CHAPTER LI.
De Brecy woke with a start just in the gray of the dawn. His thoughts were confused. He had had troublous dreams. He had fancied himself in the midst of war and strife again, and the well-known sounds, "Alerte! alerte! Aux armes! aux armes!" seemed to ring in his ears.
In an instant he had thrown on the furred gown which lay beside him, and had seized his sword; but the only sound he now heard was a sharp tap at the door, and a voice saying, "Monsieur De Brecy! Monsieur De Brecy! Pray let me in. I wish to speak to you in haste."
Jean Charost opened the door, and, to his surprise, beheld the face of his good servant, Martin Grille, who had been especially left at the court with Agnes, to attend upon and watch over her. A vague feeling of alarm instantly took possession of De Brecy's heart, and he exclaimed, ere the man could tell his errand, "How is your lady? Is she ill?"
"No, sir; not ill," replied Martin Grille; "though ill at ease, I have a notion. But I have hastened here with such speed that I believe I have left my horse no lungs, nor myself either, any more than a cracked pair of bellows, to warn you, my lord, of a danger that menaces you. So I beseech you, before you hear it, to order all your people to get upon horseback, and make ready to set out yourself, for there is no great time to lose."
"Nay, I must hear the danger first," replied Jean Charost "What is the matter, my good friend?"
"Well, tell the people to get ready, at all events," said Martin, earnestly; "then you can do as you like. Stories are sometimes long in telling, questions long in asking, and longer in being answered. It is better always, my lord, to be ready to act upon the news when it comes, than to have to wait to make ready after you have got it."
There was some truth in what he said; and Jean Charost sent by him the orders he desired, nor was he long in giving them.
"Now tell me all, while I am dressing," said his master, as soon as he had returned. "I know no cause for fearing any thing; but it is an uncertain world, good Martin, and there are unseen dangers around our every step."
"This one is plain enough," answered Martin Grille. "Nôtre Dame is not plainer. It is simply, sir, that the king has sent a certain sergeant of his, with a long troop of archers at his back, to arrest and bring you to his presence. He is now at Bourges, in the house of good Messire Jacques Cœur, which he fills tolerably well; and the distance not being very great from Bourges to Briare, you may expect our friend the sergeant every hour. It was late at night, however, when the order was given, and master sergeant vowed that he would have a nap first, king or no king. But, vowing I would have no nap, I came away at once; and so you have three good hours, and perhaps a few minutes more."
De Brecy mused, and then asked, "Do you know any motive for this order?"
"None at all," replied Martin Grille; "nor can I even guess. But I'll tell you all that happened, as I have it from one who saw all. There is one Jeanne de Vendôme about the court; they call her also Marquise De Mortaigne--"
"I have seen her," said Jean Charost. "What of her? Go on."
"Why, she has a nephew, sir, one Peter of Vendôme," replied Martin Grille, "whom she is very fond of; but he is an enemy of yours."
"I never even saw him," replied De Brecy.
"Well, sir, the king's mind is poisoned against you," said Martin Grille, "that is clear enough; and I know not what else to attribute it to. But, upon my word, you had better mount your horse and ride away. I can tell you the rest of the story as we go. I never was a very good horseman, and, if the sergeant rides better than I, he may be here before we are in the saddle."
"Well, be it so," said Jean Charost, thoughtfully. "Gather all those things together, while I go and reckon with my host. I would rather not be taken a prisoner into Bourges, and I think I will prevent it."
He spoke with a slight smile, and yet some bitterness of tone; but Martin Grille applied himself at once to pack up all that was in his master's room, and in about half an hour Jean Charost and his followers were in the saddle.
"Were it not better to take the road to Bussiere, my lord?" said Martin Grille, who rode somewhat near his master's person. "It seems to me as if you were going toward Oussin."
"No; methinks we shall be safer on this side," said Jean Charost. "Now, as we ride along, let me hear all that has been passing at the court. Perhaps I may be able to pick out some cause for this sudden displeasure of the king."
"Well, sir, I am sorry to be obliged to say what I must say," answered Martin Grille; "but the king has treated you very ill. This Peter of Vendôme, whom I was talking about--the devil plague him!--is at the bottom of it all; though his aunt, who is a worse devil than himself, manages the matter for him. She has taken it into her head that she must ally herself to the royal family. Now, it runs every where at the court that Mademoiselle Agnes is the daughter of the poor Duke of Orleans, who was killed near the Porte Barbette; that she was intrusted by him to your care; and that, for ambition, you want to marry her, and then tell all the world who she is."
Jean Charost had been gazing in his face for the last moment or two in silence; but now he inclined his head slowly, saying, "Go on. I now see how it is."
