Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James

wrote on, striving to do his best, but not certain whether he was right or wrong.

      For more than half an hour the young man continued writing, and then said, in a low voice, "It is done, your highness."

      The duke started, and held out his hand for the paper, which he read carefully twice over. It seemed to please him, for he nodded his head to his young companion with a smile, saying, "Very well--better than I expected. But you must change that word--and that. Choose me something more forcible. Say impossible, rather than difficult; and positively, rather than probably. On these points there must be no doubts left. Then make me a fair copy. It shall go this very night."

      Jean Charost resumed his seat, and executed this task also to the full satisfaction of the Duke of Orleans. When all was complete, and the letter sealed and addressed, the duke rang the little clochette, or silver bell upon his table, and one of the attendants immediately entered. To him he gave the epistle, with directions for its transmission by a proper officer, and the man departed in silence. For a moment or two the duke remained without speaking, but gazing in the face of Jean Charost, as if considering something he saw there attentively; and at length he said to himself, "Ay--it is as well. Get your cloak, M. de Brecy," he continued. "I wish you to go a few steps with me. Bring sword and dagger with you. There, take a light, as there is none in your chamber."

      The young secretary hurried away, and in two minutes returned to the duke's door; but the attendant would not suffer him to enter till he had knocked and asked permission. When admitted, he found the duke equipped for going forth, his whole person enveloped in a large, plain mantle, and his head covered with a chaperon or hood, which concealed the greater part of his face. "Now follow me," he said; and passing the attendant, to whom he gave some orders in a low voice, he led the way through that corridor and another, then descended a flight of steps, and issued out by a small door into the gardens. Taking his way between two rows of trees, he made direct for the opposite wall, opened a door in it with a key which he carried with him, and, in a moment after, Jean Charost found himself in a narrow street, along which a number of persons were passing. "Keep close," said the Duke of Orleans, after he had closed the door; and then advancing with a quick pace between the wall and the houses opposite, he led the way direct into the Rue St. Antoine. The night was clear and bright, though exceedingly cold, and the Parisian world were all abroad in the streets; but the duke and his young companion passed unnoticed in the crowd.

      At length they reached the gate of that large building at which the young secretary had seen the man apply for admission on the preceding night, and there the duke stopped, and rang the same bell. A wicket door was immediately opened by a man in the habit of a monk, with a lantern in his hand, and the duke, slightly lifting his cornette, or chaperon, passed in without speaking, followed by his young secretary. Taking his way across a long, stone-paved court to the main building, he entered a large vestibule where a light was burning, and in which was found an old man busily engaged in painting, with rich hues of blue, and pink, and gold, the capital letters in a large vellum book. To him the duke spoke for a moment or two in a low tone, and the monk immediately took a lantern, and led the way into the interior of the monastery, which was much more silent and quiet than such abodes were usually supposed to be. At the end of the second passage, the little party issued forth upon a long cloister forming one side of a quadrangle, and separated from the central court by an open screen of elaborately carved stone work. Here the old monk turned, and gave a sidelong glance at Jean Charost, lifting his lantern a little, as if to see him more distinctly, and the Duke of Orleans, seeming to take this as a hint, paused for an instant, saying, "Wait for me here, M. De Brecy; I will not be long." He then walked on, and Jean Charost was left to perambulate the cloister in solitude, and nearly in darkness. The stars, indeed, were out, and the rising moon was pouring her silvery rays upon the upper story on the opposite side of the quadrangle, peeping in at the quaint old windows, and illuminating the rich tracery of stone. There seemed something solemn, and yet fanciful, in the picture she displayed. The cold shadows of the tall, fine pillars, and their infinitely varied capitals; the spouts sticking out in strange forms of beasts and dragons; the heads of angels and devils in various angles, and at the ends of corbels, with the fine fret-work of some tall arches at one corner of the court, gave ample materials for the imagination to work with at her will; while the general aspect of the whole was gloomy, if not actually sad. The mass of buildings around, and the distance of that remote quadrangle from the street, deadened the noises of the great city, so that nothing was heard for some time but an indistinct murmur, like the softened roar of the sea.

      In the building itself all was still as death, till the slow footfall of a sandal was heard approaching from the side at which the Duke of Orleans had disappeared. A moment or two after, the old monk came back with a lantern, and paused to speak a few words with the young man from the world without. "It is a bitter cold night, my son," he said, "and the duke tells me he has come hither with you alone. He risks too much in these evil times, methinks."

      "I trust not," replied Jean Charost. "A good prince should have nothing to fear in the streets of his brother's capital."

      "All men have enemies, either within or without," replied the monk; "and no man can be called good till he is in heaven. Have you been long with the duke, my son? He says you are his secretary."

      "I have been in his highness's service but a few hours," replied Jean Charost.

      "He trusts you mightily," answered his ancient companion. "You should be grateful for his great confidence."

      "I am so, indeed, father," replied Jean Charost; "but I owe his confidence to the kind recommendations of another, rather than to any merits of my own."

      "Modestly answered, for one so young," replied the monk. "Methinks you have not been long in courts, my son. They tell me that modesty is soon lost there, as well as truth."

      "I trust that I shall lose neither there," replied Jean Charost, "or I would soon betake myself afar from such bad influence. I do not hold that any thing a court could give would repay a man for loss of honesty."

      "Well, I know little of courts," answered the old man, "and perhaps there is scandal in the tales they tell; but one thing is certain--it is very cold, and I will betake me to my books again. Good-night, my son;" and he walked on.

      Jean Charost began again to pace and repace the cloister, fancying, but not quite sure, that he heard the murmur of voices down the passage through which the monk had taken his way. Shortly after, he saw a tall, gray figure flit across the moonlight, which had now reached to the grass in the centre of the quadrangle. It was lost almost as soon as seen, and no sound of steps met the young man's ear. He saw it distinctly, however, and yet there was a sort of superstitious awe came over him, as if the being he beheld were not of the same nature with himself. He walked on in the same direction which it seemed to have taken, but, ere he reached the corner of the quadrangle, he saw another figure come forth from one of the passages which branched off from the cloister, and easily recognized the walk and bearing of the Duke of Orleans. But suddenly that gray figure came between him and the duke, and a deep-toned, hollow voice was heard to say, "Bad man, repent while you have yet time! Your days are numbered! The last grains of sand shake in the hour-glass; the moon will not change thrice, and find you among the living!"

      The duke seemed to stagger back, and Jean Charost darted onward; but before he reached the spot, the stranger was gone.

      "Follow him not--follow him not!" cried the Duke of Orleans, catching the arm of his young secretary, who was impulsively hurrying in pursuit of the man who had put forth what seemed to his ears a daring threat against the brother of his king; "follow him not, but come hither;" and, taking Jean Charost's arm, he pursued his way through the long passages of the monastery to the vestibule, where sat the old monk busily illuminating his manuscript.

      Till they reached that room the duke uttered not a word, except his brief injunction not to follow. But there he seated himself upon a bench, with a face very pale, and beckoning up the old man, spoke to him for several moments in a low tone of voice.

      "I really can not tell," said the monk, aloud. "We have no such brother as you describe; no one has passed here."

      "He must have passed you, methinks,"