A week, a fortnight, a month; what are they in the long, long, boundless lapse of time? A point--a mere point on which the eye of memory hardly rests in the look-back of a lifetime, unless some of those marking facts which stamp particular periods indelibly upon the heart have given it a durable significance. Yet, even in so brief a space, how much may be done. Circumscribe it as you will--make it a single hour--tie down the passing of that hour to one particular spot; and in that hour, and on that spot, deeds may be written on eternity affecting the whole earth at the time, affecting the whole human race forever. No man can ever overestimate the value of the actions of an hour.
Within the period of Jean Charost's sickness and recovery, up to the time when he fully regained his consciousness, events had been going on around him which greatly influenced, not only his fate, but the fate of mighty nations. The operation, indeed, was not immediate; but it was direct and clear; and we must pause for a moment in the more domestic history which we are giving, to dwell upon occurrences of general importance, without a knowledge of which our tale could hardly be understood.
In confusion and dismay, accompanied by few attendants, and in a somewhat stealthy manner, John of Burgundy fled from Paris, after making his strange and daring confession of the murder of his near kinsman, and the brother of his king.
When informed of the avowal, the Duke of Bourbon, his uncle, and many other members of the king's council, expressed high displeasure that the Duke of Berri and the King of Sicily had suffered him to quit the door of the council-chamber, except as a prisoner; and perhaps those two princes themselves saw the error they had committed. Had they acted boldly and decidedly upon the mere sense of justice and right, France would have been spared many a bloody hour, a disastrous defeat, and a long subjugation. But when the time of repentance came, repentance was too late. The Duke of Burgundy was gone, and the tools of his revenge, though he had boldly named them, had followed their lord.
All had gone, as criminals flying from justice, and such was their terror and apprehension of pursuit, that they threw down spiked balls in the snow behind them as they went, to lame the horses of those who might follow. In the course of his flight, however, the Duke of Burgundy recovered in part his courage and a sense of his dignity. His situation was still perilous indeed; for he had raised enmity and indignation against him in the hearts of all the princes of the blood royal, and of many of the noblest men in France. Nay more, he had alienated the most sincere and the most honorable of his own followers, while the king himself, just recovered from one of his lamentable fits of insanity, was moved by every feeling of affection, and by the sense of justice and of honor, to punish the shameless murderer of his brother.
No preparation of any importance had been made to meet this peril; and the Duke of Burgundy was saved alone by the hesitating counsels of old and timid men, who still procrastinated till is was too late to act.
In the mean time, the murderer determined upon his course. He not only avowed, but attempted to justify the act upon motives so wild, so irrational, so destitute of every real and substantial foundation, that they could not deceive a child, and no one even pretended to be deceived. He accused his unhappy victim of crimes that Louis of Orleans never dreamed of--of aiming at the crown--of practicing upon the health and striking at the life of the king, his brother, by magical arts and devices. He did all, in short, to calumniate his memory, and to represent his assassination as an act necessary to the safety of the crown and the country. At the same time, he sent messengers to his good citizens of Flanders, to his vassals of Artois, to all his near relations, to all whom he could persuade or could command, to demand immediate aid and assistance against the vengeful sword which he fancied might pursue him, and he soon found himself at the head of a force with which he might set the power of his king at defiance. Lille, Ghent, Amiens, bristled with armed men, and John of Burgundy soon felt that the murder of his cousin had put the destinies of France into his hands.
While this was taking place in the north and west, a different scene was being enacted in Paris; a scene which, if the popular heart was not the basest thing that ever God created, the popular mind the lightest and most unreasonable, should have roused the whole citizens to grief for him whom they had lost, to indignation against his daring murderer. The Duchess of Orleans, accompanied by her youngest son, entered Paris as a mourner, and threw herself at the feet of her brother and her king, praying for simple justice. The will of the murdered prince was opened; and, though his faults were many and glaring, that paper showed, the frank and generous character of the man, and was refutation enough of the vile calumnies circulated against him. So firm and strong had been his confidence, so full and clear his intention of maintaining in every respect the agreement of pacification lately signed between himself and the Duke of Burgundy, that he left the guardianship of his children to the very man who had so treacherously caused his assassination. None of his friends, none who had ever served him, were forgotten, and the tenacity of his affection was shown by his remembering many whom he had not seen for years. It was not wonderful, then, that those who knew and loved him clung to his memory with strong attachment, and with a reverence which some of his acts might not altogether warrant. It would not have been wonderful if the generous closing of his life had taught the populace of Paris to forget his faults and to revere his character. But the herd of all great cities is but as a pack of hounds, to be cried on by the voice of the huntsman against any prey that is in view; and the herd of Paris is more reckless in its fierceness than any other on all the earth.
Fortune was with the Duke of Burgundy, and alas! boldness, decision, and skill likewise. He held a conference with the Duke of Berri, and the King of Sicily in his own city of Amiens, swarming with his armed men. He placed over the door of the humble house in which he lodged two lances crossed, the one armed with its steel head, the other unarmed, ungarlanded--a significant indication that he was ready for peace or war. The reproaches of the princes he repelled with insolence, and treated their counsels and remonstrances with contempt. Instead of coming to Paris and submitting himself humbly to the king, as they advised, he marched to St. Denis with a large force, and then, after a day's hesitation, entered the capital, armed cap-Ã -pie, amid the acclamations of the populace.
The Hôtel d'Artois, already a place of considerable strength, received additional fortifications, and all the houses round about it were filled with his armed men; but especial care was taken that the soldiery should commit no excess upon the citizens, and though he bearded his king upon the throne, and overawed the royal council, with the true art of a demagogue he was humble and courteous toward the lowest citizens, flattered those whom he despised, and eagerly sought to make converts to his party in every class of society, partly by corruption, and partly by terror. Wherever he went the people followed at his heels, shouting his name, and vociferating, "Noël, noël!" and gradually the unhappy king, oppressed by his own vassal, though adored by his people, fell back into that lamentable state from which he had but lately recovered.
Such was the state of Paris when Jean Charost raised his head, and gazed around the room in which he was lying. His sight was somewhat dim, his brain was somewhat dizzy; feeble he felt as infancy; but yet it was a pleasure to him to feel himself in that little room again, to fancy himself moving in plain mediocrity, to believe that his experience of courtly life was all a dream. What a satire upon all those objects which form so many men's vain aspirations!
When he had gazed at the window, and at the door, and at all the little objects that were scattered directly before his eyes, he turned feebly to look at things nearer to him. He thought he heard a sigh close to his bedside; but a plain curtain was drawn round the head of the bed, and he could only see from behind it part of a woman's black robe falling in large folds over the knee.
The little rustle that he made in turning seemed to attract the attention of the watcher. The curtain was gently drawn back, and he beheld his mother's face gazing at him earnestly. Oh, it was a pleasant sight; and he smiled upon her with the love that a son can only feel for a mother.
"My son--my dear son," she cried; "you are better. Oh yes, you are better?" And, darting to the door, she called to him who had just gone out, "Messire Jacques, Messire Jacques. He is awake now; and he knows me!"
