CHAPTER L.
Flitting like shadows in a mist, came many a great event in the history of France about that time, hardly known or appreciated by any except those who were the immediate actors in them; but amid them all, with a heavy heart, and a dejected spirit, Jean Charost remained in exile at Briare. Why he had chosen that small town for the place of his retreat, he himself hardly knew; for although no human action is probably without its motive, some motives are so quick and lightning-like, that all traces of them are instantly lost even in the cloud from which they issue. It might be that he had been thinking deeply of the words of Juvenel de Royans, from the second night of the siege of Bourges till the moment when his sentence of banishment from the court was spoken, and that he had fully made up his mind to go thither sooner or later to converse with the Abbot Lomelini. No other inducement, indeed, could be imagined; for Briare was then, as now, a very dull small place, with its single street, and hardly defensible walls, and nothing to recommend it but the smiling banks of the Loire, and the fine old abbey at the highest point of the whole town. Dull enough it was, in truth, to Jean Charost, without one object of interest, one source of occupation. Filial love, too, had deprived him of the consolation of his mother's company. The journey from De Brecy to Briare he thought was too long, the difficulties and dangers in the way too numerous for her to encounter them without risk to her health or to her life, and he had persuaded her to remain, and keep the management of his estates in her own hands. Thus, with a few servants, he remained at the principal inn of the place, poorly lodged, and poorly fed, but heeding little the convenience or inconvenience of the body in the dull, heavy anguish of the heart. His spirit fretted sore within him; but yet he did not venture to resist the sentence of the king, unjust as it might be. It was a strange state that France was in at that period. Nobles would actually take arms against the royal authority at one moment, and submit to the most arbitrary decrees the next; and not only did De Brecy remain at Briare in obedience to the king's command, but Richmond, with all his impetuous spirit, lingered on at Parthenay for months.
For some days after his arrival at his place of exile, occupied with other thoughts, Jean Charost forgot Lomelini entirely; and when he did remember him, and recalled the words which De Royans had spoken, he asked himself, "Why should I seek for information which may probably confirm the king's claim to the disposal of her I love?"
Man's mind, however, abhors uncertainty. That thirst for knowledge which was kindled in Paradise is upon us still. We would rather know evil than know not. On the fourth day, toward eventide, he set out and walked up to the abbey, and paused in the gray light, looking at the gray gates. One of the brethren, gazing forth, asked him if he would come in and see the church, and then De Brecy inquired for the abbot, and if he were still brother Lomelini.
The monk replied in the affirmative, but said the abbot seldom received any one after sunset, unless he came on business of importance, or was an old friend.
"I am an old friend," replied Jean Charost. "Tell him Monsieur De Brecy is here. I will wait till you return."
He was speedily admitted, and Lomelini seemed really glad to see him. He had become an old man, indeed, with hair as white as silver, had grown somewhat bowed and corpulent, and was slightly querulous withal. He complained of many things--of man's ingratitude--the dullness of the place of his abode--the forgetfulness of friends--the perils of the land, and all those things easily borne by the robust spirit of youth, which age magnifies into intolerable burdens. Still, he seemed gratified with Jean Charost's visit, and besought him to stay and take a homely supper with him--poor monastic fare. But during the course of the evening, and the meal with which it concluded, the young nobleman found that his old acquaintance had lost none of that quiet subtlety which had distinguished him in other days, and that his taste for good things was in no degree diminished. It had increased, indeed. Like an old dog, eating had become his only pleasure. He had become both a glutton and an epicure.
Before he took his departure, the young nobleman asked openly and boldly for the papers which De Royans had mentioned. Lomelini looked surprised and bewildered, and assured him that Monsieur de Royans had made a mistake. "I recollect nothing about them whatever," he said, with an air of so much sincerity, that Jean Charost, though he had acquired a keener insight into character than in former times, did not even doubt him.
He went back from lime to time to see the old man, who always seemed glad of his society, and, indeed, Jean Charost could not doubt that company of any kind was a relief to one who was certainly not formed by nature to pass his days in a monastery. He remarked, however, that Lomelini from time to time would look at him from under his shaggy white eyebrows with a look of cunning inquiry, as if he expected something, or sought to discover something; but the moment their eyes met, the abbot's were averted again, and he never uttered a word which could give any clue to what was passing in his mind at such moments.
Thus had time passed away, not altogether without relief; a few hasty lines, sometimes from his mother, sometimes from Agnes Sorel, sometimes from his own Agnes, gave him information of the welfare of the latter, and cheered his spirits for a day. But often would the momentary sunshine be clouded by dark anxieties and fears.
He had not heard any thing for some weeks; and after a long ride through the neighboring country, he was about to retire to rest, when steps came rapidly through the long gallery of the inn, and stopped at his chamber door. It was a young monk come to tell him that the abbot, after supper, had been seized with sudden and perilous sickness, and earnestly desired to see him instantly. Jean Charost hurried up with the messenger to the abbey, and being brought into the old man's chamber, instantly perceived that the hand of death had touched him: the eyes spoke it, the temples spoke it, it was written in every line.
Lomelini welcomed him faintly; and as Jean Charost bent kindly over him, he said, almost in a whisper, "Bid all the others leave the room--I have something to say to you."
As soon as they were alone together, the old man said, "Put your hand beneath my pillow. You will find something there."
Jean Charost obeyed, and drew forth a packet, yellow and soiled. His own name was written on it in a hand which he recognized at once.
