CHAPTER XV.
No season is without its beauty, no scene without its peculiar interest. If the great mountain, with its stony peak shooting up into the sky, has sublimity of one kind, the wide expanse of open country, moor, or heath, or desert, with its limitless horizon and many-shaded lines, has it of another. To an eye and a heart alive to the impressions of the beautiful and the grand, something to charm and to elevate will be found in almost every aspect of nature. The storm and the tempest, as well as the sunshine and the calm, will afford some sources of pleasure; and, as the fading away of the green leaf in the autumn enchants the eye by the resplendent coloring produced, decay will be found to decorate, and ruin to embellish.
Take a winter scene, for instance, with the whole country covered with a white mantle of the snow, the trees and the forests raising themselves up brown and dim, the masses of dark pines and firs standing out almost black upon the light ground from which they rise, and the view extending far over a nearly level country, with here and there a rounded hill rising detached and abruptly from the plain, perhaps unbroken in its monotonous line, perhaps crowned by the sharp angles and hard lines of fortress or town. The description does not seem very inviting. But let us show how this scene varied during the course of the evening, as three travelers rode along at a quick pace, although their horses seemed somewhat tired, and the distance they had journeyed had undoubtedly been considerable. Toward three o'clock a heavy, gray cloud, apparently portending more snow, stretched over the greater part of the sky, cutting off the arch of the concave, and seeming like a flat canopy spread overhead. To the southwest the heavens remained clear, and there the pall of cloud was fringed with gold, while from underneath streamed the horizontal light, catching upon and brightening the slopes, and throwing the dells into deeper shadow. The abrupt hills looked blue and grand, and raised their heads as if to support the heavy mass of gray above. Gradually, as the sun descended lower, that line of open sky became of a brighter and a brighter yellow. The dun canopy parted into masses, checkering the heavens with black and gold. The same warm hues spread over every eminence, and, as the sun descended further still, a rosy light, glowing brighter and brighter every instant, touched the snowy summits of the hills, flooded the plain, and seeking out in all its sinuosities the course of the ice-covered river, flashed back from the glassy surface as if a multitude of rubies had been scattered across the scene, while the gray wood, which fringed the distant sky, blazed, with a ruddy brightness pouring through the straggling branches, as if a vast fire were kindled on the plains beyond.
It was the last effort of the beauty-giving day, and all those three travelers felt and enjoyed it in their several ways. The sun went down; the hills grew dark and blue; every eminence, and even wave of the ground, appeared to rise higher to the eye; the grayness of twilight spread over all the scene; but still, upon the verge of the sky, lingered the yellow light for full half an hour after day was actually done. Then, through the broken cloud, gleamed out the lustrous stars, like the brighter and the better hopes that come sparkling from on high after the sunshine of this life is done, and when the clouds and vapors of the earth are scattering away.
Still the three rode on. An hour before, there had been visible on the distant edge of the sky a tall tower like that of a cathedral, and one or two spires and steeples scattered round. It told them that a town was in that direction--the town to which they were bending their steps; but all was darkness now, and they saw it no more. The road was fair, however, and well tracked: and though it had been intensely cold during the greater part of the day, the evening had become somewhat milder, as if a thaw were coming on. A light mist rose up from the ground as they entered the wood, not sufficient to obscure the way, but merely to throw a softening indistinctness over objects at any distance, and, as they issued forth from among the larger trees, upon a piece of swampy ground, covered with stunted willows, Jean Charost, for he was at the head of the party, fancied he saw a light moving along at some little distance on the left.
"There is some one with a lantern," he said, turning to a stout man who was riding beside him.
"Feu follet," replied the other. "We must not follow that, my lord, or we shall be up to our neck in a quagmire."
"Why, such exhalations are not common at this time of year, Chauvin," replied the young man.
"Exhalations or no exhalations," rejoined the other, "they come at all times, to mislead poor travelers. All I know is, that the short road to Pithiviers turns off a quarter of a league further on."
"Exhalations!" said Martin Grille; "I never heard them called that name before. Malignant spirits, I have always heard say, who have lured many a man and horse to their death. Don't follow it, sir; pray, don't follow it. That would be worse than the baby business."