"Gently, gently, dear lady," said Jacques CÅ“ur, returning to the room. "We must have great quiet, and all will go well."
The widow sat down and wept, and the good merchant placed himself by the young man's side, looked down upon him with a fatherly smile, and pressed his fingers on the wrist, saying, "Ay, the Syrian drug has done marvels. Canst thou speak, my son?"
Jean Charost replied in a voice much stronger than might have been expected; but Jacques Cœur fell into a fit of thought even while he spoke, which lasted some two or three minutes, and the young man was turning toward his mother again, when the good merchant murmured, as if speaking to himself, "I know not well how to act--there are dangers every way. Listen to me, my son, but with perfect calmness, and let me have an answer from your own lips, which I can send to the great man whose messenger waits below. Two days ago we heard that the Duke of Burgundy had caused inquiries to be made concerning you, as where you were to be found, and when you had left the Hôtel d'Orleans. To-day he has sent a gentleman to inquire if you will take service with him. He offers you the post of second squire of his body, and promises knighthood on the first occasion. What do you answer, Jean?"
Jean Charost thought for a moment, and then laid his hand upon his brow; but at length he said, "'Twere better to tell him that I am too ill to answer, or even to think, but that I will either wait upon him or send him my reply in a few days."
"Wisely decided," said Jacques CÅ“ur, rising. "That answer will do right well;" and, quitting the room, he left the door open behind him, so that the young man could hear him deliver the message word for word, merely prefacing it by saying, "He sends his humble duty to his highness, and begs to say--"
A rough voice, in a somewhat haughty tone, replied, "Is he so very ill, then, sir merchant? His highness is determined to know in all cases who is for him and who is against him. I trust you tell me true, therefore."
"You can go up, fair sir, and see," replied Jacques CÅ“ur; "but I must beg you not to disturb him with any talk."
The other voice made no reply, but the moment after Jean Charost could hear a heavy step coming up the stairs, and a good-looking man, of a somewhat heavy countenance, completely armed, but with his beaver up, appeared in the doorway. He merely looked in, however, and the pale countenance and emaciated frame of the young gentleman seemed to remove his doubts at once.
"That will do," he said. "I can now tell what I have seen. The duke will expect an answer in a few days. If he dies, let him know, for there are plenty eager for the post, I can tell you."
Thus saying, he turned away and closed the door; and Madame De Brecy exclaimed, "God forbid that you should die, my son, or serve that bad man either."
"So say I too," replied Jean Charost. "I know not why you should feel so regarding him, dear mother, but I can not divest my mind of a suspicion that he countenanced, if he did not prompt, the death of the Duke of Orleans."
"Do you not know that he has avowed it?" exclaimed Madame De Brecy; but her son's face turned so deadly pale, even to the very lips, that Jacques CÅ“ur interposed, saying gently, "Beware--beware, dear lady. He can not bear any such tidings now. He will soon be well enough to hear all."
His judgment proved right. From that moment every hour gave Jean Charost some additional strength; and that very day, before nightfall, he heard much that imported him greatly to know. He now learned that the Duchess of Orleans, after a brief visit to the capital to demand justice upon the murderers of her husband, had judged it prudent to retire to Blois, and to withdraw all the retainers of the late duke. Jean Charost, being in no situation to bear so long a journey, she had commended him especially to the care of Jacques Cœur, who had ridden in haste to Paris on the news of assassination. He now learned, also, that one of the last acts of the duke had been to leave him a pension of three hundred crowns--then a large sum--charged upon the county of Vertus, and that a packet addressed to him, sealed with the duke's private signet, and marked, "To be read by his own eye alone," had been found among the papers at the château of Beauté.
He would have fain heard more, and prolonged the conversation upon subjects so interesting to him, but Jacques Cœur wisely refused to gratify him, and contrived to dole out his information piece by piece, avoiding, as far as possible, all that could excite or agitate him. A pleasant interlude, toward the fall of evening, was afforded by the arrival of Martin Grille, whose joy at seeing his young master roused from a stupor which he had fancied would only end in death was touching in itself, although it assumed somewhat ludicrous forms. He capered about the room as if he had been bit by a tarantula, and in the midst of his dancing he fell upon his knees, and thanked God and the blessed Virgin for the miraculous cure of his young lord, which he attributed entirely to his having vowed a wax candle of three pounds' weight to burn in the Lady Chapel of the Nôtre Dame in case of Jean Charost's recovery. It seems that since the arrival of Madame de Brecy in Paris, she and Martin Grille had equally divided the task of sitting up all night with her son; and well had the faithful valet performed his duty, for, without an effort, or any knowledge on his part, Jean Charost had won the enthusiastic love and respect of one who had entered his service with a high contempt for his want of experience, and perhaps some intention of making the best of a good place.
Well has it been said that force of character is the most powerful of moral engines, for it works silently, and even without the consciousness of those who are subject to its influence, upon all that approaches it. How often is it that we see a man of no particular brilliance of thought, of manner, or of expression, come into the midst of turbulent and unruly spirits, and bend them like osiers to his will. Some people will have it that it is the clearness with which his thoughts are expressed, or the clearness with which they are conceived, the definiteness of his directions, the promptness of his decisions, which gives him this power; but if we look closely, we shall find that it is force of character--a quality of the mind which men feel in others rather than perceive, and which they yield to often without knowing why.
The following morning rose like a wayward child, dull and sobbing; but Jean Charost woke refreshed and reinvigorated, after a long, calm night of sweet and natural sleep. His mother was again by his bedside, and she took a pleasure in telling him how carefully Martin Grille had preserved all his little treasures in the Hôtel d'Orleans, at a time when the assassination of the duke had thrown all the better members of the household into dismay and confusion, and left the house itself, for a considerable time, at the mercy of the knaves and scoundrels that are never wanting in a large establishment.
She was interrupted in her details by the entrance of the very person of whom she spoke, and at the same time loud cries and shouts and hurras rose up from the street, inducing Jean Charost to inquire if the king were passing along.
"No, fair sir," answered Martin Grille. "It is the king's king. But, on my life, my lord of Burgundy does not much fear rusting his armor, or he would not ride through the streets on such a day as this."
"Does he go armed, then?" asked Jean Charost.
"From head to foot," answered his mother; and Martin Grille added, "He is seldom without four or five hundred men-at-arms with him. Such a sight was never seen in Paris. But I must go my ways, and get the news of the day, for these are times when every man should know whatever his neighbor is doing."
"I fear your intelligence must stop somewhat short of that," said Jean Charost.
"I shall get all the intelligence I want," replied the valet, with a sapient nod of the head. "I have a singing bird in the court cage that always sings me truly;" and away he went in search of news.
During his absence, a consultation was held between Madame De Brecy, her son, and Jacques CÅ“ur as to what was to be done in regard to the message of the Duke of Burgundy. "We have only put off the evil day," said Jacques CÅ“ur, "and some reply must soon be given."
"My reply can be but one," answered Jean Charost; "that I will never serve a murderer; still less serve the murderer of my dear lord."
