"No; methinks we shall be safer on this side," said Jean Charost. "Now, as we ride along, let me hear all that has been passing at the court. Perhaps I may be able to pick out some cause for this sudden displeasure of the king."
"Well, sir, I am sorry to be obliged to say what I must say," answered Martin Grille; "but the king has treated you very ill. This Peter of Vendôme, whom I was talking about--the devil plague him!--is at the bottom of it all; though his aunt, who is a worse devil than himself, manages the matter for him. She has taken it into her head that she must ally herself to the royal family. Now, it runs every where at the court that Mademoiselle Agnes is the daughter of the poor Duke of Orleans, who was killed near the Porte Barbette; that she was intrusted by him to your care; and that, for ambition, you want to marry her, and then tell all the world who she is."
Jean Charost had been gazing in his face for the last moment or two in silence; but now he inclined his head slowly, saying, "Go on. I now see how it is."
"Well, sir, about a month ago this Jeanne de Vendôme proposed to the king that her nephew should marry our young lady, and the king, it would seem, was willing enough; but a certain beautiful lady you know of opposed it, and, as she can do nearly what she likes, for some time the day went with her. Then Jeanne of Vendôme went and curried favor with Monsieur La Trimouille, who can do nearly what he likes on the other side, and then the day went against us for some time. The king was very violent, and swore that if he had any power or authority over Mademoiselle Agnes, she should marry Peter of Vendôme, though she told him all the while she would not, and begged him, humbly and devoutly, rather to let her go into a nunnery. Kings will have their way, however, sir, and things were looking very bad, when suddenly, three days ago, our young lady disappeared--"
"Where did she go to? Where is she?" asked Jean Charost, sharply.
"That I can not tell, sir," answered Martin Grille; "but she is safe enough, I am sure; for when I told Mademoiselle De St. Geran about it, she said, with one of her enchanting smiles, 'Has she, indeed, my good man? Well, I dare say God will protect her.' But the king did not take it so quietly. He was quite furious; and neither Peter of Vendôme nor his aunt would let his passion cool."
"Doubtless attributed it all to me," said Jean Charost, whose face had greatly lighted up within the last few minutes. But Martin Grille replied, to his surprise, "I do not think they did, sir. The painted old woman hinted, though she did not venture to say so, that the beautiful young lady you wot of had helped her namesake's escape; and the nephew said that if the king would but sign the papers, he would soon find the fugitive, for he had a shrewd notion of where she was."
"He did not sign them!" exclaimed Jean Charost, with a look of dread.
"He had well-nigh done it, my lord," replied Martin Grille. "Last night, when the king was sitting with the queen in the large black room on the second floor, which you remember well--very melancholy he was, for somewhat of a coolness had sprung up between him and her whom he loves best, and he can not live without her--they brought him in the papers to sign, that is to say, Peter of Vendôme and his aunt, looking all radiant and triumphant. Some one watched them, however; for, just at that minute, in came the chancellor and two or three others, and among them one of the pages, with a paper in his hand addressed to the king. The king took it, just looked at the top, and then handing it up to the chancellor, was about to sign what Peter of Vendôme demanded, and let him go; but Monsieur Des Ursins--that is the chancellor--cried, 'Hold, your majesty. This is important; in good and proper form; and must have your royal attention.' Then he read it out; but I can not tell you all that it contained. However, it was a prohibition, in good set form, for any one to dispose of the hand, person, or property of our young lady, Mademoiselle Agnes, either in marriage, wardship, or otherwise, and setting forth that the writer was her true and duly-constituted guardian, according to the laws of France. It was signed 'St. Florent;' and, though the king was mighty angry, the chancellor persuaded him not to sign the papers till the right of the appellant, as he called it, was decided by some competent tribunal."
"And how came you to know all this so accurately?" asked Jean Charost, after meditating for several minutes over what he had heard.