The Duke of Burgundy gave him one glance, but answered nothing; and, passing through the opposite door and the outer hall, mounted his horse and rode away, followed by his train.
"Let us break up the council, Louis," said the Duke of Berri, "and summon it for to-morrow morning. I will hie me home, and give the next hours to silent thought and prayer. You do the same; and let us meet to-morrow before the council reassembles."
"My thoughts are all confused," said the King of Sicily. "Is it a dream, noble kinsman--a bloody and terrible dream? Well, go you in. I dare not go with you. I should discover all. Say I am sick--God knows it is true--sick, very sick at heart."
Thus saying, he turned toward the stair-case, and while the Duke of Berri returned to those he had left, and broke up the council abruptly, the other prince proceeded slowly and gloomily toward his wife's apartments. When he reached the top of the stairs, however, and opened the door at which they terminated, a strain of the most exquisite music met his ear, sweet, slow, and plaintive, but yet not altogether melancholy.
Oh, how inharmonious can music sometimes be to the spirits even of those who love it best!
CHAPTER XXIX.
There are moments in life when even kindness and tenderness have no balm--when all streams are bitter because the bitterness is in us--when the heart is hardened to the nether millstone by the Gorgon look of despair--when happiness is so utterly lost that unhappiness has no degrees. There are such moments; but, thank God, they are few.
Heavy in heart and spirit, indignant at the treatment he had received, with his mind full of grief and horror at the dreadful death of a prince he had well loved, and with a body weary and broken with the torture he had undergone, still Jean Charost found comfort and relief in the soothing tenderness of Agnes Sorel, and of two or three girls somewhat older than herself, who lavished kindness and attention upon him as soon as they learned what had just befallen him. Some wine was brought, and fair hands gave it to him, and all that woman's pity could do was done. But Agnes had that morning learned the power of music, and, running away into an ante-room, she exclaimed, "Where is our sweet musician? Here, boy--here! Bring your instrument, and try and comfort him for whom you pleaded so hard just now. He needs it much."
Petit Jean rose instantly, paused for one moment to screw up a little one of the strings of his violin, and then followed into the inner room, giving a timid glance around over the fair young faces which were gathered about Jean Charost. But his eyes soon settled upon the sufferer with an inquiring look, which put the question as plainly as in words, "What is the matter with him?"
"They have put him to the torture," whispered Agnes; and the boy, after a moment's pause, raised his instrument to his shoulder and drew from it those sweet tones which the Duke of Anjou had heard. A short time before, he had played a dirge for the Duke of Orleans in the presence of the Queen of Sicily--I can hardly call it one of his own compositions, but rather one of his inspirations. It had been deep, solemn, almost terrible; but now the music was very different, sweet, plaintive, and yet with a mingling of cheerfulness every now and then, as if it would fain have been gay, but that something like memory oppressed the melody. It was like a spring day in the country--a day of early spring--when winter is still near at hand, though summer lies on before.