Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

"No, no," replied the prince; "let him stay where he is. He overwhelms me with his talk of phlebotomy and humors, his calculations of the moon, and his caption of fortunate hours. 'Tis but a little sickness that will pass. Besides, there is the man at Corbeil. He can let blood, or compound a cooling potion."

As soon as the cavalcade had entered the court-yard of the château, the duke was assisted from his litter, and retired at once to his chamber, leaning upon the arm of Lomelini, who was all attention and humble devotion. The rest of the party then scattered in different directions, most of those present knowing well where to betake themselves, and each seeking the dwelling-place to which he was accustomed. Jean Charost, however, had no notion where he was to lodge, and now, for the first time, came into play the abilities of his new servant, Martin Grille. His horses were stabled in a minute--whether in the right place or not, Martin stopped not to inquire--and, the moment that was done, divining well the embarrassment of an inexperienced master, the good man darted hither and thither, acquiring very rapidly, from the different varlets and pages, a vast amount of information regarding the château and its customs.

He found Jean Charost walking up and down a large hall, which opened directly, without any vestibule, from the principal door of entrance, and plunged so deeply was he in meditation, that he seemed to see none of the persons who were passing busily to and fro around him. The revery was deep, and something more: it was not altogether pleasant. Who, in the cares and anxieties of mature life, does not sometimes pause and look back wistfully to the calmer days of childhood, decking them with fanciful memories of joys and sports, and burying in forgetfulness the troubles and sorrows which seemed severe at the time. The two spirits that are in man, indeed, never exercise their influence more strongly in opposition than in prompting the desire for peace, and the eagerness for action.

Jean Charost was busy at the moment with the unprofitable, fruitless comparison of the condition in which he had lately lived and his present station. The calm and tranquil routine of ordinary business; the daily occupation, somewhat monotonous, but without anxiety, or even expectation; the peaceful hours for study, for thought, or for exercise, when not engaged in the service of no very exacting master, acquired a new and extraordinary interest in his eyes now that ambition was gratified, and he appeared to be in the road to honor and success. It was not that he was tired of the Duke of Orleans's service: it was not that he misappreciated the favors he received, or the kindness with which he had been treated; but the look back or the look forward makes a great difference in our estimate of events and circumstances, and he felt that full appreciation of the past which nothing that is not past can altogether command. Yet, if he strove to fix upon any point in regard to which he had been disappointed, he found it difficult to do so. But there was something in the whole which created in his breast a general feeling of depression. There was a sensation of anxiety, and doubt, and suspicion in regard to all that surrounded him. A dim sort of mist of uncertainty hung over the whole, which, to his daylight-loving mind, was very painful. One half of what he saw or heard he did not comprehend. Men seemed to be speaking in a strange, unlearned language--to be acting a mystery, the secret of which would not be developed till near the end; and he was pondering over all these things, and asking himself how he should act in the midst of them, when Martin Grille approached, and, in a low tone, told him all that he had discovered, offering to show him where the secretary's apartments were situated.

"But can I be sure that the same rooms are destined for me?" asked Jean Charost.

"Take them, sir, take them," answered Martin Grille; "that is to say, if they are good, and suit you. The only quality that is not valued at a court is modesty. It is always better to seize what you can get, and the difficulty of dispossessing you, nine times out of ten, makes men leave you what you have taken. Signor Lomelini is still with the duke; so that you can ask him no questions. You must be lodged some where, so you had better lodge yourself."

Jean Charost thought the advice was good, especially as night had by this time fallen, and a single cresset in the hall afforded the only light, except when some one passed by with a lamp in his hand. He followed Martin Grille, therefore, and was just issuing forth, when Juvenel de Royans, and another young man of the same age, came in by the same door out of which he was going. At the sight of the young secretary, De Royans drew back with a look of affected reverence, and a low inclination of the head, and then burst into a loud laugh. Jean Charost gazed at him with a cold, unmoved look, expressive, perhaps, of surprise, but nothing else, and then passed on his way.

"Those gentlemen will bring themselves into trouble before they have done," said Martin Grille. "That Monsieur De Royans is already deep in the bad books."

"No deeper than he deserves," answered Jean Charost. "But perhaps they may find they have made a mistake before they have done."

"Ah, good sir, never quarrel with a courtier," said the servant. "They are like wary fencers, and try to put a man in a passion in order to throw him off his guard. But here are your rooms, at the end of this passage. That door is the back entrance to the duke's apartments. The front is on the other corridor."