Few, if any, remained to look at the burning house, and none attempted to extinguish the flames; for the cry had already gone abroad that the Duke of Orleans was murdered, and the multitude hurried forward to the place where he lay. Those who did stop for an instant before the Hôtel Nôtre Dame, remarked a quantity of lighted straw borne out from the doors and windows by the rush of the fire, and some of them heard the quick sound of hoofs at a little distance, as if a small party of horse had galloped away from the back of the building.
Few thought it needful, however, to inquire for or pursue the murderers. A sort of stupor seemed to have seized all but one of those who arrived the first. He was a poor mechanic; and, seeing an armed man, with a mace in his hand, glide across the street, he followed him with a quick step, traced him through several streets, paused in fear when the other paused, turned when he turned, and dogged him till he entered the gates of the Hôtel d'Artois, the residence of the Duke of Burgundy.
In the mean while, the body of the unhappy prince, and that of the poor page who had sacrificed his life for him, were carried into a church hard by. The news spread like lightning through the whole town; neighbor told it to neighbor; many were roused from their sleep to hear the tidings, and agitation and tumult spread through Paris. Every sort of vague alarm, every sort of wild rumor was received and encouraged.
The Queen Isabella of Bavaria, horrified and apprehensive, caused herself to be placed in a litter, and carried to the Hôtel St. Pol. A number of loyal noblemen, believing the king's own life in danger, armed themselves and their followers, and turned the court of the palace into a fortress. But the followers of the deceased duke remained for some hours almost stupefied with terror, and only recovered themselves to give way to rage and indignation, which produced many a disastrous consequence in after days. In the mean time, the church of the White Friars was not deserted. The brethren themselves gathered around the dead bodies, and, with tapers lighted, and the solemn organ playing, chanted all night the services of the dead. High nobles and princes, too, flocked into the church with heavy hearts and agitated minds. The Duke of Bourbon and the venerable Duke of Berri were the first. Then came the King of Navarre, then the Duke of Burgundy, and then the King of Sicily, who had arrived in Paris only on the preceding morning.
All were profuse of lamentations, and of execrations against the murderers; but none more so than the Duke of Burgundy, who declared that "never, in the city of Paris, had been perpetrated so horrible and sad a murder."[[2]] He could even weep, too; but while the words were on his lips, and the tears were in his eyes, some one pulled him by the cloak, and turning round his head, he saw one of his most familiar servants. Nothing was said; but there was a look in the man's eyes which demanded attention, and, after a moment or two, the duke retired with him into the chapel of St. William.
"They have taken one of those suspected of conniving at the murder," whispered the man.
"Which? Who--who is he?" asked the duke, eagerly.
"No one your highness knows," replied the man, gazing in the duke's face, though the chapel was very dark. "He is a young gentleman, said to be the duke's secretary, Monsieur Charost de Brecy."
The duke stamped with his foot upon the ground, saying, with an oath, "That may ruin all. See that he be freed as soon as possible, before he is examined."
"It can not be done, I fear," rejoined the man, in the same low tone. "He is in the hands of William de Tignonville, the prévôt. But can not the murder be cast on him, sir? They say he and the duke were heard disputing loud this night; and that, on the way to the Hôtel Barbette, he suddenly turned and rode away from his royal master."