Before he took his departure, the young nobleman asked openly and boldly for the papers which De Royans had mentioned. Lomelini looked surprised and bewildered, and assured him that Monsieur de Royans had made a mistake. "I recollect nothing about them whatever," he said, with an air of so much sincerity, that Jean Charost, though he had acquired a keener insight into character than in former times, did not even doubt him.
He went back from lime to time to see the old man, who always seemed glad of his society, and, indeed, Jean Charost could not doubt that company of any kind was a relief to one who was certainly not formed by nature to pass his days in a monastery. He remarked, however, that Lomelini from time to time would look at him from under his shaggy white eyebrows with a look of cunning inquiry, as if he expected something, or sought to discover something; but the moment their eyes met, the abbot's were averted again, and he never uttered a word which could give any clue to what was passing in his mind at such moments.
Thus had time passed away, not altogether without relief; a few hasty lines, sometimes from his mother, sometimes from Agnes Sorel, sometimes from his own Agnes, gave him information of the welfare of the latter, and cheered his spirits for a day. But often would the momentary sunshine be clouded by dark anxieties and fears.
He had not heard any thing for some weeks; and after a long ride through the neighboring country, he was about to retire to rest, when steps came rapidly through the long gallery of the inn, and stopped at his chamber door. It was a young monk come to tell him that the abbot, after supper, had been seized with sudden and perilous sickness, and earnestly desired to see him instantly. Jean Charost hurried up with the messenger to the abbey, and being brought into the old man's chamber, instantly perceived that the hand of death had touched him: the eyes spoke it, the temples spoke it, it was written in every line.
Lomelini welcomed him faintly; and as Jean Charost bent kindly over him, he said, almost in a whisper, "Bid all the others leave the room--I have something to say to you."
As soon as they were alone together, the old man said, "Put your hand beneath my pillow. You will find something there."
Jean Charost obeyed, and drew forth a packet, yellow and soiled. His own name was written on it in a hand which he recognized at once.
"Something more--something more," said Lomelini; and searching again, he found another packet, also addressed to himself; but the seals of this had been broken, though those on the other cover had been left undisturbed. Without ceremony he unfolded the paper, and found within a case of sandal wood inlaid with gold, and bearing the letters M. S. F. twisted into a curious monograph. It opened with two small clasps, and within were two rows of large and brilliant diamonds.
De Brecy's examination had been quick and eager, and while he made it, the dying man's eyes had been fixed upon his countenance. As he closed the case, Lomelini raised his voice, saying, "Listen, Seigneur De Brecy."
Jean Charost put up the packets, and sat down by the old man's side. He could not find it in his heart at that moment to speak harshly, although he now easily divined why the packets had been kept from him, so long.