Jean Charost laughed, as he replied, "I shall only follow the guidance of Monsieur Chauvin here. He will lead me better than any lantern. But it certainly does seem to me that the light moves on by our side. It can not be more than two or three hundred yards distance either."
"That's their trick, sir," said Chauvin. "They always move on, and seem quite near; but if you hunted them, you would never come up with them, I can tell you. I did so once when I was a boy, and well-nigh got drowned for my pains. Hark! I thought I heard some one calling. That's a new trick these devils have got, I suppose, in our bad times."
All pulled up their horses and listened; but heard nothing more, and rode on again, till, just as they were beginning to ascend a little rise where the snow had been drifted off the road, and the horses' hoofs rang clear upon the hard ground, a loud shout was heard upon the left.
"Halloo, halloo! who goes there?" cried a I voice some fifty or sixty yards distant. "Give us some help here. We have got into a quagmire, and know not which way to turn."
"For Heaven's sake, don't go, sir," cried Martin Grille. "It's a new trick of the devil, depend upon it, as Monsieur Chauvin says."
"Pooh, nonsense," replied Jean Charost; and then raising his voice, he cried, "Who is it that calls?"
"What signifies that," cried a stern voice.
"If you are Christians, come and help us. If you are not, jog on your way, and the devil seize you."
"Well, call again as we come, to guide us to you," said Jean Charost, "for there is no need of us getting into the quagmire too."
"Let me go first, sir, and sound the way," said the courier.
"Halloo, halloo!" cried two or three voices, as a signal; and, following the sound, Jean Charost and the courier, with Martin Grille a good way behind, proceeded slowly and cautiously toward the party of unfortunate travelers, till at length they could descry something like a group of men and horses among the willows, about twenty yards distant. It is true, some of the horses seemed to have no legs, or to be lying down, and one man dismounted, holding hard by a willow.
"Keep up, keep up--we are coming to you," replied Jean Charost. "It is firm enough here, if you could but reach us."
The guide, who was in advance, suddenly cried, "Halt, there!" and, at the same moment, his horse's fore feet began to sink in the ground.
"Here, catch my rein, Chauvin," cried the young secretary, springing to the ground; "I think I see a way to them."
"Take care, sir--take care," cried the courier.
"No fear," answered Jean Charost; "from tree to tree must give one footing. There are some old roots, too, rising above the level. Stay there, Chauvin, to guide us back." Proceeding cautiously, trying the firmness of every step, and sometimes springing from tree to tree, he came within about six feet of the man whom he had seen dismounted, and, calling to him to give him his hand, he leaned forward as far as he could, holding firmly the osier near which he stood with his left arm. But neither that personage nor his companions were willing to leave their horses behind them, and it was a matter of much more difficulty to extricate the beasts than the men; for some of them had sunk deep in the marsh, and seemed to have neither power nor inclination to struggle. Nearly an hour was expended in efforts, some fruitless and others successful, to get the animals out; but at length they were all rescued, and Jean Charost found his little party increased by six cavaliers, in a somewhat woeful plight.
The man whom he had first rescued, and who seemed the principal personage of the troop, thanked him warmly for his assistance, but in a short, sharp, self-sufficient tone which was not altogether the most agreeable.
"Where are you going, young man?" he said, at length, as they were remounting their horses.
"To Pithiviers," answered Jean Charost, as laconically.
"Then we will go with you," replied the other; "and you shall guide us; for that is our destination too."
"That will depend upon whether your horses can keep up with mine," replied Jean Charost; "for I have spent more time here than I can well spare."
"We will see," replied the other, with a laugh; "you have rendered us one service, we will try if you can render us another, and then thank you for both at the end of our journey."
"Very well," replied Jean Charost, and rode on.
The other kept by his side, however; for the tall and powerful horse which bore him seemed none the worse for the accident which had happened. Armand Chauvin and Martin Grille followed close upon their young leader, and the other five strangers brought up the rear.
