quick, though there seemed no definite link of connection between his own fate and the sounds he heard. A minute or two after, however, he was startled by a nearer noise--a rattling and grating sound--and he had just time to draw his horse away ere the gates opened of their own accord, and rolled back without any one appearing to move them. A hoarse and unpleasant laugh, at the same moment, sounded on Jean Charost's ear, and, looking forth into the street, he saw two or three dark figures running quickly forward in one direction. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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