Madame De Brecy looked uneasy, and the face of Jacques CÅ“ur was very grave.
"You surely would not have me do so, my dear mother?" said the young gentleman, raising himself on his arm, and gazing in her face. "You could not wish me, my good and honorable friend?"
"No, Jean, no," answered Jacques CÅ“ur; "but yet such a reply is perilous; and before it is made, we must be beyond the reach of the strong arm that rules all things in this capital. You have had a taste, my son, of what great men will dare do to those who venture to oppose them, even in their most unjust commands. Depend upon it, the Duke of Burgundy will not scruple at acts which the king's council themselves would not venture to authorize. Why he should wish to engage you in his service I can not tell; but that he does so earnestly is evident, and refusal will be very dangerous, even in the mildest form."
"Some fanciful connection between my fate and his was told him one night by an astrologer," said Jean Charost. "That is the only motive he can have."
"Perhaps so," replied Jacques CÅ“ur, thoughtfully; and then he added, the moment after, "and yet I do not know. His highness is not one to be influenced in his conduct by any visionary things; they may have weight with him in thought, but not in action. If he had been told that his death would follow the poor duke's as a natural consequence, he would have killed him notwithstanding. He must have seen something in you, my young friend, that he likes--that he thinks will suit some of his purposes."
"He has seen little of me that should so prepossess him," answered the young gentleman; "he has seen me peremptorily refuse to obey his own commands, and obstinately deny the council the information they wanted, even though they tried to wring it out by torture."
"Probably the very cause," answered Jacques CÅ“ur; "he loves men of resolution. But let us return to the subject, my young friend. Your answer must be somewhat softened. We must say that you are still too ill to engage in any service; that you must have some months for repose, and that then you will willingly obey any of his highness's just commands."
"Never, never!" answered Jean Charost, warmly; "I will never palter with my faith and duty toward the dead. If ever I can couch a lance against this duke's breast, I will aim it well, and the memory of my master will steady my arm; but serve him I will never, nor even lead him to expect it."
Jacques CÅ“ur and Madame De Brecy looked at each other in silence; but they urged him no more; and the only question in their minds now was, what course they could take not to suffer the young man's safety to be periled in consequence of a resolution which they dared not disapprove.
In the midst of their consultation Martin Grille returned, evidently burdened with intelligence, and that not of a very pleasant character.
"What is to be done, I know not," he said, with much trepidation; "I can not, and I will not leave you, sir, whatever may come of it."
"What is the matter, Martin?" asked Jacques CÅ“ur. "Be calm, be calm young man, and tell us plainly, whatever be the evil."
"Listen, then, listen," said Martin Grille, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "An order is given out secretly to seize every Orleanist now remaining in Paris in his bed this night at twelve of the clock. It is true; it is true, beyond all doubt. I had it from my cousin Petit Jean, who got it from his father, old Caboche, now the Duke of Burgundy's right-hand man in Paris."
"Then we must go at once," said Jacques CÅ“ur "Whatever be the risk, we must try if you can bear the motion of a litter, Jean."
"But all the gates are closed except two," said Martin Grille, "and they suffer no one to go out without a pass. News has got abroad of all this. The queen went yesterday to Melun. The King of Sicily, the Duke of Berri, the Duke of Britanny have fled this morning. The Duke of Bourbon has been long gone, and the Burgundians are resolved that no more shall escape."
Jacques CÅ“ur gazed sternly down upon the floor, and Madame De Brecy wrung her hands in despair.
"Go, my friend, go," said Jean Charost; "you are not marked out as an Orleanist. Take my mother with you. God may protect me even here. If not, his will be done."
"Stay," cried Martin Grille, "stay! I have thought of a way, perhaps. Many of these Burgundian nobles are poor. Can not you lend one of them a thousand crowns, Monsieur Jacques, and get a pass for yourself and your family. He will be glad enough to give it, to see a creditor's back turned, especially when he knows he can keep him at arm's length as long as he will. I am sure my young lord will repay you."
"Repay me!" exclaimed Jacques CÅ“ur, indignantly; "but your hint is a good one. I will act upon it, but not exactly as you propose. Some of them owe me enough already to wish me well out of Paris. Tell all my people to get ready for instant departure; and look for a litter that will hold two. I will away at once, and see what can be done."
"Have plenty of men with you, Messire Jacques," said Martin Grille, eagerly; "men that can fight, for there are Burgundian bands patrolling all round the city. I am not good at fighting, and my young lord is as bad as I am now."
"We must take our chance," said Jacques CÅ“ur, and quitted the room.
It was past ten o'clock at night, when a litter, escorted by four men on horseback, passed the gates of Paris. A short detention took place before the guards at the gates would suffer the party to proceed, and one man went into the guardhouse, and brought out a lantern to examine the inside of the litter and the countenances of the cavaliers. He used it also to examine the pass, though, to say truth, he could not read a word, albeit an officer of some standing. In this respect none of his companions were in better case than himself; and they all declared that the handwriting was so bad that nobody on earth could read it. It seemed likely, at one time, that this illegibility of the writing, or want of the reading faculty on the part of the guards, might be made an excuse for detaining the whole party till somebody with better eyes or better instruction should come up. But one of the horsemen dismounted, saying, "I will read it to you;" and looking over the officer's shoulder, he proceeded thus, "I, William, Marquis De Giac, do hereby strictly enjoin and command you, in the name of the high and mighty prince, John, duke of Burgundy, to pass safely through the gates of Paris, without let or impediment, Maître Jacques Cœur, clerk, his wife, and three serving-men, and to give them aid and comfort in case of need, signed, De Giac."
"Is that it?" asked the officer, staring on the paper.
"Yes, don't you see?" answered Jacques CÅ“ur, pointing with his finger. "To let pass the gates of the city of Paris."
"Well, well, go along," said the man; and, mounting his horse again, the merchant led the way; and the litter, with those that it contained, followed.
For a wonder, Martin Grille held his tongue all this time; but ere they had gone half a dozen furlongs, he approached the side of the litter, and, putting in his head, asked how his young master was.
"Better, Martin, better," replied Jean Charost. "Every hour I feel better."
"Well, thank God, we are out of the city," said Martin Grille. "My heart has been so often in my mouth during this last half hour, that I thought I should bite it if I did but say a word. I wonder which way we are to direct our steps now."
"Toward Bourges, Martin," replied Jacques CÅ“ur, who was riding near.
"Toward Bourges!" said Martin Grille. "Then what's to become of the baby?"
"The baby!" repeated Madame De Brecy, in a tone as full of surprise as that in which Martin had repeated the words "toward Bourges."
"In Heaven's name, what baby?"
Jean Charost laid his hand gently on his mother, saying, "It is very true, dear mother. A young child--quite an infant--has been given into my care, and I have promised to protect and educate her."
"But whose child is she?" asked Madame De Brecy, in a tone of some alarm and consternation.
"I can not tell," replied her son. "I believe she is an orphan; but I am ignorant of all the facts."
