Towns have their varying expressions as well as human faces; and the aspect of Monterreau, on the tenth of September, one thousand four hundred and nineteen, presented a curious appearance, but one which those who have lived long on the face of the earth must sometimes have seen in moments of great excitement and expectation. The city looked gay, for it was filled with people; and the splendor-loving soldiery, in their arms, seen in every direction, gave a brilliancy to the streets which in ordinary times they did not possess. The day was bright and beautiful, too; one of those clear, warm, September days, which often succeed a frosty morning; and the trees, which were then mingled with the vineyards on the heights of Surville, caught the rays of the sun upon foliage gently tinged with the tints of autumn. The bells of the churches rang out, for it was the Sabbath; and many a fair dame, in sparkling attire and with rosary on wrist, flaunted her Sunday finery along the streets, or might be seen gliding in through the dark portal to join in the service of the day. Still, there was a sort of silent solemnity over the place, an uneasy calm, if I may use an expression which seems to imply a contradiction--an oppressive expectation. Whenever the bell ceased, there seemed no other sound. Men walked in groups, and spoke not; even the women bated their breath and conversed in lower tones.
Early in the morning, a gay train had passed into the castle, after circling the town till a gate, opening beyond the walls into the fields, had been reached. There were ladies and waiting-women, and several gentlemen of gallant mien, and a small troop of archers. But the castle gates swallowed them up, and nothing more was seen of them for several hours. From time to time, two or three horsemen rode out of the town, and sometimes a small party re-entered it; but these were the only occurrences which gave any appearance of movement to the scene till after the hour of noon.
About nine o'clock in the morning, indeed, a young man, in the dress of a monk, rode in on a mule, put up his beast at a stable, where he was obliged to use the name of the Marquis De Royans to obtain any attention, and then proceeded on foot to a large house situated near the bridge over the Yonne. There were a number of people at the door, and he made some inquiries, holding a letter in his hand. The answer seemed unsatisfactory; for he turned away, and walked through the town, inquiring for the abbey, which lay upon the other side.
There were no signs of approaching the precincts of a court, as Jean Charost proceeded on the way he had been directed. The two streets through which he passed were nearly deserted, and, being turned from the sun, looked cool and desolate enough. He began almost to fancy he had made a mistake, when, on the opposite side of a little square or close, he saw a large and very beautiful building, with a church at one end of it, and a row of stone posts before it. All that was left of it, as far as I remember, in one thousand eight hundred and twenty-one, was one beautiful doorway, with a rounded arch overhead, sinking deep with molding within molding, of many a quaint and curious device, till it made a sort of niche, under which the traveler might find shelter from the sun or rain. It was, when I saw it, used as the entrance to a granary; but two guards, with halberts on their shoulders, walking slowly up and down, and three or four servants loitering about, or sitting on the steps, showed that it had not been turned to such base uses, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and nineteen.
Directly toward this door De Brecy took his way, giving a glance round as he passed the corners of the houses opposite, and obtaining a view, down a short street, of the gently-flowing Seine, with its ancient bridge and the walls of the old castle. There seemed to be some curious erections on the bridge: a little pavilion, with a flag fluttering on the top, and several large wooden barricades; but De Brecy paused not to inquire what they meant, and walking straight on to one of the servants, inquired if the Seigneur du Châtel were there, adding that he had been directed thither from his quarters.
The young gentleman spoke with a tone of authority, which, probably, as well as the glistening of a military haubergeon above the neck of the monk's frock, procured him a civil answer.
"He is here, sir," answered the servant; "but is in deep conference with his highness the dauphin and several other lords. He can in no way be interrupted."
"Give him that letter when he comes from the council, and fail not," said Jean Charost. "Moreover, I must beg of you to see immediately the principal officer of his highness's household, and inform him that the Baron De Brecy, a prisoner of Azincourt, has arrived from England, bearing a letter for the dauphin from his highness the Duke of Orleans, and craves leave to lay it at his feet as soon as his convenience serves."
"I fear, sir, that will not be speedily," said the servant. "Where may you be found when his highness has occasion?"
"If Mademoiselle De St. Geran be at the court," replied Jean Charost, a little discouraged by the impediments he had met with, "I will crave an interview with her. You may tell her," he added, seeing the man take a step back as if to enter the building, "that Monsieur De Brecy waits--an acquaintance of her childhood, whom he trusts she may remember."
"You had better follow me, sir," said the servant. "She is here, and was alone some half hour ago."
Jean Charost followed the man into the abbey, one whole wing of which seemed to be appropriated to the dauphin and his train. No monks were visible; but still, the dim, religious light of the long passages and arched cloisters, the quiet courts, and galleries rich in gray stone fret-work, had a solemnity, if not a gloom, which Jean Charost thought must contrast strangely with some of those wild courtly revelries which checkered the fierce strifes and fiery passions of the age.
