"Nay, sir," answered Jean Charost, "it is I that am altogether in yours; I do not mean alone for kindness, but even in mere money. I have received more from you, I believe, than you promised to give me."
"More than the mere stipend, Jean," replied Jacques Cœur; "but not more than what was implied. I promised your mother, excellent lady, God bless her, that I would give you a hundred crowns of the sun by the year, and, moreover, whatever I found your assistance was worth to me besides. I deal with it merely as a matter of account, Jean; and I find that by the transactions with Genoa, partly carried on by yourself in the last year, I have made a profit of sixteen per cent, on invested money; on the business of Amalfi, transacted altogether by yourself nineteen per cent.; on other business of a similar kind, with which I and my ordinary clerks have had to do alone, an average of fifteen per cent. Thus, in all affairs that you have dealt with, there has been a gain over ordinary gains of somewhere between three and four per cent. Now this surplus is to be divided between you and me, according to my view of the case. I have looked into it closely, to do justice to both, and I find that, as the transactions of this year have been somewhat large, I am a debtor to you a sum of two thousand seven hundred and forty-three crowns, two livres Parisis, and one denier. There is a note of the account; I think you will find it correct."
Poor Jean Charost was astonished and overcome. The small patrimony of his father--just sufficient to maintain a man of gentle blood within that narrow limit thronged with petty cares, usually called moderate competence--a sort of myth, embellished by the poets--a kind of economical Arcadia, in which that perfect happiness represented, is as often found as the Arcadian shepherds and shepherdesses in plum-colored velvet coats and pink ribbons are found in the real pastoral--this small estate, I say, had been hypothecated to the amount of three thousand crowns, to enable his father to serve and die for his sovereign on the battle-field; and the great first object of Jean Charost's ambition had been to enable his poor mother to pay off a debt which, with its interest, was eating into the core of the estate. Hitherto the prospect of success had seemed far, far away; he had thought he could see it in the distance; but he had doubted, and feared, and the long journey to travel had seemed to dim even the sunrise of hope. But now the case was reversed; the prospect seemed near, the object well-nigh attained, and for an instant or two he could hardly believe his ears.
"Oh, sir," he exclaimed, after some murmured thanks, "take it to my mother--take it all to my mother. It will make her heart leap for joy. I shall want no money where I am going."
Jacques Cœur gazed at him with the faint, rueful smile of age listening to inexperience. "You will need more than you know, my good youth," he answered. "Courts are very different places from merchant's houses; and if great openings are there found, there are openings of the purse likewise. But I know your object, my dear boy. It is a worthy one, and you can gratify it to a certain extent, while you yet retain the means of appearing as you should in the household of the Duke of Orleans. I will take two thousand crowns to your mother. Then only a thousand will remain to be paid upon the mortgage, which I will discharge; and you shall repay me when your economy and your success, in both of which I have great confidence, shall make it light for you to do so."
Such was the kindly plan proposed by the merchant, and Jean Charost acceded joyfully. It must not be denied that to be in possession of seven hundred crowns seemed, in his young and untaught eyes, to put him among the wealthy of the land. It must not be denied, either, that the thought rose up of many things he wanted, of which he had never much felt the want before. Among the rest, a horse seemed perfectly indispensable but the kindness of Jacques Cœur had beforehand deprived him of all excuse for this not unreasonable expense. He found that a fine horse, taken in payment of a debt from Spain, with bridle and housings all complete, had been destined for his use by the great merchant; and certainly well mounted, and, as he thought, well equipped with all things, Jean Charost set out for the Hôtel d'Orleans, at about half past eight o'clock, carrying a message from Jacques Cœur to the duke, to account for and excuse the sudden departure of the merchant.
CHAPTER V.
To retrace one's steps is always difficult; and it may be as well, whenever the urgency of action will permit it, in life, as in a tale that is told, to pause a little upon the present, and not to hurry on too rapidly to the future, lest the stern Irrevocable follow us too closely. I know nothing more difficult, or more necessary to impress upon the mind of youth, than the great and important fact, that every thing, once done, is irrevocable; that Fate sets its seal upon the deed and upon the word; that it is a bond to good or evil; that though sometimes we may alter the conditions in a degree, the weightier obligations of that bond can never be changed; that there is something recorded in the great Book against us, a balance for, or adverse to us, which speeds us lightly onward, or hampers all our after efforts.
No, no. There is no going back. As in the fairy tale, the forest closes up behind us as we pass through, and in the great adventure of life our only way is forward.
Life, in some of its phases, should always be the model of a book, and to avoid the necessity of even trying to go far back, it may be as well to pause here, and tell some events which had occurred even within the space of time which our tale has already occupied.
In a chamber, furnished with fantastic splendor, and in a house not far from the palace of the Duke of Orleans, stood a richly-decorated bed. It was none of those scanty, parsimonious, modern contrivances, in which space to turn seems grudged to the unhappy inmate, but a large, stately, elaborate structure, almost a room in itself. The four posts, at the four corners, were carved, and gilt, and ornamented with ivory and gold. Groups of cupids, or cherubim, I know not well which, supported the pillars, treading gayly upon flowers; and, as people were not very considerate of harmony in those days, the sculptor of this bed, for so I suppose we must call him, had added Corinthian capitals to the posts, and crowned the acanthus of dark wood with large plumes of real ostrich feathers. Round the valance, and on many parts of the draperies, which were of a light crimson velvet, appeared numerous inscriptions, embroidered in gold. Some were lines from poets of the day, or old romances of the Langue d'oc, or Langue d'oil, while, strange to say, others were verses from the Psalms of David.
On this bed lay a lady sweetly asleep, beautiful but pale, and bearing traces of recent illness on her face; and beside her lay a babe which seemed ten days or a fortnight old, swathed up according to the abominable custom of the day, in what was then called en mailotin. A lamp was on a table near, a vacant chair by the bedside, from which a heedless nurse had just escaped to take a little recreation during her lady's slumbers. All was still and silent in the room and throughout the house. The long and narrow corridors were vacant; the lower hall was far off. The silver bell, which was placed nigh at hand, might have rang long and loud without calling any one to that bedside; but the nurse trusted to the first calm slumber of the night, and doubtless promised herself that her absence would not be long. It proved long enough--somewhat too long, however.
The door opened almost without a sound, and a tall, gray figure entered, which could hardly have been seen from the bed, in the twilight obscurity of that side of the room, even had any eyes been open there. It advanced stealthily to the side of the bed, with the right hand hidden in the breast; but there, for a moment, whatever was the intent, the figure paused, and the eyes gazed down upon the sleeping woman and the babe by her side. Oh, what changes of expression came, driven like storm-clouds, over that countenance, by some tempest of passions within, and what a contrast did the man's face present to that of the sleeping girl. It might be that the wronger and the wronged were there in presence, and that calm, peaceful sleep reigned quietly, where remorse, and anguish, and repentance should have held their sway; while agony, and rage, and revenge were busy in the heart which had done no evil.
Whether it was doubt, or hesitation, or a feeling of pity which produced the pause, I can not tell; but whatever was the man's purpose--and it could hardly be good--he stopped, and gazed for more than one minute ere he made the intent a deed. At length, however, he withdrew the right hand from his bosom, and something gleamed in the lamp-light.
It is strange: the lady moved a little in her sleep, as if the gleam of the iron had made itself felt, and she murmured a name.