Jean Charost thought the dinner very dull indeed, and wondered, with a feeling of some apprehension, if his meals were always to be taken in such solemn assembly. Peals of laughter, too, which he heard from a hall not far off, gave the gravity of the proceedings all the effect of contrast. But the young gentleman soon found that when that serious passion, hunger, was somewhat appeased, his companions could unbend a little. With the second course, a few quiet jokes began to fly about, staid and formal enough, indeed; but the gravity of the party was soon restored by Monsieur Blaize starting a subject of importance, in which Jean Charost was deeply interested. He announced to the maître d'hôtel that their young companion, not knowing the customs of the duke's household, had brought no servant with him, and it was agreed upon all hands that this was a defect to be remedied immediately.
Jean was a little puzzled, and a little alarmed at the idea of expense about to be incurred; for his education had been one of forced economy, and the thought of entertaining a servant for his own especial needs had never entered into his mind. He could only protest, however, in a subdued and somewhat anxious tone, that he knew not where or how to procure a person suitable; but, on that score, immediate assistance was offered him by the maître d'hôtel himself.
"I have more than a hundred and fifty names on my books," he said, "of lads all eager to be entered upon the duke's household in any capacity. I will look through the list by-and-by."
But, without giving him time to do so, every one of the gentlemen at the table hastened to mention some one whom he would be glad to recommend, leading Jean Charost to say to himself, "If the post of lackey to the duke's secretary be so desirable, how desirable must be the post of secretary itself!"
The discussion continued during the whole of the second course, each having a good deal to say in favor of his nominee, and each a jest to launch at the person recommended by any other.
"There is Pierre Crouton," said one elderly gentleman. "He was born upon my estate, near Charenton, and a brisker, more active lad never lived. He has had good instruction, too, and knows every corner of Paris from the Bastile to the Tour de Nesle."
"Well acquainted with the little Châtelet, likewise," said Monsieur Blaize. "I have heard that the jailer's great dogs will not even bark at him. But there is Matthew Borne, the son of old James Borne, who died in the duke's service long ago."
"Ay," said another, "poor James, when he was old, and battered to pieces, married the pretty young grisette, and this was her son. It's a wise son that knows his own father. Pray, what has become of her, Monsieur Blaize? You should know, if any one does."
"I know nothing about her," said the écuyer, somewhat sharply. "Her son came to me, asking a recommendation. I have given him that, and that's all I know."
"Trust to me, trust to me, my young friend," said the maître d'hôtel, in a whisper, to Jean Charost. "I will find the lad to suit you before nightfall. Come to me in half an hour, and you shall have a choice."
Jean Charost promised to follow his counsels, and soon after the little party broke up.
Strange is the sensation with which a young man encounters the first half hour of solitary thought in a new situation. Have you forgotten it, dear reader? Yes--perhaps entirely; and yet you must have experienced it at some time. When you first went to join your regiment; when, after all the bustle, and activity, and embarrassment, and a little sheepishness, and a little pride, and a little awkwardness perhaps, and perhaps all the casualties of the first mess dinner, you sat down in your barrack-room, not so much to review the events of the day, as to let the mind settle, and order issue out of chaos: you have felt it then. Or, when you have joined a squad of lawyer's clerks, or entered a merchant's counting-house, or plunged into a strange city, or entered a new university, and passed through all the initiations, and sat down in the lull of the evening or the dead of night, to find yourself alone--separate not only from familiar faces, and things associated with early associations, but from habitual thoughts and sensations, from family customs and domestic habits: you must have felt it then, and experienced a solitude such as a desert itself can hardly give.
Seated in his writing-room, without turning a thought or a look to his baggage, which had been placed at the door for himself to draw in, Jean Charost gave himself up to thought--I believe I might better say to sensation. He felt his loneliness, more than thought of it, and Memory, with one of those strange vagaries, in which she delights as much as Fancy, skipped at once over a period of fourteen or fifteen months, and carried him back at once to the small château of Brecy, and to the frugal table in his mother's hall. The quaint, long windows, with one pointed arch within another, and two or three pale yellow warriors of stained glass, transmitting the discolored rays upon the floor. The high-backed chair, never used since his father's death, standing against the wall, with a knob in the centre, resting against the iron chausses of an antiquated suit of armor, the plain oaken board in the middle of the room, and his mother and the two maids spinning in the sunniest nook, came up before his eyes almost as plainly as they had appeared the year and a half before. He heard the hound howling in the court-yard, and the song of the milk-maid bringing home the pail upon her head, and the song of the bird, which used to sit in March mornings on the topmost bough of an ash-tree, which had rooted itself on an inner tower, somewhat neglected and dilapidated. For a moment or two he was at home again. His paternal dwelling-place formed a little picture apart in his room in the Parisian palace, and the cheerful sunshine, pouring from early associations, formed a strange and striking contrast with the sort of dark isolation which he felt around him.
The contrast, perhaps, might have been as great if he had compared the present with days more recently passed; for in the house of Jacques Cœur he had been, from the first, at home; but still his mind did not rest upon it. It reverted to those earlier days; and he sat gazing on the floor, and wishing himself--notwithstanding the eagerness of youthful hope, the buoyancy of youthful spirits, the impetuosity of youthful desires--wishing himself once more in the calm and happy bosom of domestic life, and away from splendid scenes devoid of all warm and genial feelings, where gold and jewels might glitter and shine, but where every thing was cold as the metal, and hard as the stone.
It was a boy's fancy. It was the fancy of an hour. He knew that the strangeness would soon pass away. Young as he was, he was aware that the spirit, spider-like, speedily spins out threads to attach itself to all the objects that surround it, however different to its accustomed haunts, however strange, and new, and rough may be the points by which it is encompassed.
At length he started up, saying to himself, "Ah, ha! the half hour must be past;" and quitting the room without locking the door behind him, he threaded his way through the long passage to the office of the maître d'hôtel.
The Italian seemed to have got through the labors of the day, and seated in a large chair, with his feet in velvet slippers, extended to the fire, was yielding after the most improved method to the process of digestion. He was neither quite awake, nor quite asleep, and in that benign state of semi-somnolence which succeeds a well considered meal happily disposed of. The five or ten minutes which Jean Charost was behind his time had been favorable, by enabling him to prolong his comfortable repose, and he received the young gentleman with the utmost benevolence, seating him by him, and talking to him in a quiet, low, almost confidential tone, but not at first touching upon the subject which brought his young visitor there. On the contrary, his object in inviting him seemed to have been rather to give him a general idea of the character of those by whom he was surrounded, and of what would be expected from him by the duke himself, than to recommend him a lackey.
Of the duke he spoke in high terms, as in duty bound, but of the duchess in higher terms still; mingling his commendations, however, with expressions of compassion, which led Jean Charost to believe that her married life was not as happy as her virtue merited. The young listener, however, discovered that the good signor had accompanied the duchess from her father's court at Milan, and had a hereditary right to love and respect her.
All the principal officers of the duke's household were passed one by one in review