"She is an orphan in a double sense," said Jacques CÅ“ur, mingling in the discourse; "at least I believe so. I have nothing to guide me but suspicion, it is true; but my suspicion is strong. Ay, my young friend: you are surprised that I know aught of this affair; but a friend's eye is often as watchful as a parent's. I saw the child, some days after it was given into your charge, and there is a strong likeness--as strong as there can be between an infant and a grown person--between this poor thing and one who is no more."
"Who--who?" asked Jean Charost, eagerly.
"One whom you never saw," replied Jacques CÅ“ur; and Jean Charost was silent; for although he himself entertained suspicions, his friend's words were quite adverse to them.
"It was well bethought of, Martin," continued Jacques Cœur, after a short pause. "We had better take our way by Beauté. It is not far round, and we shall all the sooner get within the posts of the Orleans party; for they are already preparing for war. We can not take the child with us, for she is too young to go without a nurse; but we can make arrangements for her coming hereafter; and of course that which you promised when in peril of your life had you refused, must be performed to the letter, my young friend."
"Assuredly," replied Jean Charost. "Can we reach Beauté to-night?"
"I fear not," answered the merchant. "But we must go on till we have put danger behind us. Now draw the curtains of the litter again, and try to sleep, my son. Sleep is a strange whiler away of weary hours."
But, though the pace of the horse-litter was drowsy enough, it was long before any thing like slumber came near the eyes of Jean Charost; and he had just closed them, with a certain sort of heaviness of the lids, when the words "Halt, halt, whoever you are!" were heard on all sides, together with the tramp of many horses, and the jingling of arms. Madame De Brecy and her son drew back the curtains instantly; and they then found that they were surrounded by a large party of men-at-arms, two or three of whom were conversing with Jacques CÅ“ur, a little in advance.
The moon had somewhat declined; but it was shining on the faces of several of the group; and, after gazing out for a moment or two, Jean Charost exclaimed, "De Royans--Monsieur De Royans!"
His voice, which was weak, was at first not attended to; but, on repeating the call, one of the horsemen turned quickly round and rode up to the side of the litter.
"Ah, De Brecy, is that you?" cried the young, man, holding out his hand to him. "Here, Messire What's-your-name, we will believe you now; for here is one who has suffered enough for his faithfulness to the good duke. Why, how is this, De Brecy? In a litter--when we want every man in the saddle. But I heard you were very ill. You must get well soon, and strike a good stroke beside me and the rest, for the memory of our good lord, whom they sent to heaven before his time. Oh, if I could get one blow at that Burgundian's head, I would aim better than I did at the Quintain. Well, you shall come on with us to Juvisy, and we will lodge and entertain you."
Thus saying, Juvenel de Royans turned away, rode back to his companions, and gave them explanations which seemed satisfactory; for the merchant and his party were not only suffered to proceed, but obtained the escort of some forty or fifty men-at-arms, who had been about to return to Juvisy when they fell in with the little cavalcade of Jacques CÅ“ur.
None of the many moral enigmas with which we are surrounded is more difficult of comprehension to the mind of a man of fixed and resolute character than the sudden changes which come upon more impulsive and volatile people. The demeanor of Juvenel de Royans was a matter of serious and puzzling thought to Jean Charost through the rest of the journey. He seemed so entirely changed, not only in feelings toward the young gentleman himself, but in disposition. Frank, active, impetuous as ever, he had, in the space of a few terrible weeks, lost the boyish flippancy of manner, and put on the manly character at once. Jean Charost could not understand it at all; and it seemed to him most strange that one who would willingly have cut his throat not a month before, should now, upon the establishment of one very slight link between them, treat him as a dear and ancient friend. Jean Charost was less of a Frenchman than Juvenel de Royans, both by birth and education; for the latter had been born in the gay and movable south, and had been indulged, if not spoiled, during all his early life; while the former had first seen the light in much more northern regions, and had received very early severe lessons of adversity. Neither, perhaps, had any distinct notion of the real causes of their former enmity; but Jean Charost was, at least, well satisfied that it should be terminated; and, as he was of no rancorous disposition, he gladly received the proffered friendship of his former adversary; though, to say sooth, he counted it at somewhat less than it was worth, on account of the suddenness with which it had arisen. He knew not that some of the trees which spring up the most rapidly are nevertheless the most valuable.
Let us abridge and improve French history. As it is generally written, it is quite susceptible of both abridgment and improvement.
The power of the Duke of Burgundy was without bounds in the city of Paris, and his daring and his ferocity were as boundless. He remembered ancient offenses as tenaciously as the Duke of Orleans had remembered kindnesses, and every one in Paris who had at any time shown enmity toward him either sought refuge in flight or stayed to receive abundant marks of his vindictive memory. But he had skill also, as well as daring; and especially that dark and politic skill which teaches the demagogue to turn the best and wisest deeds of an adversary to his disadvantage in the eyes of the people, and his own worst actions to the services of his own ambition. Oh, what a fool is The People! Always the dupe of hypocrisy and lies, always deceived by promises and pretenses, always the lover and the support of those who at heart most despise and condemn it. That great, many-headed fool followed the duke's path with acclamations wherever he appeared, although the evils under which they labored, notwithstanding all his promises, were augmented rather than diminished by his sway.
A hired sophist defended the assassination of the Duke of Orleans, in presence of the court and the university, and the people shouted loudly, though the excuse was too empty to deceive a child. The duke declared that the maladministration of Orleans compelled the continuance of the taxes promised to be repealed, and the people shouted loudly still. The Prévôt De Tignonville was punished and degraded for bringing two robbers to justice, though every one knew the real offense was his proposal to search the houses of the princes for the assassins of the Duke of Orleans; and still the people shouted.
Nevertheless, fortune was not altogether constant; and while the power of the duke increased in the capital, let him do whatever he would, a cloud was gathering round him from which he found it necessary to fly. The Duchess of Orleans cried loudly for vengeance; the Dukes of Bourbon, Brittany, and Berri armed for her support, and for the deliverance of the throne. The queen, having the dauphin with her, lent weight and countenance to the party, and gradually the forces of the confederates increased so far that Paris was no longer a safe asylum for the object of their just indignation.
It was then that a revolt took place in Liege, where the brother-in-law of the duke held the anomalous position of prince bishop; and Burgundy hurried away from Paris both to aid his relation, and to avoid the advance of the Orleanist army, without risking honor and power upon an unequal battle. For a short space his position was perilous. The strong-headed and turbulent citizens of Liege--no soft and silky burghers, as they are represented by the great novelist in an after reign--stout and hardy soldiers as ever were, dared the whole power of Burgundy. An enemy's army was in his rear; all the princes of the blood, the council, and most of the great vassals of France were against him; but he fought and won a battle, captured Liege, and turned upon his steps once more to overawe his enemies in France.
Time enough had been given for disunion to spread among the allied princes. William, count of Holland, interfered to gain over the queen to the Burgundian party, and a hollow peace was brought about, known as the peace of Chartres, which ended in the ascendency of the Duke of Burgundy, and the temporary abasement of his enemies.