"Well, sir, about a month ago this Jeanne de Vendôme proposed to the king that her nephew should marry our young lady, and the king, it would seem, was willing enough; but a certain beautiful lady you know of opposed it, and, as she can do nearly what she likes, for some time the day went with her. Then Jeanne of Vendôme went and curried favor with Monsieur La Trimouille, who can do nearly what he likes on the other side, and then the day went against us for some time. The king was very violent, and swore that if he had any power or authority over Mademoiselle Agnes, she should marry Peter of Vendôme, though she told him all the while she would not, and begged him, humbly and devoutly, rather to let her go into a nunnery. Kings will have their way, however, sir, and things were looking very bad, when suddenly, three days ago, our young lady disappeared--"
"Where did she go to? Where is she?" asked Jean Charost, sharply.
"That I can not tell, sir," answered Martin Grille; "but she is safe enough, I am sure; for when I told Mademoiselle De St. Geran about it, she said, with one of her enchanting smiles, 'Has she, indeed, my good man? Well, I dare say God will protect her.' But the king did not take it so quietly. He was quite furious; and neither Peter of Vendôme nor his aunt would let his passion cool."
"Doubtless attributed it all to me," said Jean Charost, whose face had greatly lighted up within the last few minutes. But Martin Grille replied, to his surprise, "I do not think they did, sir. The painted old woman hinted, though she did not venture to say so, that the beautiful young lady you wot of had helped her namesake's escape; and the nephew said that if the king would but sign the papers, he would soon find the fugitive, for he had a shrewd notion of where she was."
"He did not sign them!" exclaimed Jean Charost, with a look of dread.
"He had well-nigh done it, my lord," replied Martin Grille. "Last night, when the king was sitting with the queen in the large black room on the second floor, which you remember well--very melancholy he was, for somewhat of a coolness had sprung up between him and her whom he loves best, and he can not live without her--they brought him in the papers to sign, that is to say, Peter of Vendôme and his aunt, looking all radiant and triumphant. Some one watched them, however; for, just at that minute, in came the chancellor and two or three others, and among them one of the pages, with a paper in his hand addressed to the king. The king took it, just looked at the top, and then handing it up to the chancellor, was about to sign what Peter of Vendôme demanded, and let him go; but Monsieur Des Ursins--that is the chancellor--cried, 'Hold, your majesty. This is important; in good and proper form; and must have your royal attention.' Then he read it out; but I can not tell you all that it contained. However, it was a prohibition, in good set form, for any one to dispose of the hand, person, or property of our young lady, Mademoiselle Agnes, either in marriage, wardship, or otherwise, and setting forth that the writer was her true and duly-constituted guardian, according to the laws of France. It was signed 'St. Florent;' and, though the king was mighty angry, the chancellor persuaded him not to sign the papers till the right of the appellant, as he called it, was decided by some competent tribunal."
"And how came you to know all this so accurately?" asked Jean Charost, after meditating for several minutes over what he had heard.
"Part one way, part another, my noble lord," replied Martin Grille. "Principally, however, I learned the facts from a young cousin of mine, who is now chief violin player to the queen. When she found her husband so dull that night, she sent for Petit Jean to solace him, because she could not very well have sent for the person who would have solaced him best. He heard all, and marked all, and told me all; for you are a great favorite of his. However, I had something to do with it afterward myself; for the king, knowing that I was in the house, sent for me, and made me tell him whether, when you were last in Berri, you signed your name St. Florent. I was frightened out of my wits, and said I believed you did. The next minute the king said, looking sharply at the sergeant, who was standing near, 'Bring him at once from Briare. Lose no time.' Then he turned to me, with a face quite savage, and said, 'You may go.' I thought he was going to add, 'to the devil;' but he did not, and I slunk out of the room. The sergeant went out at the same time; but he laughed, and said, 'Sleep wasted no time, and he was not going to set off for Briare at midnight, not he.' So I did, instead of him; for as I feared I had done some mischief, I thought I might as well do some good."
Jean Charost smiled with a less embarrassed look than he had worn during the ride; but he made no reply, and during the next half hour he seemed to hear nothing that Martin Grille said, although it must not be affirmed that Martin Grille said nothing. It were hardly fair to look into his thoughts, to inquire whether the injustice he had met with, the wrong which was meditated against him, and the ingratitude for services performed and suffering endured in the royal cause had shaken his love toward the king. Suffice it, they had not shaken his loyalty toward his country, and that although he might contemplate flying with his Agnes beyond the reach of an arm that oppressed him, he never dreamed of drawing his sword against his native land, or of doing aught to undermine the throne of a prince to whom he had sworn allegiance.
At length, however, Martin Grille pulled him by the sleeve, saying, "I can not help thinking, my good lord, that you are taking a wrong course. You are going on right toward Bourges, and at any point of the road you may meet with the sergeant and his men. Indeed, I saw just now a party of horsemen on the hill there. They have come down into the valley; but that is the high road to Bourges they were upon."
"My good friend, I am going to Bourges," replied Jean Charost; "but as I do not intend to go as a prisoner, if I can help it, we will turn aside a little here, and go round Les Barres, that hamlet you see there. We can then follow the by-roads for eight or ten miles further, and cross the river at Cosne. I know this country well; for, during the last twelvemonth, I have had nothing to do but to think, and to explore it."