"Do you not know that he has avowed it?" exclaimed Madame De Brecy; but her son's face turned so deadly pale, even to the very lips, that Jacques Cœur interposed, saying gently, "Beware--beware, dear lady. He can not bear any such tidings now. He will soon be well enough to hear all."
His judgment proved right. From that moment every hour gave Jean Charost some additional strength; and that very day, before nightfall, he heard much that imported him greatly to know. He now learned that the Duchess of Orleans, after a brief visit to the capital to demand justice upon the murderers of her husband, had judged it prudent to retire to Blois, and to withdraw all the retainers of the late duke. Jean Charost, being in no situation to bear so long a journey, she had commended him especially to the care of Jacques Cœur, who had ridden in haste to Paris on the news of assassination. He now learned, also, that one of the last acts of the duke had been to leave him a pension of three hundred crowns--then a large sum--charged upon the county of Vertus, and that a packet addressed to him, sealed with the duke's private signet, and marked, "To be read by his own eye alone," had been found among the papers at the château of Beauté.
He would have fain heard more, and prolonged the conversation upon subjects so interesting to him, but Jacques Cœur wisely refused to gratify him, and contrived to dole out his information piece by piece, avoiding, as far as possible, all that could excite or agitate him. A pleasant interlude, toward the fall of evening, was afforded by the arrival of Martin Grille, whose joy at seeing his young master roused from a stupor which he had fancied would only end in death was touching in itself, although it assumed somewhat ludicrous forms. He capered about the room as if he had been bit by a tarantula, and in the midst of his dancing he fell upon his knees, and thanked God and the blessed Virgin for the miraculous cure of his young lord, which he attributed entirely to his having vowed a wax candle of three pounds' weight to burn in the Lady Chapel of the Nôtre Dame in case of Jean Charost's recovery. It seems that since the arrival of Madame de Brecy in Paris, she and Martin Grille had equally divided the task of sitting up all night with her son; and well had the faithful valet performed his duty, for, without an effort, or any knowledge on his part, Jean Charost had won the enthusiastic love and respect of one who had entered his service with a high contempt for his want of experience, and perhaps some intention of making the best of a good place.
Well has it been said that force of character is the most powerful of moral engines, for it works silently, and even without the consciousness of those who are subject to its influence, upon all that approaches it. How often is it that we see a man of no particular brilliance of thought, of manner, or of expression, come into the midst of turbulent and unruly spirits, and bend them like osiers to his will. Some people will have it that it is the clearness with which his thoughts are expressed, or the clearness with which they are conceived, the definiteness of his directions, the promptness of his decisions, which gives him this power; but if we look closely, we shall find that it is force of character--a quality of the mind which men feel in others rather than perceive, and which they yield to often without knowing why.
The following morning rose like a wayward child, dull and sobbing; but Jean Charost woke refreshed and reinvigorated, after a long, calm night of sweet and natural sleep. His mother was again by his bedside, and she took a pleasure in telling him how carefully Martin Grille had preserved all his little treasures in the Hôtel d'Orleans, at a time when the assassination of the duke had thrown all the better members of the household into dismay and confusion, and left the house itself, for a considerable time, at the mercy of the knaves and scoundrels that are never wanting in a large establishment.
She was interrupted in her details by the entrance of the very person of whom she spoke, and at the same time loud cries and shouts and hurras rose up from the street, inducing Jean Charost to inquire if the king were passing along.
"No, fair sir," answered Martin Grille. "It is the king's king. But, on my life, my lord of Burgundy does not much fear rusting his armor, or he would not ride through the streets on such a day as this."
"Does he go armed, then?" asked Jean Charost.
"From head to foot," answered his mother; and Martin Grille added, "He is seldom without four or five hundred men-at-arms with him. Such a sight was never seen in Paris. But I must go my ways, and get the news of the day, for these are times when every man should know whatever his neighbor is doing."
"I fear your intelligence must stop somewhat short of that," said Jean Charost.