There was a good deal of noise and bustle in the streets of Paris, as men with flambeaux in their hands walked on before some great lord of the court, calling "Place! place!" to clear the way for their master as he passed; or as a merry party of citizens returned, laughing and jesting, from some gay meeting; or as a group of night-ramblers walked along, insulting the ear of night with cries, and often with blasphemies; or as lays and songs were trolled up from the corners of the streets by knots of persons, probably destitute of any other home, assembled round the large bonfires, lighted to give warmth to the shivering poor--for it was early in the winter of the great frost of one thousand four hundred and seven, and the miseries of the land were great. Still, the predominant sounds were those of joy and revelry; for the people of Paris were the same in those days that they are even now; and joy, festivity, and frolic, then, as in our own days, rolled and caroled along the highways, while the dust was yet wet with blood, and wretchedness, destitution, and oppression lurked unseen behind the walls. No sounds, however, seemed to disturb the lad at his task, or to withdraw his thoughts for one moment from the subject before him. Now a loud peal of laughter shook the casement; but still he wrote on. Now a cry, as if of pain, rang round the room from without, but such cries were common in those days, and he lifted not his head. And then again a plaintive song floated on the air, broken only by the striking of a clock, jarring discordantly with the mellow notes of the air; but still the pen hurried rapidly over the page, till some minutes after the hour of nine had struck, when he laid it down with a deep respiration, as if some allotted task were ended.
At length the dog which was lying at his feet lifted his head suddenly and gazed toward the door. The youth was reading over what he had written, and caught no sound to withdraw his attention; but the beast was right. There was a step--a familiar step--upon the stair-case, and the good dog rose up, and walked toward the entrance of the room, just as the door was opened, and another personage entered upon the scene.
He was a grave man, of the middle age, tall, well formed, and of a noble and commanding presence. He was dressed principally in black velvet, with a gown of that stuff, which was lined with fur, indeed, though none of that lining was shown externally. On his head he had a small velvet cap, without any feather, and his hair was somewhat sprinkled with gray, though in all probability he had not passed the age of forty.
"Well, Jean," he said, in a deliberate tone, as he entered the room with a firm and quiet tread, "how many have you done, my son?"
"All of them, sir," replied the young man. "I was just reading over this last letter to Signor Bernardo Baldi, to see that I had made no mistake."
"You never mistake, Jean," said the elder man, in a kindly tone; and then added, thoughtfully, "All? You must have written hard, and diligently."
"You told me to have them ready against you returned, sir," said the youth.
"Yes, but I have returned an hour before the time," rejoined his elder companion; and then, as the young man moved away from the chair which he occupied, in order to leave it vacant for himself, the elder drew near the table, and, still standing, glanced his eye over some six or seven letters which lay freshly written, and yet unfolded. It was evident, however, that though, by a process not uncommon, the mind might take in, and even investigate, to a certain degree, all that the eye rested upon, a large part of the thoughts were engaged with other subjects, and that deeper interests divided the attention of the reader.
"There should be a comma there," he said, pointing with his finger, and at the same time seating himself in the chair.
The young man took the letter and added the comma; but when he looked up, his companion's eyes were fixed upon the matting on the floor, and it was apparent that the letters, and all they contained, had passed away from his memory.
The dog rose from the couchant attitude in which he had placed himself, and laid his shaggy head upon the elder man's knee; and, patting him quietly, the newcomer said, in a meditative tone, "It is pleasant to have some one we can trust. Don't you think so, Jean?"
"It is indeed, sir," replied the young man; "and pleasant to be trusted."
"And yet we must sometimes part with those we most trust," continued the other. "It is sad, but sometimes it is necessary."
The young man's countenance fell a little, but he made no reply, and the other, looking toward the wide fire-place, remarked, "You have let the fire go out, Jean, and these are not days in which one can afford to be without warmth."
The young man gathered the embers together, threw on some logs of wood, and both he and his companion mused for several minutes without speaking a word. At length the youth seemed to summon sudden courage, and said, abruptly, "I hope you are not thinking of parting with me, sir. I have endeavored to the utmost to do my duty toward you well, and you have never had occasion to find fault; though perhaps your kindness may have prevented you from doing so, even when there was occasion."
"Not so, not so, my son," replied the other, warmly; "there has been no fault, and consequently no blame. Nay more, I promised you, if you fulfilled all the tasks I set you well, never to part with you but for your own advantage. The time has come, however, when it is necessary to part with you, and I must do so for your own sake."
There was a dead silence for a moment or two, and then the elder man laid his finger quietly on the narrow strip of fur that bordered his companion's dress, saying, with a slight smile, "You are of noble blood, Jean, and I am a mere bourgeois."
"I can easily strip that off, if it offends you, sir," replied the young man, giving him back his smile. "It is soon done away."
"But not the noble blood, Jean," answered his companion; "and this occupation is not fitted for you."
An air of deep and anxious grief spread over the young man's face, and he answered earnestly, "There is nothing derogatory in it, sir. To write your letters, to transact any honorable business which you may intrust to me, can not in any way degrade me, and you know right well that it was from no base or ignoble motive that I undertook the task. My mother's poverty is no stain upon our honorable blood, nor surely can her son's efforts be so to change that poverty into competence."
His companion smiled upon him kindly, saying, "Far from it, Jean; but still, if there be an opportunity of your effecting your object in a course more consonant with your birth and station, it is my duty as your friend to seize it for you. Such an opportunity now presents itself, and you must take advantage of it. It may turn out well; I trust it will; but, should the reverse be the case--for in these strange, unsettled times, those who stand the highest have most to fear a fall--if the reverse should be the case, I say, you will always find a resource in Jacques Cœur; his house, his purse, his confidence will be always open to you. Put on your chaperon, then, and come with me: for Fortune, like Time, should always be taken by the forelock. The jade is sure to kick if we get behind her."
The young man took down one of the large hoods in which it was still customary, for the bourgeoisie especially, to envelop their heads, when walking in the streets of Paris. Beneath it, however, he placed a small cap, fitting merely the crown of the head, and over the sort of tunic he wore he cast a long mantle, for the weather was very cold. When fully accoutered, he ventured to ask where Maître Cœur was going to take him; but the good merchant answered with a smile, "Never mind, my son, never mind. If we succeed as I expect, you will soon know; if not, there is no need you should. Come with me, Jean, and trust to me."
"Right willingly," replied the young man, and followed him.
The house was a large and handsome house, as things went at that time in Paris; but the stair-case was merely one of those narrow, twisting spirals which we rarely see, except in cathedrals or ruined castles, in the present times. Windows to that