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Agnes Sorel

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<h4>CHAPTER XXIV.</h4> There was in Paris an old irregular street, called the Street of the Old Temple, which had been built out toward the Porte Barbette at a period when the capital of France was much smaller in extent than in the reign of King Charles the Sixth. No order or regularity had been preserved, although one side of the street had for some distance been kept in a direct line by an antique wall, built, it is said, by the voluntary contributions or personal labors of different members of the famous Order of the Temple, the brethren of which, though professing poverty, were often more akin to Dives than to Lazarus. The other side of the street, however, had been filled up by the houses and gardens of various individuals, each walking in the light of his own eyes, and using his discretion as to how far his premises should encroach upon, how far recede from the highway. Thus, when sun or moon was up, and shining down the street, a number of picturesque shadows crossed it, offering a curious pattern of light and shade, varying with every hour. A strange custom existed in those days, which has only been perpetuated, that I know of, in some towns of the Tyrol, of affixing to each house its own particular sign, which served, as numbers do in the present day, to distinguish it from all others in the same street. Sometimes these signs or emblems projected in the form of a banner from the walls of the house, overhanging the street, and showing the golden cross, or the silver cross, or the red ball, the lion, the swan, or the hart, to every one who rode along. Sometimes, with better taste, but perhaps with less convenience to the passenger in search of a house he did not know, the emblem chosen by the proprietor was built into the solid masonry, or placed in a little Gothic niche constructed for the purpose. The latter was generally the case where angel, or patron saint, prophet, or holy man was the chosen device, and especially so when any of the persons of the Holy Trinity, for whom the Parisians seemed to have more love than reverence, gave a name to the building. Thus, at the corner of the Street of the Old Temple, and another which led into it, a beautiful and elaborate niche with a baldachin of fretted stone, and a richly-carved pediment, offered to the eyes of the passers-by a very-well executed figure of the Virgin, holding in her arms the infant Savior, and from this image the house on which it was affixed obtained the name of the Hôtel de Nôtre Dame. Notwithstanding the sanctity of the emblem, and the beauty of the building--for it was of the finest style of French architecture, then in its decay--the house had been very little inhabited for some twenty or thirty years. It had been found too small and incommodious for modern taste. Men had built themselves larger dwellings, and, although this had not been suffered to become actually dilapidated, there were evident traces of neglect about it--casements broken and distorted, doors and gates on which unforbidden urchins carved grotesque faces and letters hardly less fantastical, moldings and cornices time-worn and moldering, and stones gathering lichen and soot with awful rapidity. All was darkness along the front of that house. No torches blazed before it; no window shot forth a ray; and the sinking moon cast a black shadow across the street, and half way up the wall on the other side. Nevertheless, in one room of that house there were lamps lighted, and a blazing fire upon the hearth. Wine, too, was upon the table, rich, and in abundance; but yet it was hardly tasted; for there were passions busy in that room, more powerful than wine. It was low in the ceiling, the walls covered with hangings of leather which had once been gilt, and painted with various devices but from which all traces of human handiwork had nearly vanished, leaving nothing but a gloomy, dark drapery on the wall, which seemed rather to suck in than return the rays. It was large and well proportioned, however. The great massy beams which, any one could touch with their hand, were supported by four stout stone pillars, and the whole light centered in the middle of the room, leaving a fringe, as it were, of obscurity all round. If numbers could make any place gay, that room or hall would have been cheerful enough; for not less than seventeen or eighteen persons were collected there, and many of them appeared persons of no inferior degree. Each was more or less armed, and battle-axes, maces, and heavy swords lay around; but a solemn, gloomy stillness hung upon the whole party. It was evidently no festal occasion on which they met. The wine, as I have said, had no charms for them; conversation had as little. One tall powerful man sat before the chimney with