Lord Montagu's Page. G. P. R. James

Pierrot, though you have forgotten me." Thus saying, he drew the personage whom he had called Guiton aside and spoke to him during a few moments in a whisper. In the mean time, two or three stout apprentices had been called forth from the neighboring houses; and the youth, being raised in their arms, was being carried along the Rue de l'Horloge. Clement Tournon followed quickly, leaving his friend Guiton at the corner; and at the tenth door on the left-hand side the party stopped and entered the passage of a tall house standing somewhat back from the general line of the street. It was rather a gloomy-looking edifice, with small windows and heavy doors plated on the inner side with iron; but whether sad or cheerful mattered little to poor Master Ned, for the state of stupor in which he lay was not affected by the act of bearing him thither, nor by the still more troublesome task of carrying him up a narrow stairs. That he was not dead his heavy breathing showed; but that was almost the only sign of life which could be discovered by a casual observer.

      "Carry him into the small room behind the saloon," said Clement Tournon, who was at this time following close; and in another minute the lad was laid upon a bed in a room situated in the back of the house, where little noise could penetrate, and which was cheerful and airy enough.

      "Thank you, lads; thank you!" said the syndic, speaking to the apprentices. "Now leave us. You, Pierrot la Grange, stay here: undress him and get him between the sheets."

      The noise and the little crowd going up the steps had brought forth several women-servants, belonging to Monsieur Tournon's household, in large, helmet-shaped, white caps; and, after gazing in silence for a moment or two, with wonder and compassion, upon the handsome pale countenance, all bedabbled with blood, of the poor lad, they began to make numerous suggestions to their master, who answered nothing, but inquired, "Where is Lucette?"

      She was gone, they told him, to Madame Loraine's school; and then, rejecting all their counsels, and merely telling them that Dr. Cavillac would soon be there, he ordered the room to be cleared of every one but Pierrot and himself.

      The old syndic paused for a moment or two after his commands had been obeyed, gazing upon the pale face before him with a look of greater interest than he had yet suffered to appear upon his countenance. Then, suddenly turning to Pierrot, he said, "Now tell me all you know about this youth. Who is he? What did he come hither for? What is his business with me?"

      "What is his business with you, Monsieur Tournon? I do not know," replied Pierrot la Grange. "What he came hither for was to bring letters or messages from England; and as to who or what he is or was, that is very simple. He is Lord Montagu's page."

      "And his name?" asked the syndic.

      "We used to call him Master Ned," replied Pierrot. "That was when I was with the English army in the Isle de Rhé; but his name by rights, I believe, is Edward Langdale." The old man continued silent; and Pierrot, whose tendency to loqua-city easily broke bounds, went on to tell how Etienne Jargeau had received, some days before, information that Master Ned would arrive upon the coast on business of importance, with directions to have a small beacon-fire lighted that night, and every night after, on a little hill just above the trou bourbé, till the lad appeared. "You know Jargeau used to be a retainer of the Prince de Soubise, monsieur," Pierrot continued; "but of late he has left his service and has gone over—some say bought—to the French party."

      "I trust we are all of the true French party," replied Monsieur Tournon. "But the lad landed last night, you say. Had he no baggage with him?"

      "Yes, two large leather bags with padlocks on them," rejoined Pierrot: "they are left safe under lock and key at the Coq d'Or, where we were obliged to rest last night because the guard was so sound asleep that we could not wake them to let us in."

      "Ay? so sluggardly? This must be amended," said the syndic. "At the Coq d'Or, in the suburb? That is no safe place for such bags."

      "So I was just thinking," replied Pierrot: "I will go up and fetch them. He has got the key of the room in his pocket."

      The worthy gentleman made a movement toward the bed, as if to take the key; but Clement Tournon stopped him with a somewhat sarcastic smile, saying, "If the Coq d'Or is no safe depository, Pierrot la Grange is no safe messenger."

      The man's face flushed. "You do me wrong, sir!" he exclaimed. "Bad enough I may be; but I never stole a thing in my life."

      "Not a cup of brandy?" asked the syndic, with another smile.

      Pierrot laughed. "Fair booty, fair booty!" he cried: "strong waters are fair booty everywhere, monsieur."

      "Well, I suspect you of nothing worse," replied Tournon; "but, if you were once to go for the bags, Heaven knows when we should see you again; and then you would come without the bags; for there would be plenty of people to lighten you of your load. Besides, the people of the cabaret would not let you take them. I will send my head-polisher with you and give him an order to receive the baggage in my name. They dare not refuse my order. Get the key gently. I do not love putting my hands into other people's pockets."

      As soon as the key had been obtained, Clement Tournon led his companion into a large, curious-looking apartment on the floor below, where round the room appeared a number of dingy glass cases, through the small panes of which came the gleam of various articles of gold and silver, while in different parts of the room were several anvils and work-benches, with some half-dozen men filing, hammering, and polishing. Near the window was a tall desk within a sort of iron cage, and two clerks writing. Every thing was orderly in the house of Clement Tournon; and, advancing to one of the scribes, he directed him to write the order he had promised, saw it made out and signed it, and then called a strong, middle-aged man from a bench, whom he ordered to accompany Pierrot to the tavern and return with him. He then took his way back to the little room behind the great saloon and sat down by the bedside of Master Ned, murmuring, "Poor boy! poor boy! He reminds me of my own poor Albert."

      Ere five minutes were over, he was joined by the physician—a man celebrated in his day, well advanced in years, and with that peculiar look of mysterious noncompromising solemnity which many a doctor still affects, and which was then as necessary to the profession as rhubarb. As a description of medical treatment in those times, though it might prove in some degree interesting to those who are fond of "picking the bare bone of antiquity," would neither interest nor instruct the general reader, I will pass over in silence all the remedial means resorted to in the case of Master Ned. I only know that cataplasms were applied to the soles of his feet, and that some blood was taken from his arm. The doctor, after examination, declared that the skull was not fractured—which might well have been the case; for, by a curious arrangement of nature, those whose brains are the best worth preserving have uniformly the thinnest cases in which to put them. "No, the skull was not fractured," Monsieur Cavillac said; but the lad had received a severe concussion of the brain, which was sometimes worse. He, however, held out good hope, though he told the syndic that he did not anticipate any change till the sun went down, and read him a lecture upon the effect of the various changes of the moon, and even of the day, upon the human frame, assuring him—a fact in which many still believe—that a scotched viper never dies till the sun sets.

      After he was gone, Clement Tournon took care to have all the directions carried out to the letter, and the cataplasms had just been prepared and applied when Pierrot and the polisher returned with the bags.

      "Take him below," said the syndic, addressing his workman, and indicating Pierrot by a nod of his head toward him—"take him below, and let him feed with our people; but take care that he does not get at strong drink. Now, keep this place as quiet as possible, but tell old Marton to come here in half an hour: for I have affairs, and must go at that time."

      "Can I not stay and attend upon my young master?" asked Pierrot, in a respectful tone.

      "No," said the syndic, dryly: "men who drink are always noisy."

      When left alone with the door shut, what imaginations came upon the good old merchant! "Would that I knew the lad's errand!" he thought; and his eyes turned toward the bags, which had been set down at the foot of the bed. "His letters must be in there," said Tournon to himself, "and the key of the padlocks is doubtless in his pocket."

      Ah,