Once more the vengeance of the duke was visited on the heads of all distinguished persons who had shown themselves even indifferent to his cause; but he forgot not his policy in his anger, and the spoils of his victims conciliated fresh partisans.
Intrigue succeeded intrigue for several years, and, in the midst of disasters and disappointments, the spirit of Valentine, duchess of Orleans, passed away from the earth (on which she had known little but sorrow), still calling for justice upon the murderers of her husband. Her children, however, were powerless at the time and it was not till the marriage of her eldest son with the daughter of the Count of Armagnac that the light of hope seemed to break upon them. Then began that famous struggle between the parties known in history as the Burgundians and Armagnacs. Paris became its great object of strife, and, during the absence of the Duke of Burgundy, it was surrounded, if not actually blockaded by the troops of Armagnac. The Orleanist party within the walls comprised many of the noblest and most enlightened men in France; but the lower classes of the people were almost to a man Burgundians, and, forming themselves into armed bands, under the leading of John of Troyes, a surgeon, and Simon Caboche, the cutler, they received the name of Cabochians, and exercised that atrocious ferocity which is the general characteristic of an ignorant multitude. There was a reign of terror in Paris in the fifteenth as well as in the eighteenth century, and many had cause to know that the red scarfs of Burgundy were dyed in blood. Anarchy and confusion still reigned within the walls: nor probably was the state of the country much better. But at length the Duke of Burgundy, unable to oppose his enemies in the field unaided, sought for and obtained the assistance of six thousand English archers, and entered Paris in triumph.
The offensive was soon after taken by the Burgundians, and the Duke of Berri was besieged in Bourges; but Frenchmen were disinclined to fight against Frenchmen, and a treaty as hollow as any of the rest was concluded under the walls of that place. Even while the negotiations went on, means were taken to open the eyes of the dauphin to the ambition of the Burgundian prince; and John,sans peur, saw himself opposed in the council by one who had long been subservient to his will.
But the duke found easy means to crush this resistance. The people of Paris were roused, at his beck, into tumult; the Bastile was besieged by the armed bands of Caboche and his companions, the palace of the dauphin invaded, and he himself reduced to the state of a mere prisoner. More bloodshed followed; and Burgundy at length found that an enraged multitude is not so easily calmed as excited. His situation became somewhat difficult. Although the dauphin was shut up in the Hôtel St. Pol, he found means of communicating with the princes of the blood royal without; and nothing seemed left for the Duke it Burgundy but an extension of the convention of Bourges to a general peace with all his opponents. This was concluded at Pontoise, much against the will of the Parisians; the dauphin was set at liberty; and the leaders of the Armagnac party were permitted to enter Paris. Burgundy soon found that he had made a mistake; that his popularity with the people was shaken, and his power over them gone. He was even fearful for his person; and well might he be so. But his course was speedily determined; and, after having failed in an attempt to carry off the dauphin while on a party of pleasure at Vincennes, he retired in haste to Flanders.
A complete change of scene took place; the creatures of the Duke of Burgundy were driven from power, and sanguinary retribution marked the ascendency of the Armagnac party.
The easiest labor of Hercules, probably, was the destruction of the hydra; for creatures with many heads are always weaker than those with one. Dissensions spread among the Armagnac faction. The queen and the dauphin disagreed; and the prince, finding the tyranny of the Armagnacs as hard to bear as that of the Burgundians, instigated the duke to return to Paris. John without fear, however, had not force sufficient to effect any great purpose; and, after an ineffectual attempt to besiege the capital, he retired before a large army, gathered from all parts of France, with the king and all the princes of the blood at its head. Compiegne capitulated to the Armagnacs; Soissons was taken by assault; but Arras held out, and once more negotiations for peace commenced under its walls. A treaty was concluded by the influence of the dauphin, who was weary of being the shuttle-cock between two factions, and resolved to make himself master of the capital. His first effort, however, was frustrated, and he was compelled to fly to Bourges. With great adroitness, he then took advantage of a proposed conference at Corbeil between himself and the allied princes. He agreed to the meeting; but while they waited for him at Corbeil, he passed quietly on to Paris, made himself master of the capital, and seized the treasures which his mother had accumulated in that city. Three parties now appeared in France: that of the Duke of Burgundy; that of the allied princes; and that of the dauphin; and in the mean while, an acute enemy, with some just pretensions to certain portions of France, and unfounded claims to the crown itself, was watching from the shores of England for a favorable moment to seize upon the long-coveted possession. From the time of the treaty of Bretigny, wars and truces had succeeded each other between the two countries--hostilities and negotiations; and during the late dissensions, English alliance had been sought and found by both parties; but, at the same time, long discussions had taken place between the courts of France and England with the pretended object of concluding a general and definitive treaty of peace. Henry demanded much, however; France would grant little; offensive words were added to the rejection of captious proposals and suddenly the news spread over the country like lightning, that Henry the Fifth of England had landed in arms upon the coast of France.
A few miles from the strong town of Bourges, on the summit of a considerable elevation, was a château or castle, even then showing some signs of antiquity. It was not a very large and magnificent dwelling, consisting merely of the outer walls with their flanking towers, one tall, square tower, and one great mass stretching out into the court, and rising to the height of two stories. In a small, plain chamber, containing every thing useful and convenient, but nothing very ornamental, sat a young gentleman of three or four-and-twenty years of age, covered with corselet and back piece, but with his head and limbs bare of armor. Two men, however, were busily engaged fitting upon him the iron panoply of war. One was kneeling at his feet, fastening the greaves upon his legs; the other stood behind, attaching the pauldrons and pallets. On a table hard by stood a casque and plume, beside which lay the gauntlets, the shield, and the sword; and near the table stood a lady, somewhat past the middle age, gazing gravely and anxiously at the young man's countenance.
But there was still another person in the room. A young girl of some six or seven years of age had climbed up upon the gentleman's knee, and, was making a necklace for him of her arms, while ever and anon she kissed him tenderly.
"You must come back, Jean--you must come back," she said; "though dear mother says perhaps you may never come back--you must not leave your own little Agnes. What would she do without you?"
Jean Charost embraced her warmly, but he did not speak; for there were many emotions in his heart which he feared might make his voice tremble. Few who had seen him six or seven years before would have recognized in that tall, powerful young man, the slim, graceful lad who was secretary to the unfortunate Duke of Orleans; nor was the change, perhaps, less in his mind than in his person, for although he was of that character which changes slowly, yet all characters change. The oak requires a hundred years; the willow hardly twenty; and as one layer or circle grows upon another in the heart of the tree, so do new feelings come over man's spirit as he advances from youth to age. Each epoch in human life has the things pertaining to itself. The boy can never divine what the man will feel; the man too little recollects what were the feelings of the boy.