The rest of the journey, of well-nigh two leagues, passed without accident, and the two foremost horsemen were gradually led into something like a general conversation, in which Jean Charost's new companion, though he could not be said to make himself agreeable, showed a great knowledge of the world, of life, of courts, of foreign countries; and displayed a somewhat rough but keen and trenchant wit, which led his young fellow-traveler to the conclusion that he was no common man. The last two miles of the journey were passed by moonlight, and Jean Charost had now an opportunity of distinguishing the personal appearance of his companion, which perhaps was more prepossessing than his speech. He was a man of the middle age, not very tall, but exceedingly broad across the chest and shoulders; and his face, without being handsome, had something fine and commanding in it. He rode his horse with more power than grace, managing him with an ease that seemed to leave the creature no will of his own, and every movement, indeed, displayed extraordinary personal vigor, joined with some dignity. His dress seemed rich and costly, though the colors were not easily distinguished. But the short mantle, with the long, furred sleeves, hanging down almost to his horse's belly, betokened at once, to a Frenchman of those days, the man of high degree.
Although the young secretary examined him certainly very closely, he did not return the scrutiny, but merely gave him a casual glance, as the moonlight fell upon him, and then continued his conversation till they entered the town of Pithiviers.
"To what inn do we go, Chauvin?" asked Jean Charost, as they passed in among the houses; but, before the other could answer, the stranger exclaimed, "Never mind--you shall come to my inn. I will entertain you--for to-night, at least. Indeed," he added, "there is but one inn in the place worthy of the name, and my people are in possession of it. We will find room for you and your men, however; and you shall sup with me--if you be noble, as I suppose."
"I am, sir," replied Jean Charost, and followed where the other led.
As they were entering the principal street, which was quiet and still enough, the stranger pulled up his horse, called up one of his followers, and spoke to him in a language which Jean Charost did not understand. Then turning to the young gentleman, he said, "Let us dismount. Here is a shorter way to the inn, on foot. Your men can go on with mine."
Jean Charost hesitated; but, unwilling to show doubt, he sprang from his horse's back, after a moment's consideration, gave the rein to Martin Grille, and walked on with his companion up a very narrow street, which seemed to lead round the back of the buildings before which they had just been passing.
The stranger walked slowly, and, as they advanced, he said, "May I know your name, young gentleman?"
"Jean Charost de Brecy," replied the duke's secretary; and, though he had a strong inclination, he refrained from asking the name of his companion in return. There was a something, he could not well tell what, that inspired respect about the stranger--a reverence without love; and the young secretary did not venture to ask any questions. A few moments after, a small house presented itself, built of stone, it is true, whereas the others had been mainly composed of wood; but still it was far too small and mean in appearance to accord with the idea which Jean Charost had formed of the principal auberge; of the good town of Pithiviers. At the door of this house, however, the elder gentleman stopped, as if about to enter. The door was opened almost at the same moment, as if on a preconcerted plan, and a man appeared with a torch in his hand.
Jean Charost hesitated, and held back; but the other turned, after ascending the three steps which led to the door, and looked back, saying, "Come in--what are you afraid of?"
The least suspicion of fear has a great influence upon youth at all times, and Jean Charost was by no means without the failings of youth, although early misfortune and early experience had rendered him, as I have before said, older than his years.
"I am not afraid of any thing," he replied, following the stranger. "But this does not look like an inn."
"It is the back way," replied the other; "and you will soon find that it is the inn."
Thus saying, he walked through a narrow passage which soon led into a large court-yard, the man with the torch going before, and displaying by the light he carried a multitude of objects, which showed the young secretary that his companion had spoken nothing but the truth, and that they were, indeed, in the court-yard of one of those large and very handsome auberges--very different from the cabarets, the gites, and repues, all inns of different classes at that time in France.
Two or three times as they went, different men, some in the garb of the retainers of a noble house dressed in gaudy colors, some in the common habiliments of the attendants of an inn, came from different parts of the court toward the man who carried the torch; but as often, a slight movement of his hand caused them to fall back again from the path of those whom he was lighting.
