"Suffer me, your highness," said the judge. "We know not what he may have seen in coming or going. Things which seem trifles often have bearings of great weight upon important facts--at what time came you hither, young gentleman? Were you alone, and, if not, who was with you?"
Jean Charost answered briefly and distinctly, and the judge then inquired, "Did you meet any one, as you entered this house, who seemed to be quitting it?"
"No," replied Jean Charost, "several persons were lingering about the gate, and in front, between the walls and the chain; but nobody seemed quitting the spot."
"No one in a long flowing robe and cowl, the habit of a priest or a friar?" asked the judge.
"No," replied Jean Charost; "but we saw, a few moments before, a man such as you describe, seeking admission at the gates of a large house like a monastery. He seemed in haste, too, from the way he rang the bell."
The judge questioned him closely as to the position of the house he described; and when he had given his answer, turned to the duke, saying, "The Celestins."
"They have had naught to do with it," replied the duke, at once. "The good brethren love me too well to inflict such grief upon me."
"They have cause, my lord," replied the judge; "but we do not always find that gratitude follows good offices. By your permission, I will make some inquiry as to who was the person who entered their gates last night at the hour named."
"As you will," replied the duke, shaking his head; "but I repeat, there is something within me which tells me better than the clearest evidence, who was the man that did this horrid act; and he is not at the Celestins. Inquire, if you please; but it is vain, I know. He and I will meet, however, ere our lives end. My conscience was loaded on his account. He has well balanced the debt; and when we meet--"
He added no more, but clasped his hands tight together, and set his teeth bitterly.
"Nevertheless, I will inquire," said the judge, who seemed somewhat pertinacious in his own opinions. "It is needful that this should be sifted to the bottom. Such acts are becoming too common."
As he spoke, he rose and took his leave, bidding the artisan follow him; and Jean Charost remained alone in the presence of the Duke of Orleans, though two or three servants and armed men passed and repassed from time to time across the further end of the hall.
For several minutes the duke remained in thought; but at length he raised his eyes to Jean Charost's face, and gazed at him for a few moments with an absent air. Then rising, he beckoned him to follow, saying, "Come with me. There is a weight in this air; it is heavy with sorrow."
Thus saying, he led the way through a small door at the end of the hall--opposite to that by which the young gentleman had entered--into a large, square, inner court of the palace, round three sides of which ran an arcade or cloister.
"Give me your arm," said the duke, as they issued forth; and, leaning somewhat heavily on his young companion, he continued to pace up and down the arcade for more than an hour, sometimes in silence--sometimes speaking a few words--asking a question--making some observation on the reply--or giving voice to the feelings of his own heart, in words which Jean Charost did not half understand.
More than once a page, a servant, or an armed officer would come and ask a question, receive the duke's answer, and retire. But in all instances the prince's reply was short, and made without pausing in his walk. It was evidently one of those moments of struggle when the mind seeks to cast off the oppression of some great and heavy grief, rousing itself again to resist, after one of all the many stunning blows which every one must encounter in this mortal career. And it is wonderful how various is the degree of elasticity--the power of action--shown by the spirits of different men in the same circumstances. The weak and puny, the tender and the gentle fall, crushed, as it were, probably never to recover, or crawl away from a battle-field, for which they are not fitted, to seek in solitude an escape from the combat of life. The stern and hardy warrior, accustomed to endure and to resist, may be cast down for a moment by the shock, but starts on his feet again, ready to do battle the next instant; and the light and elastic leaps up with the very recoil of the fall, and mingles in the melee again, as if sporting with the ills of the world. In the character of the Duke of Orleans there was something of both the latter classes of mind. From his very infancy he had been called upon to deal with the hard things of life. Strife, evil, sorrow, care, danger, had been round his cradle, and his youth and his manhood had been passed in contests often provoked by himself, often forced upon him by others.
It was evident that, in the present case, the prince had suffered deeply, and we have seen that he yielded, more than perhaps he had ever done before, to the weight of his sorrow. But he was now making a great effort to cast off the impression, and to turn his mind to new themes, as a relief from the bitterness of memory. He was in some degree successful, although his thoughts would wander back, from time to time, to the painful topic from which he sought to withdraw them; but every moment he recovered himself more and more. At first, his conversation with Jean Charost consisted principally of questions, the replies to which were hardly heard or noticed; but gradually he began to show a greater interest in the subject spoken of, questioned the young man much, both in regard to Jacques Cœur and to his own fate and history, and though he mused from time to time over the replies, yet he soon returned to the main subject again, and seemed pleased and well satisfied with the answers he received.
Indeed, the circumstances attending both the first introduction and second interview of Jean Charost with the duke were of themselves fortunate. He became associated, as it were, in the prince's mind with moments sanctified by sorrow, and filled with deep emotion. A link of sympathy seemed to be established between them, which nothing else could have produced, and the calm, graceful, thoughtful tone of the young man's mind harmonized so well with the temporary feelings of the prince, that, in the hour which followed, he had made more progress in his regard than a gayer, a lighter, a more brilliant spirit could have done in double the time.
Still, nothing had been said of the position which Jean Charost was to occupy in the prince's household, when a man bearing a long white wand entered, and informed the duke that the Duke de Berri was coming that way to visit him. Orleans turned, and advanced a few steps toward a door leading from the court into the interior of the building, as if to meet his noble relation. But before he was half down the arcade, the Duke de Berri was marshaled in, with some state, by the prince's officers.
"Leave us," said the Duke of Orleans, speaking to the attendants, as soon as he had embraced his relation; and Jean Charost, receiving the command as general, was about to follow. But the prince stopped him, beckoning him up, and presented him to the Duke de Berri, saying, "This is my young secretary, noble uncle; given to me by my good friend Jacques Cœur. I have much to say to you; some part of which it may be necessary to reduce to writing. We had better, therefore, keep him near us."
The Duke de Berri merely bowed his head, gazing at Jean Charost thoughtfully; and the prince added, "But the air is shrewd and keen, even here, notwithstanding the sunshine. Let us go into the octagon chamber. No, not there, it overlooks that dreadful room. This way, my uncle."
CHAPTER VII.
"This is beautiful writing," said the Duke of Orleans, laying one hand upon Jean Charost's shoulder, and leaning over him as he added the few last words to a proposal of accommodation between the prince and the Duke of Burgundy. "Can the hand that guides a pen so well wield a sword and couch a lance?"
"It may be somewhat out of practice, sir," replied Jean Charost, "for months have passed since it tried either; but, while my father lived, it was my pastime, and he said I should make a soldier."
"He was a good one himself, and a good judge," replied the duke. "But we will try you, Jean--we will try you. Now give me the pen. I can write my name, at least, which is more than some great men can do."
Jean Charost rose, and the duke, seating himself, signed his name in a good bold hand,