However, the change in Jean Charost, in consequence of the circumstances in which he had been placed, was somewhat different from that which might have been expected. He had become tenderer rather than harder in the last seven years, more flexible rather than more rigid. Till between seventeen and eighteen years of age, hard necessities, constant application, the everlasting dealing with material things, the guard which he had been continually forced to put upon himself--knowing that not only his own future fate might be darkened, but the happiness and deliverance of a parent might be lost by one false step--had all tended to give him an unyouthful sternness of principle and of demeanor, which had perhaps saved him from many evils, but had deprived him of much innocent enjoyment.
Since the death of the Duke of Orleans, however, acting altogether as his own master, seeing more of the general world, and with his mind relieved from the oppressive cares and anxieties which may be said to have frozen his youth, he had warmed, as it were, in the sunshine, and all the more gentle things of the heart had come forth and blossomed. I know not whether the love of that dear, beautiful child had not greatly aided the change--whether his tenderness for her, and her adoring fondness for him, had not called out emotions, natural but latent, and affections which only wanted something to cling round. Whenever he returned from any of the scenes of strife and trouble in which he embarked with the rest, one of his first thoughts was of Agnes. When he approached the gates of the old castle, his eyes were always lifted to see her coming to meet him. When he sought a time of repose in the plain and unadorned halls of his father, no gorgeous tapestry, no gilded ceiling, no painted gallery could have ornamented the place so well as the smiles of that sweet, young face. The balmy influence of innocent childhood was felt by him very strongly.
He was very indulgent toward her. His mother said he spoiled her. But he used to laugh joyfully, and declare that nothing could spoil his little Agnes; and, in truth, with him she was ever gentle and docile, seeming to love obedience to his lightest word.
And now he was going to leave her--to leave all he held most dear in life for a long much--for a fierce strife--for a struggle on which the fate of France depended. He was not without hope, he was not without confidence; but if almost all men feel some shade of dread when parting from a well-loved home on any ordinary occasion--if a chilling conviction of the dreary uncertainty of all earthly things comes upon them even--what must have been his sensations when he thought of all that might happen between the hours of parting and returning?
But the trumpet had sounded throughout the land. Every well-wisher of his country was called upon to forget his domestic ties, and selfish interests, and private quarrels, and arm to repel an invader. The appeal was to the hearts of all Frenchmen, and he must go. Nay more, he had taxed his utmost means, he had mortgaged the very bequest of the Duke of Orleans, he had done every thing--but impoverish his mother--in order to carry with him as many men as possible to swell the hosts of France.
The last piece of his armor was buckled on--Martin Grille took up the casque--a cup of wine was brought, and Jean Charost embraced his mother and the child.
"How hard your breast is, Jean," said the little girl.
"None too hard," said the mother. "God be your shield, my son. He is better than sword or buckler."
"Amen!" said Jean Charost, and left them.
Now let us change the scene once more, for this must be a chapter of changes. Stand upon this little hill with me, beside the great oak, and let us look on, as day breaks over the fair scene below us. See how beautifully the land slopes away there on the north, with the wooded heights near Blangy, and the church steeple on the rise of the hill, and the old castle hard by. How the light catches upon it, even before the day is fully risen! Even that piece of marshy ground, sloping gently up into a meadow, with a deep ditch cut here and there across it, acquires something like beauty from the purple light of the rising sun. There is a little coppice there to the westward, with a wind-mill, somewhat like that at Creçy, waving its slow arms on the gentle morning breeze. How peaceful it all looks; how calm. Can this narrow space, this tranquil scene, be the spot on which the destiny of a great kingdom is to be decided in an hour?
So, perhaps, thought a man placed upon the hill near Blangy, as he looked in the direction of Azincourt, one half of the steeple of which could be seen rising over the slope. Soon, however, that quiet scene became full of life. He saw a small body of some two hundred men run rapidly along under cover of the coppice, bending their heads, with no apparent arms, except what seemed an ax slung upon the shoulder of each. They carried long slim wands in their hands, it is true; but to the eye those wands were very unserviceable weapons. They reached the edge of a ditch upon the meadow, and there they disappeared. A loud flourish of martial music followed, and soon after, from behind the wood, came on, in steady array, a small body of soldiery. They could not have numbered more than one or two thousand men at the very most, and little like soldiers did they look, except in the even firmness of their line. There was no glittering steel to be seen. Casque and corselet, spear and banner were not there. Not even the foot-soldier's jack and morion could be descried among them; but, tattered, travel-worn, and many of them bare-headed, they advanced, with heavy tramp and steady countenance, in the same direction which had been taken by the others. The same long wands were in their hands, and each bore upon his shoulder a heavy, steel-pointed post, while a short sword or ax hung upon the thigh, and a well-stored quiver was within reach of the right hand. Before them rode a knight on horseback, with a truncheon in his hand, and behind them still, as they marched on, sounded the war-stirring trumpet.
The face of the man who stood there and watched was very pale, either with fear or some other emotion, and every now and then he approached a tree to which three horses were tied--one of which was fully caparisoned for war--examined the bridles, and saw that all was right, as if he were anxious that every thing should be ready, either for strife or flight. While he was thus employed, two other men came up, slowly climbing the hill from the eastward; but there was nothing in the appearance of either to give any alarm to him who was watching there. The one was a round, short personage, with a countenance on which nature had stamped cheerful good-humor, though his eyes had now in them an expression of wild anxiety, which showed that he knew what scene was about to be enacted below. The other was a tall, gaunt man, far past the middle age, but his face betrayed no emotion. It was still and pale as that of death, and changed not even after they had reached a point where the whole array of the field was set out before them. His brow, however, wore a heavy frown; but that expression seemed habitual, and not produced by any transitory feeling. Both the strangers were habited in the long, gray gown of the monk, with a girdle of plain cord, and the string of beads attached; besides which, the elder man carried in his hand a staff, and a large ebony crucifix.
The moment their heads rose above the slope, so that they could see over into the plain beyond, the younger and the stouter man stopped suddenly, with a look of some alarm, as if the moving mass of soldiery had been close to him. "Jesu Maria!" he exclaimed; "are those the English, brother Albert? I did not know they were half to near."
The other answered nothing, and his countenance changed not while his eye ran over the whole country beneath him, with the calm, deliberate, marking look of a man who had beheld such scenes before.
Suddenly, on the right, over the tops of the trees, rose up a dense cloud of smoke, which, rolling in large volumes into the air, became tinged with a dark red hue, and speckled with sparks of fire.
"What is that? what is that?" cried the younger monk. "That must be some place on fire at Aubain."
"No, no," replied the other, speaking for the first time; "that is much nearer. It is either at Teneur, or at the farm of our priory of St. George. Can the English king have thrown out his right wing so far in order to take our army on the flank? If so, one charge would ruin him. But no; he is too wise for that. It must be a stratagem to deceive the Constable."
As he spoke, the first comer moved away from the horses and joined them, saying, "God help us! this is a terrible scene, good fathers."
The elder monk gazed at him with his motionless countenance, but answered nothing; and the younger one replied, much in his own tone, "A terrible scene, indeed, my son--a terrible scene, indeed! I know not whether it be more so to stand as a mere spectator, and witness such a sight as will soon be before us, or to mingle in the fray, and lose part of its horrors by sharing in its fury."
