"Yes--on the fire," said the duke, slowly and sternly; and then pointing to another, he added, "Give me that."
Jean Charost brought it to him, when it met with the same fate, but with less consideration than the other. Another and another succeeded; but at length a larger one than the rest was pointed out by the duke, and the young secretary paused for an instant before it, utterly confounded as he read beneath the name of the Duchess of Burgundy. It fared no better than the rest, and another still was added to the flames. But then the duke paused, saying, "I am ill, my friend--I am ill. I can not go on with this. I leave the task to you. Stay here with these men, and see that every one of the pictures in this room, as far as yonder two columns on either side, be burned before nightfall, with one exception. I look to you to see the execution of an act which, if I die, will wipe out a sad stain from my memory. You hear what I say," he continued, turning to the two attendants; and was then walking toward the centre door of the gallery, when Jean Charost said, "Your highness mentioned one exception, but you did not point it out."
The duke laid his hand upon his arm, led him to the side of the room, and pointed to a picture nearly in the centre, merely uttering the word "That!"
On the frame was inscribed the words, "Valentine, Duchess of Orleans;" and, after having gazed at it for a moment in silence, the prince turned and quitted the room.
When he was gone, Jean Charost remained for a few minutes without taking any steps to obey his command. The two men stood likewise, with their arms crossed, in a revery nearly as grave as that of the young secretary; but their thoughts were very different from his. He comprehended, in a degree, the motives upon which the prince acted, and felt how strong and vigorous must be the resolution, and yet how painful the feelings which had prompted the order he had given. Nay more, his fancy shadowed forth a thousand accessories--a thousand associations, which must have hung round, and connected themselves with that strong act of determination which his royal master had just performed--sweet memories, better feelings, young hopes, ardent passions, kindly sympathies, wayward caprices, volatile forgetfulness, sorrow, regret, and mourning, and remorse. A light, as from imagination, played round the portraits as he gazed upon them. The spirits of the dead, of the neglected, of the forgotten, seemed to animate the features on the wall, and he could not but feel a sort of painful regret that, however guilty, however vain, however foolish might be the passion which caused those speaking effigies to be ranged around, he should have been selected to consign them to that destroying element which might devour the picture, but could not obliterate the sin.
At length he started from his revery, and began the appointed work, the men obeying habitually the orders they received, although doubts existed in their minds whether the prince was not suffering from temporary insanity in commanding the destruction of objects which they looked upon only as rare treasures, without the slightest conception of the associations which so often in this world render those things most estimable in the eyes of others, sad, painful, or perilous to the possessor.
In about an hour all was completed; and I am not certain that what I may call the experience of that hour--the thoughts, the sensations, the fancies of Jean Charost--had not added more than one year to his mental life. Certain it is, that with a stronger and a more manly step, and with even additional earnestness of character, he walked back to the apartments of the duke, and knocked for admission. A voice, but not that of the prince, told him to come in, after a moment's delay, and he found the maître d'hôtel in conference with his master.
"Come in, De Brecy," said the duke. "Leave us, Lomelini. You are his good friend, I know. But I have to speak with him on my own affairs, not on his. With them I have naught to do, and it were well for others not to meddle either. So let them understand."
The maître d'hôtel retired, bowing low; and, after remaining a moment or two in thought, the duke raised his eyes to the young secretary's face, saying, in a somewhat languid tone, "Were you ever in this part of the country before, De Brecy?"
"Never, your highness," replied Jean Charost.