"And the news," said Jean Charost, "if he can get it. So be it, however; for, good sooth! I am tired. I have not slept a wink for six-and-thirty hours; but let them make all haste."
"As quick as an avalanche, sir," said the landlord; "and God speed you, if you bring good news to our noble prince. He loves wine and women, and is exceedingly devout to the blessed Virgin of Puy; so all men should wish him well, and all ladies too."
The landlord did really make haste, and in less than ten minutes Jean Charost was on his way to Espaly, along a sort of natural volcanic causeway which paves the bottom of the deep valley. The sun was behind the hills, but still a cool and pleasant light was spread over the sky, and the towers of the old castle, with their many weather-cocks, and a banner displayed on the top of the donjon, rising high above the little village at the foot of the rock, seemed to catch some of the last rays of the sun, and
"Flash back again the western blaze,
In lines of dazzling light."
The ascent was steep, however, and longer than the young gentleman had expected. It was dim twilight when he approached the gates, but there was little guard kept around this last place of refuge of the son of France. Nested in the mountains of Auvergne, with a long, expanse of country between him and his enemies, Charles had no fear of attack. The gates were wide open, not a solitary sentinel guarded the way, and Jean Charost rode into the court-yard, looking round in vain for some one to address. Not a soul was visible. He heard the sound of a lute, and a voice singing from one of the towers, and a merry peal of laughter from a long, low building on the right of the great court; but besides this there was nothing to show that the castle was inhabited, till, just as he was dismounting, a page, gayly tricked out in blue and silver, crossed from one tower toward another, with a bird-cage in his hand.
"Ho, boy!" cried Jean Charost; "can you tell me where I shall find the servant of Mademoiselle De St. Geran; or can you tell her yourself that the Seigneur de Brecy wishes to speak with her?"
"Come with me, come with me, Beau Sire," said the boy, with all the flippant gayety of a page. "I am going to her with this bird from his highness; and this castle is the abode of liberty and joy. All iron coats and stiff habitudes have been cast down in the chapel, and a vow against idle ceremony is made by every one under the great gate."
"Well, then, lead on," said Jean Charost "My business might well abridge ceremony, if any did exist. Wait here till I return," he continued, speaking to the innkeeper's son; and then followed the page upon his way.
The tower to which the boy led him was a building of considerable size, although it looked diminutive by the side of the great donjon, which towered above, and with which it was connected by a long gallery, in a sort of traverse commanding the entrance of the outer gate. The door stood open, as most of the other doors throughout the place, leading into an old vaulted passage, from the middle of which rose a narrow and steep stair-case of gray stone. A rope was twisted round the pillar on which the stair-case turned; and it was somewhat necessary at that moment, for, to say sooth, both passage and stair-case were as dark as Acheron. Feeling his way, the boy ascended till he came to a door on the first floor of the tower, which he opened without ceremony. The interior of the room which this sudden movement displayed, though darkness was fast falling over the earth, was clear and light compared with the shadowy air of the stair-case, and Jean Charost could see, seated thoughtfully at the window, that lovely and never-to-be-forgotten form which he had last beheld at Monterreau. Agnes Sorel either did not hear the opening of the door, or judged that the comer was one of the ordinary attendants of the place, for she remained motionless, plunged in deep meditation, with her eyes raised to a solitary star, the vanward leader of the host of heaven, which was becoming brighter and brighter every moment, as it rose high above the black masses of the Anis Mountains.
"Madam, here is a bird for you which his highness has sent," said the page, abruptly. "Some say it is a nightingale; and, though his coat is not fine, he sings deliciously."