"Oh, I have no doubt which," answered the other. "My mind is quite made up on that subject."
"You may be a man of war," replied the other. "Indeed, these armed horses seem to speak it."
"No. I am a man of peace," rejoined the first-comer. "Those horses are my master's, not mine; and the fighting is his too. But he knows my infirmity, and leaves me here out of arrow-shot. The boy who was with me has run down the hill, to be nearer to our lord; but I, as in duty bound, stay where he placed me. I should like very much to know, however, what is the name of that farm-house and the two or three cottages there, at the edge of the meadow, with the deep ditch across it."
"That is called Tramecourt," replied the younger monk. "It is but a small hamlet; and I heard this morning that our riotous soldiers had driven all the people out of it, and eaten up all their stores. Why do you ask, my son?"
"Because I saw but now some two or three hundred men, coming from the side of Blangy, run down by the willows there, and disappear in the ditch."
"God's retribution!" said the elder monk, gravely. "Had not the soldiery driven out the peasantry, there would have been men to bear the news of the ambush."
"Think you it is an ambush, then?" asked the younger monk.
"Beyond doubt," replied the other; "and he who would do a good service to the army of France would mount yon horse, ride down toward Azincourt, and carry the tidings to the constable."
As he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon their lay companion, who seemed a little uneasy under their gaze. He fidgeted, pulled the points of his doublet, and then said, sturdily, "Well, I can not go. I must stay with the horses."
"Are you a coward?" asked the elder monk, in a low, bitter tone.
"Yes," replied the man, nonchalantly. "I am a desperate coward--have been so all my life. I have a reverent regard for my own skin, and no fondness for carving that of other people. If men have a peculiar fancy for poking holes in each other's bodies, I do not quarrel with them for it. Indeed, I do not quarrel with any one for any thing; but it is not my taste: it is not my trade. Why should I make eyelet-holes in nature's jerkin, or have myself bored through and through, like a piece of timber under an auger?"
"Well, my son, wilt thou let me have a horse, that I may ride down and tell the constable?" asked the shorter of his two companions.
"There is hardly time," said the elder monk. "See, here comes a larger body of archers from the side of Blangy, and I can catch lance heads and banners rising up by Azincourt. The bloody work will soon begin."
"I would fain try, at all events," cried the other. "Man, wilt thou let me have a horse? I will bring him back to thee in half an hour, if ever I come back alive myself."
"Take him, take him," answered the other. "I am not the man to stop you. How could I resist two monks and three horses. Not the destrier--not the battle-horse. That is my lord's. Here, take the page's. Let me help thee on, father. Thou art so fat in the nether end that thou wilt never get up without a ladder. One time I was as bad a horseman as thyself, and so I have compassion on thy foibles. Have thou some upon mine."
The monk was soon settled in the saddle, and away he went down the hill, showing himself a better horseman, when once mounted, than the other had given him credit for.
As soon as he was gone, the elder monk fixed his eyes once more upon his companion, and said, in a low voice, "Have I not seen thee somewhere before?"
"I can't tell," answered the other. "I have seen you, I fancy; but if so, you gave no sign of seeing me, either by word or look. However, I am Martin Grille, the valet of the good Baron de Brecy. Perhaps that may give your memory a step to climb upon."
"It needs no step," answered the other. "I am all memory. Would to God I were not."
"Ay, now you look more as you did then, though not half so mad either," said Martin Grille. "You are older, too, and your cowl makes a difference."
"And there is a difference," replied the monk, in a tone of deep sadness. "Penitence and prayer, remorse and anguish--sated revenge, perhaps--a thirst assuaged--a thirst such as no desert traveler ever knew, quenched in blood and tears; all these have changed me. The fire has gone out. I am nothing but the ashes of my former self."
"Rather hot ashes, even yet," answered Martin Grille, "if I may judge by what you said about my cowardice just now. But look, look, good father. What will become of our fat brother there? Why he is riding right before that strong body of lances coming up from Blangy."
"He does not see them," answered the other, gravely. "He may reach the constable, even yet; for lo, now! there comes the power of France over the hill; and England on to meet her. By the holy rood! they make a gallant show, these great noblemen of France. Why, what a sea of archery and men-at-arms is here, with plumes and banners, lance and shield, and pennons numberless. I have seen many a stricken fight, and never but at Poictiers saw fairer array than that."
"Why, they will sweep the English from the face of the earth," said Martin Grille. "If that be all King Henry's power, it is but a morsel for the maw of such a monster as is coming down from Azincourt."
The monk turned toward him, and shook his head. "You know not these Englishmen," he said, with a sigh. "When brought to bay, they fight like wolves. I have heard my father tell of Creçy; and at Poictiers I was a page. On each field we outnumbered them as here, and at Poictiers we might have had them on composition had it pleased the king. But we forced them to fight, and fight they did, till the multitude fled before a handful, and order and discipline did what neither numbers nor courage could effect. Look you now, how skillfully this English king has chosen his place of battle, unassailable on either flank, showing a narrow front to his enemy, so as to render numbers of no avail. God send that they may not prove destructive."
"Ah, he is too late!" replied Martin Grille who had been watching the course of the other monk, who was riding straight toward the head of the ditch, where he had seen the archers conceal themselves. "He is too late, I fear."
His exclamation was caused by sudden movements observable in both armies. The English force had been advancing slowly in three bodies, each looking but a handful as compared with the immense forces of France, but in firm and close array, with little of that ornament and decoration which gilds and smoothes the rugged reality of war; but with many instruments of music playing martial airs, and seeming to speak of hope and confidence.
The French, on the other hand, who had lain quiet all the morning, as if intending to wait the attack of the enemy, had just spread out upon the slope in face of Azincourt, divided likewise into three vast bodies, with their wings overlapping, on either side, the flank of the English force. Splendid arms and glittering accoutrements made the whole line shine and sparkle; but not a sound was heard from among them, except now and then the shout of a commander. At the moment of Martin Grille's exclamation, the advanced guard of the French had assumed a quicker pace, and were pouring down upon the English archery, as they marched up through a somewhat narrow space, inclosed between low thick copse, hedges, and swampy ground. This narrow field forked out gradually, becoming wider and wider toward the centre of the French host; and the English had just reached what we may call the mouth of the fork, with nearly fifteen thousand French men-at-arms, and archers before them, under the command of the constable in person. Slowly and steadily the Englishmen marched on, till within half bow-shot of the French line, headed by old Sir Thomas of Erpingham, who rode some twenty yards before the archery, with a page on either side, and nothing but a baton in his hand. When near enough to render every arrow certain of its mark, the old knight waved his truncheon in the air, and instantly the whole body of foot halted short. At the same moment, each man planted before him the spiked stake which he carried in his hand, and laid an arrow on the string of his bow. A dead silence prevailed along each line, unbroken except by the tramp of the advancing French. Sir Thomas of Erpingham looked along the line, from right to left, and then exclaimed, in a loud, powerful voice, "Now strike!" throwing his truncheon high into the air, and dismounting from his horse. Instantly, from the ditch on the left flank of the French, rose up the concealed archers, with bows already drawn; and well might Martin Grille exclaim that the monk was too late. The next instant, from one end of the English line to the other, ran the tremendous cheer which has so often been the herald of victory over land and sea; and the next, a flight of arrows as thick as hail poured right into the faces of the charging enemy. Knights and squires, and men-at-arms bowed their heads to the saddle-bow to avoid the shafts; but on they still rushed, each man directing his horse straight against the narrow front of the English, and pressing closer and closer together, so as to present one compact mass, upon which each arrow told. Nor did that fatal flight cease for an instant. Hardly was one shaft delivered before another was upon the string, and, mad with pain, the horses of the French cavalry reared and plunged among the crowd, creating as much destruction and disarray as even the missiles of their foe.