Right in front was a great entrance door, and a large passage from which a blaze of light streamed forth, showing a great number of people coming and going within; but to the left was a flight of half a dozen stone steps leading to a smaller door, now closed. To it the torch-bearer advanced, opened it, and then drew back reverently to let those who followed pass in. A single man, with a cap and plume, appeared within, at a little distance on the left, who opened the door of a small room, into which the stranger entered, followed by his young companion. Jean Charost gave a rapid glance at the man who opened the door, whose dress was now as visible as it would have been in daylight, and perceived, embroidered in letters of gold upon his cap, just beneath the feather, the words "Ich houd." They puzzled him; for though he did not remember their meaning, he had some recollection of having heard that they formed the motto, or rallying words, of some great man or some great faction.
The stranger advanced quietly to a chair, seated himself, turned to the person at the door who had given him admittance, and merely pronounced the word "Supper."
"For how--" said the attendant, in an inquiring tone, and it is probable that he was about to add the word "many," with some title of reverence or respect, but the other stopped him at once, saying, "For two--speak with Monsieur D'Ipres, and take his orders. See that they be obeyed exactly."
Then turning to Jean Charost, he said, in a good-humored tone, "Sit, sit, my young friend. And now let me give you thanks. You rendered me a considerable service--not, perhaps, that it was as great as you imagine; for I should have got out somehow. These adventures always come to an end, and I have been in worse quagmires of various kinds than that; but you rendered me a considerable service, and, what is more to the purpose, you did it boldly, skillfully, and promptly. You pleased me, and during supper you shall tell me more about yourself. Perhaps I may serve you."
"I think not, sir," replied Jean Charost; "for I desire no change in my condition at the present moment. As to myself, all that I have to say--all, indeed, that I intend to say, is, that my name, as I told you, is Jean Charost, Seigneur De Brecy; that my father fought and died in the service of his country; and that I am his only child; but still most happy to have rendered you any service, however inconsiderable."
The other listened in profound silence, with his eyes bent upon the table, and without the slightest variation of expression crossing his countenance.
"You talk well, young gentleman," he said, "and are discreet, I see. Do you happen to guess to whom you are speaking?"
"Not in the least," replied Jean Charost. "I can easily judge, sir, indeed, that I am speaking to no ordinary man--to one accustomed to command and be obeyed; who may be offended, perhaps, at my plain dealing, and think it want of reverence for his person that I speak not more frankly. Such, however, is not the case, and assuredly I can in no degree divine who you are. You may be the King of Sicily, who, I have been told, is traveling in this direction. The Duke de Berri, I know you are not; for I have seen him very lately. I am inclined to think, from the description of his person, however, that you may be the Count of St. Paul."
The other smiled, gravely, and then replied, "The first ten steps you take from this door after supper, you will know; for the greatest folly any man commits, is to believe that a secret will be kept which is known to more than one person. But for the next hour we will forget all such things. Make yourself at ease: frankness never displeases me: discretion, even against myself, always pleases me. Now let us talk of other matters. I have gained an appetite, by-the-way, and am wondering what they will give me for supper. I will bet you a link of this gold chain against that little ring upon your finger, that we have lark pies, and wine of Gatinois; for, on my life and soul, I know nothing else that Pithiviers is famous for--except blankets; odds, my life, I forgot blankets, and this is not weather to forget them. Prythee, throw a log on the fire, boy, and let us make ourselves as warm as two old Flemish women on Martinmas eve. But here comes the supper."
He was not right, however. It was the same attendant whom Jean Charost had before seen, that now returned and whispered a word or two in his lord's ear.
"Ha!" said the stranger, starting up "Who is with her? Our good friend?"
"No," replied the other. "He has gone on, for a couple of days, to Blois, and she has no one with her but a young lady and the varletry."
"Beseech her to come in and partake our humble meal," cried the other, in a gay tone. "Tell her I have a young guest to sup with me, who will entertain her young companion while I do my devoir; toward herself. But tell her we lay aside state, and that she condescends to sup with plain John of Valois. Ah, my young friend! you have it now, have you?" he continued, looking shrewdly at Jean Charost, who had fallen into a fit of thought. "Well--well, let no knowledge spoil merriment. We will be gay to-night, whatever comes to-morrow."
Almost as he spoke, the door was again thrown open, and fair Madame De Giac entered, followed by the young girl whom Jean Charost had seen at Juvisy.