"Well, well; come in," he said, at length; "I have nothing to do with it, but to open and shut the door. The people within will tell you whether you can eat with them or not. They eat enough themselves, God wot, and drink too; but they are not over-fond of sharing with those they don't know, except through the buttery hole or the east wicket; and there it is only what they can't eat themselves. Ay, we had different times of it when Abbot Jerome was alive."
Before the long fit of grumbling was at an end, the Duke of Orleans and his young companion were at the inner door of the building; and a little bell, ringing from a distant corner, gave notice that the mid-day meal of the monks was about to begin.
"Come along--come along, Jean," said the duke, seeming to participate in the eagerness with which several monks were hurrying along in one direction; "they say the end of a feast is better than the beginning of a fray; but, to say truth, the beginning is the best part of either."
On they went; no one stopped them--no one said a word to them. The impulse of a very voracious appetite was upon the great body of the monks, and deprived them of all inclination to question the strangers, till they were actually at the door of the refectory, where a burly, barefooted fellow barred the way, and demanded what they wanted. "A dinner," answered the Duke of Orleans, with a laugh. "You are hospitable friars, are you not?"
The man gazed at him for a moment without reply, but with a very curious expression of countenance, ran his eye over the duke's apparel, which, though by no means very splendid, was marked by all the peculiar fopperies of high station; then gave a glance at Jean Charost, and then replied, in a much altered tone, "We are, sir. But it so happens that to-day my lord abbot has visitors who dine here. Doubtless he will not refuse you hospitality, if you let him know who it is demands it. He has with him Monsieur and Madame Giac, and their train, high persons at the court of Burgundy. Who shall I say are here?"
"Two poor simple gentlemen in need of a dinner," replied the duke, in a careless tone--"Louis Valois and Jean Charost by name. But make haste, good brother, or the pottage will be cold."
The man retired into the refectory, the door of which was continually opening and shutting as the monks passed in; and Jean Charost, who stood a little to the right of the duke, could see the monk hurry forward toward a gay party already seated at the head of one of the long tables, with the abbot in the midst.
He returned in a few seconds with another monk, and ushered the duke and his young companion straight up to the table of the abbot, an elderly man of jovial aspect, who seemed a little confused and embarrassed. He rose, sat down again, rose, once more, and advanced a step or two.
The Duke of Orleans met him half way with a meaning smile, and a few words passed in a low tone, the import of which Jean Charost did not hear. The duke, however, immediately after, moved to a vacant seat some way down the table, and beckoned Jean Charost to take a place beside him. The young secretary obeyed, and had a full opportunity, before a somewhat long grace was ended, of scanning the faces of the guests who sat above him.
On the abbot's right hand was a gentleman of some forty years of age, gayly dressed, but of a countenance by no means prepossessing, cold, calculating, yet harsh; and next to him was placed a young girl of some thirteen or fourteen years of age, not at that time particularly remarkable for her beauty, but yet with an expression of countenance which, once seen, was not easily to be forgotten. That expression is difficult to be described, but it possessed that which, as far as we can judge from very poor and not very certain portraits, was much wanting in the countenances of most French women of the day. There was soul in it--a look blending thought and feeling--with much firmness and decision even about the small, beautiful mouth, but a world of soft tenderness in the eyes.