All then became a scene of strange confusion to the eyes of Martin Grille. The two opposing forces seemed mingled together. The English, he thought, were forced back, but their order seemed firmer than that of the French line, where all was struggling and disarray. Here and there a small space in one part of the field would become comparatively clear, and then he would see a knight or squire dragged from his horse, and an archer driving the point of his sword between the bars of his helmet. The figure of the monk was no longer to be discerned, for he had long been enveloped in the various masses of light cavalry and camp-followers which whirled around the wings of the French army--of little or no service in the battle to those whom they Served, and only formidable to an enemy in case of his defeat.
The monk, who stood beside Martin Grille, remained profoundly silent, though his companion often turned his eye toward him with an inquiring look, as if he would fain have asked, "How, think you, goes the strife?" But, though no words were uttered, many were the emotions which passed over his countenance. At first all was calm, although there was a straining of the eye beneath the bent brow, like that of the eagle gazing down from its rocky eyrie on the prey moving across the plain below. Then came a glance of triumph, as some two or three hundred of the French men-at-arms dashed on before their companions, and hurled themselves upon the English line, in the vain effort to break the firm array of the archery. But when he saw the troops mingling together, and the heavy pressure of the French chivalry one upon the other, each impeding his neighbor, and leaving no room for any one but those in the front rank to strike a blow, his brow grew dark, his eye anxious, and his lip quivered. For a moment more, he continued silent; but then, when he saw the English arrows dropping among the ranks of his countrymen, the horses rearing and falling with their riders, to be trampled under the feet of those who pressed around--some, maddened with pain, tearing through all that opposed them, and carrying terror and confusion into the main body behind--some urged by fearful riders at the full gallop from a field which they fancied lost, because it was not instantly won, he could bear no more, but exclaimed, sharply and sternly, "They will lose the day!"
"But all that vast number coming down the hill have not yet struck a stroke," cried Martin Grille.
"Where can they strike?" said the monk, sternly. "Were the field cleared of their friends, they might yet do something with their foes. See, the banner of Alençon is down, and where is that of Brabant? I see it no more."
He gazed for a moment more, and then exclaimed, "On my life! they are flying--flying right into the centre of the main battle, to carry the infection of their fear with them!"
As he spoke, two or three horsemen, in mad haste, galloped up the hill directly toward them, and Martin Grille sprang to the side of the horses, unfastened one of them, and put his foot in the stirrup.
"Fool! they will not hurt thee," said the monk "'Tis their own lives they seek to save;" and, stretching out his arms across the path by which the men-at-arms were coming, he exclaimed, fiercely, "Cowards--cowards! back to the battle for very shame!"
But they galloped on past him, one with an arrow through his shoulder, and one with the crest of his casque completely shorn off. The third struck a blow with a mace at the monk as he passed, but it narrowly missed him; and on he too rode, with a bitter curse upon his lips.
By this time it was no longer doubtful which way the strife would go between the advance-guard of the French and that of the English army. The former was all in disarray, and parties scattering away from it every instant, while the latter was advancing steadily, supported by a large body of pikes and bill-men, who now appeared in steady order from behind some of the tall trees of the wood. Just then, through the bushes which lay scattered over the bottom of the slope, a group was seen coming up the hill, so slowly that their progress could hardly be called flight. At first neither Martin Grille nor the monk could clearly perceive what they were doing, for the branches, covered with thin, dry October leaves, partly intercepted the view. Soon, however, they emerged upon more open ground, and three or four men on foot appeared, closely surrounding a caparisoned horse, which one of them led by the bridle, while another, walking by the stirrup, seemed to have his arm around the waist of the rider. An instant after, a mounted man in a gray gown appeared from among the bushes, paused by the side of the little party, and was seen pointing upward toward the hill.
"Brother Albert and a wounded knight," said the monk, taking a step or two forward.
"Good Lord! I hope it is not my young master," cried Martin Grille, clasping his hands together. "Oh, if he would but stay at home and keep quiet! I am sure his mother would bless the day."
The monk hardly listened to him, for he was gazing with an eager and anxious look upon the group below; then, suddenly turning to the varlet, he asked, in a sharp, quick tone, "Has thy young lord any children?"
"None of his own," answered Martin Grille; "but one whom he has adopted--a fairy little creature, as beautiful as a sunbeam, whom they call Agnes. He could not love her better were she his own."
"God will bless him yet," said the monk; and then added, sharply, "Why stand you here? It is your lord; go down and help." And he himself hurried down the slope to meet the advancing party.
With his casque cleft open by an ax, an arrow through his right arm, a spear-hole in his cuirass, and the blood dropping over his coat of arms, Jean Charost, supported by one of his retainers, on whose shoulder his head rested, was borne slowly up the hill. His face could not be seen, for his visor was closed, but there was an expression of deep sadness on the faces of the two or three men who surrounded him, which showed that they thought the worst had befallen.
"Is he dead?" asked the old monk, looking at the man who led the horse.
"I can't tell, father," replied the soldier, gruffly. "He has not spoken since we got him out of the fray. Here is one who has done his duty, however. Oh, if they had all fought as he did!"
"I think he is not dead," said the other monk, riding up. "You see his hand is still clasped upon the rein, and once, I thought, he tried to raise his head."
"Bear him on--bear him on behind the trees," cried the older man, "and get the horses out of sight. He is not dead--his hand moves. How goes it, my son? How goes it? Be of good cheer."
A low groan was the only reply; but that was sign sufficient that life was not extinct, and Jean Charost was carried gently forward to a spot behind the trees, well concealed from the field of battle. The old monk, before he followed, paused to take one more look at the bloody plain of Azincourt. By this time, the main body of the French army was in as great disorder as the advanced-guard, while the English forces were making way steadily with the royal banner floating in the air.
"All is lost," murmured the monk. "God help them! they have cast away a great victory."
When he reached the little spot to which Jean Charost had been carried, the men were lifting him gently from his horse, and laying him down on the dry autumnal grass. His casque was soon removed; but his eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and uneven. There was a deep cut upon his head; but that which seemed robbing him of life was the lance wound in his chest, and, with hurried hands, the two monks unclasped the cuirass and back-piece, and applied themselves to stanch the blood.
"It has gone very near his heart," said the elder monk.