his mailed arms crossed upon his chest, and his eyes fixed upon the flickering blaze in the fire-place. Another was seated near the table, drawing, with the end of a straw, wild, fantastic figures on the board with some wine which had been spilled. Some dull men at a distance nodded, and others, with their hands upon their brows, and eyes bent down, remained in heavy thought. At length one of them spoke, "Tedious work this," he said. "Action suits me best. I love not to lie like a spider at the bottom of his web, waiting till the fly buzzes into his nest. Here we have been five or six long days, and nothing done. I will not wait longer than to-morrow's sunrise, whatever you may say, Ralph." The other, who was gazing into the fire, turned his head a little, answering in a gruff tone, "I tell you he is now in Paris. He arrived this very evening. We shall hear more anon." The conversation ceased; for no one else took it up, and each of the speakers fell into silence again. Some quarter of an hour passed, and then the one who was at the table started and seemed to listen. There was certainly a step in the passage without, and the moment after there was a knock at the door. One of those within advanced, and inquired who was there. "Ich Houde," answered a voice, and immediately the door was unlocked, and a ponderous bolt withdrawn. All eyes were now turned toward the entrance, with a look which I do not know how to describe, except by saying it was one of fierce expectation. At first the obscurity at the further side of the room prevented those who sat near the light from seeing who it was that entered; but a broad-chested, powerful man, wrapped in a crimson mantle, with a very large hood thrown back upon his shoulders, and on his head a plain brown barret cap with a heron's feather in it, advanced rapidly toward the table, inquiring, "Where is Actonville?" His face was deadly pale, and even his lips had lost their color; but there was no emotion to be discovered by the movement of any feature. All was stern, and resolute, and keen. "Here," said the man who had been sitting by the fire, rising as he spoke. The other advanced close to him, and spoke something in a whisper. Actonville rejoined in the same low tone; and then the other answered, louder, "I have provided for all that. Thomas of Courthose will bear him a message from the king. Be quick; for he will soon be there." "How got you the news, sir?" asked Actonville. "By the fool, to be sure--by the fool!" replied the other. "It is all certain; though a fool told it." "The moon must be up," said Actonville. "Were it not better to do it as he returns?" "He will have many more with him," answered the man who had just entered; "and the moon is down." "Oh, moon or no moon, many or few," exclaimed the man who had been sitting at the table, "let us about it at once. Brave men fear no numbers; and only dogs are scared by the moon." Some more conversation, brief, sharp, and eager, sometimes in whispers, sometimes aloud, occupied a space, perhaps, of three minutes, and then all was the bustle of preparation. Swords, axes, maces were taken up, and a few inquiries were made and answered. "Are the horses all ready?" asked one. "They only want unhooking," replied another. "The straw is piled up in both the rooms." said a third. "Shall I fire it now?" "No, no! Are you mad?" replied Actonville "Not till it is done." "Then I'll put the lantern ready," replied the other. "Where will you be, sir?" asked Actonville. "Close at hand," replied the man in the crimson mantle. "But we lose time. Go out quietly, one by one, and leave the door open. Put out the lights, William of Courthose. I have a lantern here, under my cloak." The lights were immediately extinguished, and, by the flickering of the fire, eighteen shadowy forms were seen to pass out of the room like ghosts. Through the long passage from the back to the front of the house, they went as silently as their arms would permit, and then gliding down the irregular side of the road, one by one, they disappeared from their rank to lay in wait in what the prophet calls "the thievish corners of the streets." The man who had last joined them remained alone, standing before the fire. His arms were crossed upon his chest; a lantern which he had carried stood on the ground by his side; and his eyes were fixed upon a log from which a small thin flame, yellow at the base, and blue at the top, rose up, wavering fitfully. He watched it for some five or six minutes. Suddenly it leaped up and vanished. "Ha!" said that dark, stern man, and turned him to the door. Ere he reached it, there was a loud outcry from without--a cry of pain and strife. He paused and trembled. What was in his bosom then? God only knows. Man never knew. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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