Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

The lady looked at him keenly for an instant, and the young secretary thought he saw a glance of intelligence pass from his face to hers.

"Light this young gentleman out," said Madame De Giac. "You are a young fool, De Brecy," she added, laughingly; "but that is no fault of yours or mine. Nature made you so, and I can not mend you; and so, good-night."

Jean Charost bowed low, and followed the man out of the room; but, as he did so, he drew his sword-hilt a little forward, not well knowing what was to come next. Madame De Giac eyed him with a sarcastic smile, and the door closed upon him.

The man lighted him silently, carefully along the narrow, tortuous passage, and down the steep stair-case by which he had entered, holding the light low, that he might see his way. When they reached the small door which led into the court, he unbolted it, and held it back for the young gentleman to go forth; but the moment Jean Charost had passed out, the door was closed and bolted.

"Not very courteous," thought Jean Charost. "But doubtless he takes his tone from his lady's last words. What a dark night it is?"

For a minute or two, in the sudden obscurity after the light was withdrawn, he could discern none of the objects around him, and it was not till his eye had become more accustomed to the darkness that he discovered his horse standing fastened to a ring let into the building. He detached him quickly, and led him to the great gates; but here a difficulty presented itself. The large wooden bar was easily removed, and the bolts drawn back; but still the gates would not open. The young gentleman felt them all over in search of another fastening; but he could find none; and he then turned to a little sort of guardroom on the right of the entrance, attached to almost all the large houses of Paris in that day, and transformed, in after and more peaceable times, into a porter's lodge. All was dark and silent within, however: the door closed; and no answer was returned when the young gentleman knocked. He then tried another door, in the middle of the great façade of the building; but there, also, the door was locked, and he could make no one hear. His only resource, then, was the small postern by which he had been admitted; but here also he was disappointed, and he began to comprehend that he was intentionally detained. He was naturally the more impatient to escape; and, abandoning all ceremony, he knocked hard with the hilt of his dagger on the several doors, trying them in turns. But it was all in vain. There were things doing which made his importunity of small consequence.

With an angry and impatient heart, and a mind wandering through a world of conjecture, he at length thrust his dagger back into the sheath, and stood and listened near the great gates, determined, if he heard a passing step in the street, to call loudly for assistance. All was still, however, for ten minutes, and then came suddenly a sound of loud voices and indistinct cries, as if there was a tumult at some distance. Jean Charost's heart beat quick, though there seemed no definite link of connection between his own fate and the sounds he heard. A minute or two after, however, he was startled by a nearer noise--a rattling and grating sound--and he had just time to draw his horse away ere the gates opened of their own accord, and rolled back without any one appearing to move them. A hoarse and unpleasant laugh, at the same moment, sounded on Jean Charost's ear, and, looking forth into the street, he saw two or three dark figures running quickly forward in one direction.

CHAPTER XXIV.

There was in Paris an old irregular street, called the Street of the Old Temple, which had been built out toward the Porte Barbette at a period when the capital of France was much smaller in extent than in the reign of King Charles the Sixth. No order or regularity had been preserved, although one side of the street had for some distance been kept in a direct line by an antique wall, built, it is said, by the voluntary contributions or personal labors of different members of the famous Order of the Temple, the brethren of which, though professing poverty, were often more akin to Dives than to Lazarus. The other side of the street, however, had been filled up by the houses and gardens of various individuals, each walking in the light of his own eyes, and using his discretion as to how far his premises should encroach upon, how far recede from the highway. Thus, when sun or moon was up, and shining down the street, a number of picturesque shadows crossed it, offering a curious pattern of light and shade, varying with every hour.

A strange custom existed in those days, which has only been perpetuated, that I know of, in some towns of the Tyrol, of affixing to each house its own particular sign, which served, as numbers do in the present day, to distinguish it from all others in the same street. Sometimes these signs or emblems projected in the form of a banner from the walls of the house, overhanging the street, and showing the golden cross, or the silver cross, or the red ball, the lion, the swan, or the hart, to every one who rode along. Sometimes, with better taste, but perhaps with less convenience to the passenger in search of a house he did not know, the emblem chosen by the proprietor was built into the solid masonry, or placed in a little Gothic niche constructed for the purpose. The latter was generally the case where angel, or patron saint, prophet, or holy man was the chosen device, and especially so when any of the persons of the Holy Trinity, for whom the Parisians seemed to have more love than reverence, gave a name to the building.