"No, that he is not, sir," answered the landlord, with great respect, dropping the title of father, which he had previously bestowed upon his guest, in favor of the gray gown; "he is away somewhere about Monterreau with his highness the dauphin."
"That is unlucky," said the other, just remarking, and no more, the landlord's change of manner toward him, and the substitution of the words sir and father.
"Well, I will sup, and go on upon my way."
"Had you not better sleep here, sir?" asked the landlord, again avoiding the word father; "perhaps they are not prepared for you, and you must have traveled far, I suppose."
The other held to his resolution, however, with out taking any outward notice of the great alteration in the man's demeanor; but when he retired to his chamber to wash his feet before supper, he found confirmation of a suspicion that the vaunted lock of his door had more keys than one. Nothing was abstracted, indeed, from his wallet; but the contents had been evidently examined carefully since he left the house. Small as was the amount of baggage it contained, there were several articles which bore the name of "Jean Charost de Brecy."
Night had fallen by the time that supper was over, and the stars shone out bright and clear when the young wanderer once more resumed his journey, and took his way direct toward the castle he had seen upon the hill. Onward he went at an unflagging pace, descended from the higher ground into the valley, crossed the little river by its stone bridge, and approached the foot of the eminence where the tower stood. Large dogs bayed loudly as he came near the entrance of the castle, and one or two men were seated under the arch of the barbican; but Jean Charost's impatience had been growing with every step, and, without pausing to put any questions or to ask permission, he passed the draw-bridge, crossed the little court, and mounted the steps leading into the great hall. One of the men had followed him from the barbican, but did not attempt to stop him. Two of the dogs ran by his side, looking up in his face, and a third gamboled wildly before him, whining with a sort of anxious joy. The great hall was quite dark; but he found his way across it easily enough, mounted a little flight of five steps, and opened the door just above. There were lights in that room, and Madame De Brecy was there seated embroidering: while little Agnes, now greatly expanded both in form and beauty, sat beside his mother, sorting the various colored silks. His feet were shod with sandals; but his mother knew the tread. She started up and gazed at him. The instant after, her arms were round his neck, and Agnes was clinging to his hand and covering it with kisses.
"Welcome--welcome home, my son!" cried Madame De Brecy; "has this hard lord then relented? We heard that you were ill--very ill; and ere three days more had passed, Agnes and I would have set off to join you in England. We waited but for safe-conducts to depart."
"I have been ill, dear mother," replied the young man; "and that obtained me leave to return for a time. But do not deceive yourself; I have not come back to stay. Indeed, so brief must be my absence from my prison, so hopeless is the errand on which I came, that I had doubts whether I ought to pause even here to give you the pang of parting with me again. I have only obtained leave upon parole, to absent myself from London for three months, in order to seek a ransom. My only hope is in Jacques Cœur; he, perhaps, may help us on easier terms than any one else will consent to. I find, however, that he is not in Bourges, and I must go on to-morrow to Monterreau to seek him; for well-nigh three weeks of my time is already expired; 'tis a long journey from England hither on foot."
"Ah, my poor son!" cried Madame De Brecy; "our fate has been a sad one, indeed. But yet, why should we complain? We share but the unhappy fate of France, and, Heaven knows, she has deserved chastisement, were it for nothing else but the bloody and unchristian feuds which have brought this evil upon her."
"Let us hope yet, mother--let us hope yet," said Jean Charost. "The very feeling of being once more at home--in this dear home, where so many sunny days have passed--rekindles the nearly extinguished fire, and makes me hope again, in despite of probability."