Through ways as narrow and as crooked as the ways of love usually are, Jean Charost was conducted to a small room, which would nowadays probably be called a boudoir, where, even without the contrast of the poor, naked stone passages through which he had passed, every thing would have appeared luxurious and splendid in the highest degree. Rumor attributed to the beautiful lady whom he went to visit, a princely lover, who some years before had commanded an army against the Ottomans, had received a defeat which rendered him morose and harsh throughout the rest of life, but had acquired, during an easy captivity among the Mussulmans, a taste for Oriental luxury, which never abandoned him. All within the chamber to which Jean Charost was now introduced spoke that the lady had not been uninfluenced by her lover's habits. Articles of furniture little known in France were seen in various parts of the room; piles of cushions, carpets of innumerable dyes, and low sofas or ottomans; while, even in the midst of winter, the odor of roses pervaded the whole apartment. Madame de Giac herself, negligently dressed, but looking wonderfully beautiful, was reclining on cushions, with a light on a low table by her side, and, on the approach of Jean Charost, she received him more as an old and dear friend than a mere accidental acquaintance. A radiant smile was upon her lips; she made him sit down beside her, and in her tone there was a blandishing softness, which he felt was very engaging. For a minute or two she held the letter of the Duke of Orleans unopened in her hand, while she asked him questions about his journey from Pithiviers to Blois, and his return. At length, however, she opened the billet and read it, not so little observed as she imagined herself; for Jean Charost's eyes were fixed upon her, marking the various expressions of her countenance. At first, her glance at the note was careless; but speedily her eyes fixed upon the lines with an intense, eager look. Her brow contracted, her nostril expanded, her beautiful upper lip quivered, and that fair face for an instant took upon it the look of a demon. Suddenly, however, she recollected herself, smoothed her brow, recalled the wandering lightning of her eyes and folding the note, she curled it between her fingers, saying, "I must write an answer, my dear young friend. I will not be long; wait for me here;" and rising gracefully, she gathered her flowing drapery around her, and passed out by a door behind the cushions.
The door was closed carefully; but Jean Charost had good reason to believe that the time of Madame De Giac was occupied in other employment than writing. A murmur of voices was heard, in which her own sweet tones mingled with others harsher and louder. The words used could not be distinguished, but the conversation seemed eager and animated, beginning the moment she entered, and rising and falling in loudness, as if the speakers were sometimes carried away by the topic, sometimes fearful of being overheard.
Jean Charost was no great casuist, and certainly, in all ordinary cases, he would have felt ashamed to listen to any conversation not intended for his ears. Neither, on this occasion, did he actually listen. He moved not from his seat; he even took up and examined a beautiful golden-sheathed poniard with a jeweled hilt, which lay upon the table where stood the light. But there was a doubt, a suspicion, an apprehension of he knew not what in his mind, which, if well-founded, might perhaps have justified him in his own eyes in actually trying to hear what was passing; for assuredly he would have thought it no want of honor thus to detect the devices of an enemy. The voice of Madame De Giac was not easily forgotten by one who had once heard it; and the rougher, sterner tones that mingled in the conversation seemed likewise familiar to the young secretary's ear. Both those who were speaking he believed to be inimical to his royal master. He heard nothing distinctly, however, but the last few words that were spoken.
It would seem that Madame De Giac had approached close to the door, and laid her hand upon the lock, and the other speaker raised his voice, adding to some words which were lost, the following, in an imperative tone, "As long as possible, remember--by any means!"
Madame De Giac's murmured reply was not intelligible to the young secretary; but then came a coarse laugh, and the deeper voice answered, "No, no. I do not mean that; but by force, if need be."
"Well, then, tell them," said the fair lady; but what was to be told escaped unheard by Jean Charost; for she dropped her voice lower than ever, and, a moment after, re-entered the room.
Her face was all fair and smiling, and before she spoke, she seated herself again on the cushions, paused thoughtfully, and, looking at the dagger which the young gentleman replaced as she entered, said playfully, "Do not jest with edged tools. I hope you did not take the poniard out of its sheath. It comes from Italy--from the very town of the sweet Duchess of Orleans; and they tell me that the point is poisoned, so that the slightest scratch would produce speedy death. It has never been drawn since I had it, and never shall be with my will."
"I did not presume to draw it," said Jean Charost. "But may I crave your answer to his highness's note?"
"How wonderfully formal we are," said Madame De Giac, with a gay laugh. "This chivalrous reverence for the fair, which boys are taught in their school days, is nothing but a sad device of old women and jealous husbands. It is state, and dress, and grave surroundings, De Brecy, that makes us divinities. A princess and a page, in a little cabinet like this, are but a woman and a man. Due propriety, of course, is right; but forms and reverence all nonsense."
"Beauty and rank have both their reverence, madam," replied Jean Charost. "But at the present moment, all other things aside, I am compelled to think of his highness's business; for he is waiting for me now at the Hôtel Barbette, expecting anxiously, I doubt not, your answer."