The house lay close to the Orleans palace, with an entrance from it into the gardens of the latter. Through that door they passed, walked down a short avenue of trees and vases, crossed a walk, and entered the palace by a side door. The man made his way straight toward the little hall, closely followed by the woman, and found the duke, as I have shown, in conversation with Jacques Cœur and Jean Charost. As had been agreed, the prince was at first informed that the lady was very ill, and even that intelligence caused the agitation which I have depicted. But how can I describe his state of mind when the whole truth was known, the fire of his rage, the abyss of his sorrow, and more, far more than all, the depth--the poignancy of his remorse? When he looked upon that beautiful and placid face, lying there in the cold, dull sleep of death--when he saw the fair bosom deluged in purple gore--when he remembered that, for the gratification of his light love, he had torn her from the arms of a husband who doted on her, from peaceful happiness and tranquil innocence, if not from joy and splendor--when he thought he had made her an adulteress--had brought disgrace upon her name--that he had been even, as he felt at that moment, accessory to her death, the worm that never dies seemed to fix itself upon his heart, and, casting himself down beside the bed, he cursed the day that he was born, and invoked bitterer maledictions on his own head than his worst enemy would have dared to pile upon him.
True, in his anguish he did not altogether forget his energy. Instant orders were given to search for and pursue the murderer; and especial directions to beset all the doors of a small hotel in the neighborhood of the Temple, and to mark well who went out or came in. But this done, he fell again into the dark apathy of despair, and, seated in the chamber of death, slept not, took no refreshment throughout the livelong night. Priests came in, tall tapers were set in order, vases of holy water, and silver censers, and solemn voices were raised in holy song. But the duke sat there unmoved; his arms crossed upon his chest; his eyes fixed with a stony glare upon the floor. No one dared to speak to him or to disturb him; and the dark, long night of winter waned away, and the gray morning sunlight entered the chamber, ere he quitted the side of her he had loved and ruined.
CHAPTER VI.
Hope is nothing but a bit of cork floating on the sea of life, now tossed up into the sky, now sunk down into the abyss, but rising, rising again over the crest of the foamy wave, and topping all things even unto the end.
Joyous and hopeful, Jean Charost presented himself at the gates of the Duke of Orleans's palace; but the heavy door under the archway was closed, and some minutes elapsed ere he obtained admission. The tall man who opened for him seemed doubtful whether he would let him in or not; and it was not till Jean had explained that the duke had appointed him, and that he was the person who had accompanied Jacques Cœur on the preceding night, that the man would let him pass the wicket. He then told him, however, to go on to the house and inquire for the master of the pages.
Jean Charost was not very well satisfied with this reply; for, to his mind, it seemed to indicate that the duke had made up his mind to place him among his pages, and had given orders accordingly. Now the position of a page in a great household was not very desirable in the eyes of Jean Charost; besides, he had passed the age, he thought, when such a post was appropriate. He had completed his seventeenth year, and looked much older than he really was.
As he walked on, however, he heard a step behind him, and, looking round, saw a man following him. There was nothing very marvelous in this, and he proceeded on his way till he found himself in the vestibule before described, and asked, as he had been directed, for the master of the pages. The man to whom he addressed himself said, "I'll send you to him. You were here last night, were you not, young gentleman?"
Jean Charost answered in the affirmative, and the man made a sign to the person who had followed the youth across the garden and had entered the vestibule with him. Immediately Jean felt his arm taken hold of, somewhat roughly, by the personage behind him, and, ere he well knew what was taking place, he was pulled into a small room on one side of the vestibule, and the door closed upon him. The room was already tenanted by three or four persons of different conditions. One seemed an old soldier, with a very white beard, and a scar across his brow; one was dressed as a mendicant friar; and one, by his round jacket, knee-breeches, and blue stockings, with broad-toed shoes and a little square cap, was evidently a mechanic. The old soldier was walking up and down the room with a very irritable air; the mendicant friar was telling his beads with great rapidity; the mechanic sat in a corner, twisting his thumbs round and round each other, and looking half stupefied. The scene did not explain itself at all, and Jean stood for a moment or two, not at all comprehending why he was brought there, or what was to happen next.
"By Saint Hubert, this is too bad!" exclaimed the old soldier, at length; and approaching the door, he tried to open it, but it was locked.
"Pray, what is the matter?" asked Jean Charost, simply.