"Something more--something more," said Lomelini; and searching again, he found another packet, also addressed to himself; but the seals of this had been broken, though those on the other cover had been left undisturbed. Without ceremony he unfolded the paper, and found within a case of sandal wood inlaid with gold, and bearing the letters M. S. F. twisted into a curious monograph. It opened with two small clasps, and within were two rows of large and brilliant diamonds.
De Brecy's examination had been quick and eager, and while he made it, the dying man's eyes had been fixed upon his countenance. As he closed the case, Lomelini raised his voice, saying, "Listen, Seigneur De Brecy."
Jean Charost put up the packets, and sat down by the old man's side. He could not find it in his heart at that moment to speak harshly, although he now easily divined why the packets had been kept from him, so long.
"What is it, father?" he said, bending his head.
"What, not an angry word?" asked Lomelini.
"Not one," replied Jean Charost. "I have too many sorrows of my own, father, to add to yours just now."
"Well, then, I will tell you all," said Lomelini. "You think I kept these packets on account of the diamonds. That had something to do with it; but there was more. After you entered the Orleans palace you were trusted more than me. I had been the keeper of all secrets; you became so. The duke's daughter was put under your charge, notwithstanding your youth; and I resolved you should never be able to prove her his daughter."
"I knew not that she was so," replied Jean Charost. "The duke himself knew it not."
"Nay, nay, do not lie," said Lomelini, somewhat bitterly. "I watched you--I watched you both well--I followed you to the convent of the Celestins, where the murderer had taken sanctuary; and I know the child was made over to you then, though you pretended to find it in the forest."
"On my Christian faith, and honor as a knight," replied De Brecy, "I heard nothing either of murderer or child at the convent of the Celestins. The dear babe was; given to me in the forest by a tall, strange, wild-looking man, who seemed to me half crazed."
"St. Florent himself," murmured Lomelini.
"I call Heaven to witness," continued Jean Charost, "I never even suspected any connection between the duke and that child till long after--I am not sure of it even yet."
"Be sure, then," said Lomelini, faintly. "The duke took her mother from that mother's husband--carried her off by force one night as she returned from a great fête, with those very diamonds on her neck."
"By force!" murmured De Brecy; and then from a feeling difficult to define, he added, "thank God for that!"
"For what?" said Lomelini. "Doubtless she went willingly enough. Women will scream and declare they are made miserable for life, and all that. At all events, she stayed when she was there, and that was her daughter; for I knew the child again as soon as I saw it at the cottage, by a mark upon her temple; and the old father died of grief, and the mad husband stole in one night and stabbed his wife, and carried away the child; and that is all."
He seemed to ramble, and a slight convulsion passed over his face. "I know the whole," he added, "for I had a share in the whole," and a deep groan followed.
"Let me call in a priest," said De Brecy. "You have need of the consolations of the Church."
"Ay, ay; call in a priest," answered Lomelini, partly raising himself on his arm. "I would not have my corpse kicked about the streets like the carcass of a dog; but do not suppose I believe in any priestly tales, young man. When life goes out, all is ended. I have enjoyed this life. I want no other; I expect no other--I--I fear no other--surely there is no other. Well, call in a priest--haste, or you will be too late--is this faintness--is this death?"
Jean Charost sprang to the door, near which he found several of the monks. The penitentiary was called for in haste. But he was, as Lomelini had said, too late. They found the abbot passed away, the chin had dropped, the wide open eyes seemed to gaze at nothing, and yet to have nothing within them. Something had departed which man vainly tries to define by words, or to convey by figures. A spirit had gone to learn the emptiness of the dreams of earth.
With a slow step, and deep gloom upon his mind, Jean Charost turned back to his dwelling. As he went, his thoughts were much occupied with the dark, sad, material doctrines--philosophy I can not call them--creed I can not call them--which at that time were but too common among Italian ecclesiastics. When he was once more in his own chamber, however, he took forth the packets he had received from Lomelini, and opened the cover of the one which had the seals unbroken. It contained a letter from the Duke of Orleans, brief and sad, speaking of the child which De Brecy had adopted, of her mother, and of the jewels contained in the other packet. The duke acknowledged her as his child, saying, "I recognized her at once by the ring which you showed me, as the daughter of her whom I wronged and have lost. It was taken at the same time that my poor Marie's life was taken; for, as you doubtless know, she was murdered under my very roof--yes, I say murdered. Had the dagger found my heart instead of hers, another word, perhaps, would have been better fitted; for mine was a wrong which merited death. I wronged her; I wronged her murderer."
He then went on to urge Jean Charost to perform well the task which he had undertaken, and which he had certainly well performed without exhortation; and the duke ended by saying, "I have seen you so far tried, Monsieur De Brecy, that I can trust you entirely. I know that you will be faithful to the task; and, as far as I have power to give authority over my child, I hereby give it to you."
Those were joyful words to Jean Charost, and for a moment he gave way to wild and daring hopes. He thought he would claim that right, even against the king himself; but short consideration, and what he knew of the law of France, soon dimmed all expectation of success.
The other papers which the packet contained were merely letters in a woman's hand, signed Marie de St. Florent; but they were pleasant to Jean Charost's eyes, for they showed how the unhappy girl had struggled against her evil fate. In more than one of them, she besought the duke to let her go--to place her in a convent, where, unknown to all the world, she might pass the rest of life in penitence and prayer. They spoke a spirit bowed down, but a heart uncorrupted.
Several hours passed; not so much in the examination of these papers, as in the indulgence of thoughts which they suggested; and it was midway between midnight and morning when Jean Charost at length lay down upon his bed.