Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James

replied Jean Charost, unable to resist. "He came from the passage down which you went the moment after you had left me, and I fancied I heard him speak with you."

      "Not so, my son, not so," replied the monk, eagerly; "I saw no one but yourself, and spoke with no one."

      The Duke of Orleans sat and mused for a few moments; but then raised himself to his full height, and threw back his shoulders, as if casting off a weight; and, taking the arm of Jean Charost, quitted the convent, merely saying, "This is very strange!"

      They soon reached the small postern gate in the garden wall, and entered the precincts of the palace; but as they were approaching the building itself, the duke paused for a moment, saying to his young companion, "Not a word of this strange occurrence to any one. Sup in your own room, and be with me to-morrow at the hour I named."

      His tone was somewhat stern, and Jean Charost made no reply, thinking, however, that he was very likely to go without his supper, as he had no one to send for it. But when he entered his room he found matters considerably changed, probably in consequence of some orders which the duke had given as they were going out. A sconce was lighted on the wall, and a cresset, lamp hung from the ceiling by an iron chain directly over the table. A large fire of logs was blazing on the hearth; and, a moment or two after, an inferior servant entered to ask if he had any commands.

      "Your own varlet, sir, will be here to-morrow," he said; "and in the mean time, I have his highness's commands to attend upon you."

      Jean Charost contented himself with ordering some supper to be brought to him, and asking some questions in regard to the hours and customs of the household; and, after all his wants had been attended to, he retired to rest, without quitting his own room again, judging that the duke's command to sup there had been given as a sort of precaution against any indiscretion upon his part, and implied a desire that he should not mingle with the general household that night. He knew not what the hour was, and it could not have been very late. But there was nothing to keep him awake, except a memory of the strange events of the day, and the light heart of youth soon shakes off such impressions, so that he slept readily and well.

      CHAPTER IX.

      Long before the hour appointed for him to wait upon the duke, Jean Charost was up and dressed, expecting every moment to see the servant he had engaged present himself, but no Martin Grille appeared. The attendant of the duke, who had waited upon him the preceding evening, brought him a breakfast not to be despised, consisting of delicacies from various parts of France, and a bottle of no bad wine of Beaugency; but he could tell nothing of Martin Grille, and by the time the meal was over, the hour appointed by the duke had arrived.

      On being admitted to the prince's dressing-chamber, Jean Charost found him in his robe de chamber, seated at a table, writing. His face, the young man could not help thinking, was even graver and sadder than on the preceding night; but he did not raise his eyes at the secretary's entrance, and continued to write slowly, often stopping to correct or alter, till he had covered one side of the paper before him. When that was done, he handed the sheet to the young secretary, saying, "There, copy me that;" and, on taking the paper, Jean Charost was surprised to see that it was covered with verse; for he was not aware that the duke possessed any of that talent which was afterward so conspicuous in his son. He seated himself at the table, however, and proceeded to fulfill the command he had received, not without difficulty, for the duke's writing, though large and bold, was not very distinct.

      To will and not to do,

       Alas! how sad!

       Man and his passions too

       Are mad--how mad!

       Oh! could the heart but break

       The heavy chain

       That binds it to this stake

       Of earthly pain,

       And see for joys all pure,

       And hopes all bright,

       For pleasures that endure,

       And wells of light,

       And purge away the dross

       With life allied,

       I ne'er had mourn'd love's loss,

       Nor ever cried.

       To will and not to do,

       Alas! how sad!

       Man and his passions too

       Are mad--how mad!

      "Read it, read it," said the Duke of Orleans; and, with some timidity, the young secretary obeyed, feeling instinctively how difficult it is to give in reading the exact emphasis intended by the writer. He succeeded well, however. The duke was pleased, perhaps as much with his own verses as with the manner in which they were read. But, after a few words of commendation, he fell into a fit of thought again, from which he was at length startled by the slow tolling of the bell of a neighboring church. He raised his eyes suddenly to the face of Jean Charost as the sounds struck upon his ear, and gazed at him with a strange, inquiring, but sorrowful expression of countenance, as if he would fain have asked, "Do you know what that bell means? Can you comprehend the feelings it begets in me?"

      The young man bent his eyes gravely to the ground, and that sort of reverence which we all feel for deep grief, and the sort of awe excited, especially in young minds, by the display of intense passion, gave his countenance naturally an expression of sympathy and sorrow.

      A moment after, the duke started up, exclaiming, "I can not let her go without a look or a tear! Come with me, my friend, come with me. God knows I need some support, even in my wrong, and my weakness, and my punishment."

      "Oh, that I could give it you, sir!" said Jean Charost, in a low tone; but the duke merely grasped his arm, and, leaning heavily upon him, quitted the chamber by a door through which Jean Charost had not hitherto passed. It led into the prince's bed-room, and from that, through what seemed a private passage, to a distant suite of rooms on another front of the house. The duke proceeded with a rapid but irregular pace, while the bell was still heard tolling, seeming to make the roof shudder with its slow and heavy vibrations. Through five or six different vacant chambers, fitted up with costly decorations, but apparently long unused, the prince hurried forward till he reached that side of the house which looked over the wall of the gardens into the Rue Saint Antoine, but there he paused before a window, and gazed forth.

      There was nothing to be seen. The street was almost deserted. A youth in a fustian jacket and wide hose, with a round cap on his head--evidently some laboring mechanic--passed along toward the Bastile, gazing forward with a look of stupid eagerness, and then set off running, as if to see some sight which he was afraid would escape him; and still the bell was heard tolling slow and solemnly, and filling the whole air with melancholy trembling.

      The duke quitted his hold of Jean Charost and crossed his arms upon his breast, setting his teeth hard, as if there were a terrible struggle within, in which he was determined to conquer.

      A moment after, a song rose upon the air--a slow, melancholy chant, well marked in time, with swelling flow and softening cadence, and now a pause, and then a full burst of song, sometimes one or two voices heard alone, and then a full chorus; but all sad, and solemn, and oppressive to the spirit. At length a man bearing a banner appeared, and then two or three couple of mendicant friars, and then a small train of Celestin monks in their long, flowing garments, and then some boys in white gowns with censers, then priests in their robes, and then two white horses drawing a car, with a coffin upon it--a closed coffin, which was not usual in those days at the funerals of the great. Men on horseback and on foot followed, but Jean Charost did not clearly distinguish who or what they were. He only saw the priests and the boys with their censers, and the Celestins in their white gowns and their black scapularies, and the coffin, and the flowers that strewed it, even in the midst of winter, in an indistinct and confused manner, for his attention was strongly called in another direction, though he did not venture to look round.

      The moment the head of the procession had appeared from beyond one of the flanking towers