While the young man, jumping from the saddle, held the horses tight by the bridle, the driver and half a dozen attendants hurried up and assisted the prince to alight. Their faces were now pale and anxious enough; but the countenance of the duke himself was as calm and tranquil as if he had encountered no danger. Lomelini and the jester were soon upon the spot; and the latter thought fit to remark, with a sagacious air, that haste spoiled speed. "Your highness went too fast," he said; "and this young gentleman went faster still. You were likely to be at the bottom of the hill of Juvisy before you desired it, and he had nearly sent you thither sooner still in trying to stop you."
"You are mistaken, Seigneur André," said the duke, gravely. "The horse fell before he touched it; and even had it not been so, I would always rather see too much zeal than too little. He came in time, however, to prevent the litter going over."
Two of the squires instantly led forward horses for the prince to ride, as the litter, in its damaged state, was no longer serviceable. But the duke replied, "No, I will walk. Give me your arm, De Brecy; it is but a step now."
The little accident which had occurred undoubtedly served to confirm Jean Charost in the favor of the Duke of Orleans; but, at the same time, it made him a host of enemies. The tenants of a wasp's nest are probably not half as malicious as the household of a great man. The words of the jester had given them their cue, and the report ran through all the little cavalcade that Jean Charost had thrown the horse down in attempting to stop it.
CHAPTER XII.
There are periods in the life of every man daring which accidents, misadventures, annoyances even, if they be not of too great magnitude, are of service to him. When, from within or from without, some dark vapor has risen up, clouding the sunlight, and casting the soul into darkness--when remorse, or despair, or bitter disappointment, or satiety, or the dark pall of grief, has overshadowed all things, and left us in a sort of twilight, where we see every surrounding object in gloom, we bless the gale, even though it be violent, that arises to sweep the tempest-cloud from our sky. Still greater is the relief when any thing of a gentler and happier kind comes along with the breeze that dispels the mists and darkness, like a sun-gleam through a storm; and the little accident which had occurred, and the escape from danger, did a great deal to rouse the Duke of Orleans from a sort of apathetic heaviness which had hung upon him for the last two or three days.
Dinner had been prepared for him at the great inn at Juvisy; but, with one of those whims in which high and mighty princes indulged frequently in those days, he paused before the gates of the old abbey, on the left hand side of the road, saying, in a low tone, to Jean Charost, but with a gay smile, "We will go in and dine with the good fathers. They are somewhat famous for their cheer, and it must be about the dinner hour."
The little crowd of attendants had followed; slowly behind their princely master, leaving the distance of a few paces between him and them, for reverence' sake; and he now beckoned up Lomelini, and told him to go forward and let the household dine, adding, "We will dine at the abbey."
"How many shall remain with your highness?" asked Lomelini, with a profound bow.
"None, signor," replied the duke; "none but Monsieur De Brecy. Go on--I would be incognito;" and turning up the path, he struck the bell at the gates with the iron hammer that hung beside it.
"Now, De Brecy," he said, in a light and careless tone, very different from any his young companion had ever heard him use before, "here we forget our names and dignities. I am Louis Valois, and you Jean Charost, and there are no titles of honor between us. Some of the good friars may have seen me, and perhaps know me; but they will take the hint, and forget all about me till I am gone. I would fain see them without their frocks for awhile. It will serve to divert my thoughts from sadder things."
With a slow and faltering step, and mumbling something, apparently not very pleasant, as he came, an old monk walked down to the grille; or iron gate of the convent, with the keys in his hand indeed, but an evident determination not to use them, except in case of necessity. Seeing two strangers standing at the gate, he first spoke with them through the bars, and it required some persuasion to induce him to open and let them pass, although, to say sooth, the duke's announcement that he came to ask the hospitality of the refectory, was spoken more as a command than a petition, notwithstanding the air of easy familiarity which he sought to give it.
"Well, well; come in," he said, at length; "I have nothing to do with it, but to open and shut the door. The people within will tell you whether you can eat with them or not. They eat enough themselves, God wot, and drink too; but they are not over-fond of sharing with those they don't know, except through the buttery hole or the east wicket; and there it is only what they can't eat themselves. Ay, we had different times of it when Abbot Jerome was alive."
Before the long fit of grumbling was at an end, the Duke of Orleans and his young companion were at the inner door of the building; and a little bell, ringing from a distant corner, gave notice that the mid-day meal of the monks was about to begin.
"Come along--come along, Jean," said the duke, seeming to participate in the eagerness with which several monks were hurrying along in one direction; "they say the end of a feast is better than the beginning of a fray; but, to say truth, the beginning is the best part of either."
On they went; no one stopped them--no one said a word to them. The impulse of a very voracious appetite was upon the great body of the monks, and deprived them of all inclination to question the strangers, till they were actually at the door of the refectory, where a burly, barefooted fellow barred the way, and demanded what they wanted. "A dinner," answered the Duke of Orleans, with a laugh. "You are hospitable friars, are you not?"
The man gazed at him for a moment without reply, but with a very curious expression of countenance, ran his eye over the duke's apparel, which, though by no means very splendid, was marked by all the peculiar fopperies of high station; then gave a glance at Jean Charost, and then replied, in a much altered tone, "We are, sir. But it so happens that to-day my lord abbot has visitors who dine here. Doubtless he will not refuse you hospitality, if you let him know who it is demands it. He has with him Monsieur and Madame Giac, and their train, high persons at the court of Burgundy. Who shall I say are here?"
"Two poor simple gentlemen in need of a dinner," replied the duke, in a careless tone--"Louis Valois and Jean Charost by name. But make haste, good brother, or the pottage will be cold."
The man retired into the refectory, the door of which was continually opening and shutting as the monks passed in; and Jean Charost, who stood a little to the right of the duke, could see the monk hurry forward toward a gay party already seated at the head of one of the long tables, with the abbot in the midst.
He returned in a few seconds with another monk, and ushered the duke and his young companion straight up to the table of the abbot, an elderly man of jovial aspect, who seemed a little confused and embarrassed. He rose, sat down again, rose, once more, and advanced a step or two.
The Duke of Orleans met him half way with a meaning smile, and a few words passed in a low tone, the import of which Jean Charost did not hear. The duke, however, immediately after, moved to a vacant seat some way down the table, and beckoned Jean Charost to take a place beside him. The young secretary obeyed, and had a full opportunity, before a somewhat long grace was ended, of scanning the faces of the guests who sat above him.
On the abbot's right hand was a gentleman of some forty years of age, gayly dressed, but of a countenance by no means prepossessing, cold, calculating, yet harsh; and next to him was placed a young girl of some thirteen or fourteen years of age, not at that time particularly remarkable for her beauty, but yet with an expression of countenance which, once seen, was not easily to be forgotten. That expression is difficult to be described, but it possessed that which, as far as we can judge from very poor and not very