"In pleasure?" asked the Duke de Berri, with a faint smile.
A cloud came instantly over the face of the Duke of Orleans. "Nay, not so," he replied, in a tone of deep melancholy. "Pleasure is past, good uncle. I would have said--and pass the rest of my days in thought, in sorrow, and perhaps in penitence."
"Would that it might be so," rejoined the old man; and he shook his head with a sigh and a doubtful look.
"You know not what has happened here," said the Duke of Orleans, laying his hand gloomily upon his relation's arm. "An event fearful enough to awaken any spirit not plunged in utter apathy. I can not tell you. I dare not remember it. But you will soon hear. Let us go forth;" and, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he walked slowly out of the room, accompanied by the Duke de Berri, without taking any further notice of Jean Charost, who followed, a step or two behind, to the outer court, where the horses and attendants of both the princes were waiting for them.
Some word, some indication of what he was to do, of what was expected from him, or how he was to proceed, Jean Charost certainly did look for. But none was given. Wrapped in dark and sorrowful meditations, the duke mounted and rode slowly away, without seeming to perceive even the groom who held his stirrup, and the young man remained in the court, a complete stranger among a crowd of youths and men, each of whom knew his place and had his occupation. His heart had not been lightened; his mind had not been cheered by all the events of the morning; and the gloomy, mysterious hints which he had heard of a dark and terrible crime having been committed within those walls, brooded with a shadowy horror over the scene. But those who surrounded him seemed not in the least to share such sensations. Death tenanted a chamber hard by; the darkened windows of the house that flanked the garden could be seen from the spot where they stood, and yet there appeared no heavy heart among them. No one mourned, no one looked sad. One elderly man turned away whistling, and re-entered the palace. Two squires, in the prime of life, began to spar and wrestle with rude jocularity, the moment their lord's back was turned; and many a monkey-trick was played by the young pages, while three or four lads, some older, some younger than Jean Charost himself, stood laughing and talking at one side of the court, with their eyes fixed upon him.
He felt his situation growing exceedingly unpleasant, and, after some consideration, he made up his mind to turn back again into the house, and ask to see the master of the pages, to whom he had been first directed; but, just as he was about to put this purpose in execution, a tall, gayly-dressed young man, with budding mustache, and sword and dagger by his side, came from the little group I have mentioned, and bowed low to the young stranger, with a gay but supercilious air. "May I inquire," he said, using somewhat antiquated phrases, and all the grimace of courtesy, "May I inquire, Beau Sire, who the Beau Sire may be, and what may be his business here?"
Jean Charost was not apt to take offense; and though the tone and manner were insolent, and his feelings but little in harmony with a joke, he replied, quietly enough, "My name is Jean Charost de Brecy, and my business, sir, is certainly not with you."
"How can the Beau Sire tell that?" demanded the other, while two or three more from the same youthful group gathered round, "seeing that he knows not my name. But on that score I will enlighten him. My name is Juvenel de Royans."
"Then, Monsieur Juvenel de Royans," replied the young man, growing a little angry, "I will in turn inform you how I know that my business is not with you. It is simply because it lies with his highness, the Duke of Orleans, and no one else."
"Oh, ho!" cried the young man, "we have a grand personage to deal with, who will not take up with pages and valets, I warrant; a chanticleer of the first crow! Sir, if you are not a cock of the lower court, perhaps it might be as well for you to vacate the premises."
"I really don't know what you mean, good youth," answered Jean Charost. "You seem to wish to insult me. But I will give you no occasion. You shall make one, if you want one; and I have only simply to warn you that his highness last night engaged me in his service."
"As what? as what?" cried a dozen voices round him.
Jean Charost hesitated; and Juvenel de Royans, seeing that he had gained some advantage, though he knew not well what, exclaimed, in a solemn and reproving tone, "Silence, messieurs. You are all mistaken. You think that every post in this household is filled, and therefore that there is nothing vacant for this young gentleman. But there is one post vacant, for which he is, doubtless, eminently qualified, namely, the honorable office of Instructor of the Monkeys."
"The first that I am likely to begin with is yourself," answered Jean Charost, amid a shout of laughter from the rest; "and I am very likely to give you the commencing lesson speedily, if you do not move out of my way."
"I am always ready for instruction," replied the other, barring the passage to the house.
Jean Charost's hand was upon his collar in a moment; but the other was as strong as himself, and a vehement struggle was on the point of taking place, when a middle-aged man, who had been standing at the principal door of the palace, came out and thrust himself between the two youths, exclaiming, "For shame! for shame! Ah, Master Juvenel, at your old tricks again. You know they have cost you the duke's favor. Take care that they do not cost you something more."
"The young gentleman offered me some instruction," said Juvenel de Royans, in a tone of affected humility. "Surely you would not have me reject such an offer, although I know not who he is, or what may be his capability for giving it."
"He is the duke's secretary, sir," said the elder man, "and may have to give you instruction in more ways than you imagine."
"I cry his reverence, and kiss the toe of his pantoufle," said the other, nothing daunted, adding, as he looked at Jean Charost's shoes, which were cut in a somewhat more convenient fashion than the extravagant and inconvenient mode of Paris, "His cordovanier; has been somewhat penurious in regard to those same pantoufle toes, but my humility is all the greater."
"Come with me, sir; come with me, and never mind the foolish boy," said the elder gentleman, taking Jean Charost's arm, and drawing him away. "I will take you to the maître d'hôtel, who will show you your apartments. The duke will not be long absent, and if his mind have a little recovered itself, he will soon set all these affairs to rights for you."
"Perhaps there may be some mistake," said Jean Charost, hesitating a little. "I think that you are the gentleman who introduced the Duke de Berri about half an hour ago; but, although his highness gave me the name of his secretary in speaking to that duke, he has in no way intimated to me personally that I am to fill such an office, and it may be better not to assume that it is so till I hear further."
"Not so, not so," cried the gentleman, with a smile. "You do not know the duke yet. He is a man of a single word: frank, and honest in all his dealings. What he says, he means. He may do more, but never less; and it were to offend him to doubt any thing he has said. He called you his secretary in your presence; I heard him, and you are just as much his secretary as if you had a patent for the place. Besides, shortly after Maître Jacques Cœur left him yesterday evening--the first time, when he was here alone, I mean--he gave orders concerning you. I am merely a poor écuyer de la main, but tolerably well with his highness. The maître d'hôtel, however, knows all about it."
By this time they had reached the vestibule of the palace, and Jean Charost was conducted by his new friend through a number of turning and winding passages, which showed him that the house was much larger than he had at first believed, to a large room, where they found an old man in a lay habit of black, but with the crown of his head shaved, immersed in an ocean of bundles of papers, tied up with pack-thread.
"This is the young