Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James

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.

      On the other side of the abbot sat a gay and beautiful lady, in the early prime of life, with her face beaming with witching smiles; and Jean Charost could not help thinking he saw a very meaning glance pass between the Duke of Orleans and herself. No one at the table, indeed, openly recognized the prince; and, although the young secretary had little doubt that his royal master was known to more than one there present, it was clear the great body of the monks were ignorant that he was among them.

      The fare upon the table did not by any means belie the reputation of the convent. Delicate meats, well cooked; fish in abundance, and of various kinds; game of every sort the country produced; and wine of exceedingly delicate flavor, showed how completely field, forest, tank, and vineyard were laid under tribute by the good friars of Juvisy. Nor did the monks seem to mortify their tongues more than the rest of their bodies. Merriment, revelry--sometimes wit, sometimes buffoonery--and conversation, often profane, and often obscene, ran along the table without any show of reverence for ears that might be listening. The young man had heard of such things, but had hardly believed the tale; and not a little scandalized was he, in his simplicity, at all he saw and heard. That which confounded him more than all the rest, however, was the demeanor of the Duke of Orleans. He did not know how often painful feelings and sensations take refuge in things the most opposite to themselves--how grief will strive to drown itself in the flood of revelry--how men strive to sweeten the cup of pain with the wild honey-drops of pleasure. From the first moment of his introduction to the duke up to that hour, he had seen him under but one aspect. He had been grave, sad, thoughtful, gloomy. Health itself had seemed affected by some secret sorrow; and now every thing was changed in a moment. He mingled gayly, lightly in the conversation, gave back jest for jest with flashing repartee, encouraged and shared in the revelry around him, and drank liberally, although there was a glowing spot in his cheek which seemed to say there was a fire within which wanted no such feeding.

      The characters around would bear a long description; for monastic life--begun generally when habits of thought were fixed--had not the power ascribed by a great orator to education, of dissolving the original characters of men, and recrystallizing them in a different form. At one part of the table there was the rude broad jester, rolling his fat body within his wide gown, and laughing riotously at his own jokes. At a little distance sat the keen bright satirist, full of flashes of wit and sarcasm, but as fond of earthly pleasures as all the rest; and a little nearer was the man of sly quiet humor, as grave as a judge himself, but causing all around him to roar with laughter. The abbot, overflowing with the good things of this life, and enjoying them still with undiminished powers, notwithstanding the sixty years and more which had passed over his head, was evidently well accustomed to the somewhat irreverent demeanor of his refectory, and probably might not have relished his dinner without the zest of its jokes. Certain it is, at all events, though his own parlor was a more comfortable room, and universal custom justified his dining in solitude, he was seldom absent at the hour of dinner, and only abstained from being present at supper likewise, lest he should hear and see more than could be well passed over in safety.

      When the meal was at an end, however, the abbot rose, and, inviting his lay guests to his own particular apartments, left his monks to conduct the exercises of the afternoon as they might think fit. With his cross-bearer before him, he led the way, followed by the rest in the order which the narrowness of the passages compelled them to take; and Jean Charost found himself coupled, for the time, with the young girl he had seen on the opposite side of the table. He was too much of a Frenchman to hesitate for a moment in addressing her; for, in that country, silence in a woman's society is generally supposed to proceed either from awkwardness or rudeness. She answered with as little constraint; and they were in the full flow of conversation when they entered a well-tapestried room, which, though large in itself, seemed small after the great hall of the refectory.

      The abbot, and the nobleman who had sat by his side, in whom Jean Charost recognized the Monsieur De Giac whom he had seen by torch-light in the streets of Paris, were already talking to each other with some eagerness, while the Duke of Orleans followed a step or two behind, conversing in low tones with the beautiful lady who had sat upon the abbot's other hand.

      Gay and light seemed their conference; and both laughed, and both smiled, and both whispered, but not apparently from any reverence for the persons or place around them. But no one took any notice. Monsieur De Giac was very blind to his wife's coquetry, and the abbot was well accustomed to the feat of shutting his eyes without dropping his eyelids. Nay, he seemed to think the merriment hardly sufficient for the occasion; for he ordered more wines to be brought, and those the most choice and delicate of his cellar, with various preserved fruits, gently to stimulate the throat to deeper potations.

      "Not very reverend," said Jean Charost, in answer to some observation of the young lady, shortly after they entered, while the rest remained scattered about in different groups. "I wonder if every monastery throughout France is like this."

      "Very like, indeed," answered his fair companion, with a smile. "Surely this is not the first religious house you have ever visited."

      "The first of its kind," replied Jean Charost; "I have been often in the Black Friars at Bourges, but their rule is somewhat more austere, or more austerely practiced."

      "Poor people," said the girl. "It is to be hoped there is a heaven, for their sakes. These good folks seem to think themselves well enough where they are, without going further. But in sorry truth, all monasteries are very much like this--those that I have seen, at least."

      "And nunneries?" asked Jean Charost.

      "Somewhat better," she answered, with a sigh. "Whatever faults women may have, they are not such coarse ones as we have seen here to-night; but I know not much about them, for I have been long enough in one only to judge of it rightly; and now I feel like a bird with its prison doors unclosed, because I am going to join the court of the Queen of Anjou: that does not speak ill of the nunnery, methinks. Who knows, if they reveled as loud and high there as here, but I might have loved to remain."

      "I think not," answered her young companion, "if I may judge by your face at dinner. You seemed not to smile on the revels of the monks."

      "They made my head ache," answered the girl; and then added, abruptly, "so you are an observer of faces, are you? What think you of that face speaking with the abbot?"

      "Nay, he may be your father, brother, or any near relation," answered Jean Charost. "I shall not speak till I know more."

      "Oh, he is nothing to me," replied the girl. "He is my noble Lord of Giac, who does me the great honor, with my lady, his wife, of conveying me to Beaugency, where we shall overtake the Queen of Anjou. His face would not curdle milk, nor turn wine sour; but yet there is something in it not of honey exactly."

      "He seems to leave all the honey to his fair lady," replied Jean Charost.

      "Yes, to catch flies with," replied the girl; and then she added, in a lower tone, "and he is the spider to eat them."

      The wine and the preserved fruits had by this time been placed upon a large marble table in the centre of the hall; and a fair sight they made, with the silver flagons, and the gold and jeweled cups, spread out upon that white expanse, beneath the gray and fretted arches overhead, while on the several groups around in their gay apparel, and the abbot in his robes, standing by the table, with a serving brother at his side, the many-colored light shone strongly through the window of painted glass.

      "Here's to you, noble sir, whom I am to call Louis Valois, and to your young friend, Jean Charost," said the abbot, bowing to the duke, and raising a cup he had just filled. "I pray you do me justice in this excellent wine of Nuits."

      "I will but sip, my lord," replied the duke, taking up a cup. "I have drank enough already somewhat to heat me."

      "Nay, nay, good gentleman," cried the fair lady with whom he had been talking, "let me fill for you! Drink fair with the lord abbot, for very shame, or I will inform the