Passing by a number of small doors leading to the cells along the cloister, where probably the inferior followers of the court were quartered, the young gentleman was led to the foot of a flight of highly-ornamented stairs, carried boldly up through a wide, lightsome hall, round which it turned, and carved and supported with such skill and delicacy, that it seemed actually to hang in air. At the top ran round a gallery, screened by fine tracery of stone-work from the stair-case hall, and on the other hand, all round, except where the window was placed to afford light, were doors, and the opening of corridors, over the arch of one of which appeared a mitre, showing that there had formerly been the apartments of the abbot. The servant passed on to the next corridor, and then led the visitor along to the very end, where, after knocking at a door, he entered, said a few words, and then opened the door wider for Jean Charost to pass in. It was a small, but richly-decorated room he entered, with a door, apparently leading to another beyond; and at a table, covered with many-colored silks, which she seemed sorting into their different shades, sat a lady, magnificently dressed. She raised her eyes, beautiful and full of light, but with no glance of recognition in them, and for a moment De Brecy fancied there must be some mistake. There was a certain vague, shadowy likeness to the Agnes Sorel he had formerly known, but yet there was a strange difference. It was the diamond polished, compared with the diamond dull from the mine.
The next instant, however, the likeness suddenly became more strong. Remembrance seemed to flash up in the countenance of the lovely creature before him. She threw down the silk, rose hastily from the table, and exclaimed, with a beaming smile, "Ah, Monsieur De Brecy! He did not give your name rightly."
She was in the very act of advancing to meet him; but suddenly she paused, and from some cause, unexplained, a warm blush rushed over her cheek and forehead, and then, the moment after, she turned deadly pale.
She recovered herself speedily, welcomed him most kindly, made him sit down by her, and listened to all he had to say. She answered him, too, with every mark of interest; but, from time to time, she fell into a deep, silent fit of thought, during which her spirit seemed to take wings and fly far away.
"Forgive me, Monsieur De Brecy," she said, at length, "if I seem sometimes inattentive and absent. Your sudden and unexpected coming carries me back continually to other days, without leaving me any power of resistance--I know not whether to call them happier days, though they were happier in one sense. They were days full of hopes and purposes, alas! not to be accomplished. But we learn hard lessons, Monsieur De Brecy, in this severe school of life. We learn to bear much that we thought we could never bear; and by constantly seeing changes and chances, and all that befalls others, learn to yield ourselves unresisting to our fate, with the sad philosophy of enjoying the day, from a knowledge that we have no power over the morrow. Oh, what a lapse of strange things there seems to be since you and I last met! The frightful murder of the poor Duke of Orleans, and your own undeserved sufferings, mark out that distant time for memory as with a monument. Between that point and this, doubtless, much has occurred to both of us that can never be forgotten. But, God help us! it is well to curb memory with a strong hand, that she run not always back to the things past, for the course of all mankind is onward. Now let us talk of what can be done for your deliverance. You must, of course, see his highness the dauphin before his meeting with the Duke of Burgundy, and I think I can warrant that he will make a strong effort for your deliverance. He is a noble and a generous prince, and will do much to serve his friends--though, Heaven knows, he has had discouragement enough to weary the heart, and sink the energies of any one. Nothing but selfishness around him, taking all the many shapes of that foul, clinging fiend which preys forever upon human nature--ambition, covetousness, petty malice, calumny, sordid envy, ingratitude--wherever he turns, there is one of its hateful Hydra heads gaping wide-mouthed upon him. Yes, you must certainly see him before the meeting, for no one knows when there may be another--The meeting! What will be the parting?"
She fell into a fit of thought again, but it lasted not long; and, looking up, she added, "I know not how it is, Monsieur De Brecy, but a certain sort of dread has come upon me in regard to this meeting, and every one who approaches me seems to feel the same. I can not help remembering that this man who comes hither to-day murdered his own first cousin, when pretending the utmost affection for him, and vowing peace and amity at the altar; and I should fear for the dauphin's safety, if I did not know that he has twenty thousand men in this place and neighborhood, and that every possible precaution has been taken. What is it, I wonder, makes me feel so sad? Do you think there is any danger?"
"I trust not," replied Jean Charost. "They tell me the two princes are to meet within barriers, assisted by some of their most experienced counselors; and though the castle has been given up to the duke, yet the dauphin's force is so much superior to any Burgundian body which could be brought up, that it would be madness to attempt any surprise."
"Could he not secretly introduce a large force into the castle," asked Agnes, "and, rushing suddenly upon the bridge, make the dauphin his prisoner?"
"He would be taken in the flank and rear," replied De Brecy, "and speedily punished for his temerity. No, dear lady, as far as I can judge, the interview must be a very safe one. But, if you wish, I will go and make further inquiries."
"No, no," she replied; "you must stay here. The council may break up at any moment, and I will then introduce you to his highness--provided they do not sit till after the dinner hour, when it would be well for you to go away and return. The duke, they say, will not be here till two or three o'clock; but he has sent word from Bray that he will assuredly come. Nay, is not Madame De Giac in the castle? That is a certain sign of his coming. Now let us talk of other things, and turn our eyes once more back to other days. I love sometimes a calm, dreamy conference with memory--as one sits over a fire at eventide, and sees misty pageants of the mind rise up before the half-closed eyes, all in a bright, soft haze. Do you recollect that boy who played so beautifully upon the violin? He is now the chief musician to her highness the dauphiness. Would he were here: he would soon soften down all hard fears and doubts with sweet music."
Jean Charost took his tone from her, and the conversation proceeded, quietly and tranquilly enough, for more than an hour, Agnes Sorel sometimes reverting to her companion's actual situation, but more frequently suffering her thoughts to linger about the past, as those are inclined to do who feel uncertain of the present or the future. Twice she turned the little hour-glass that stood upon the table, but at length she said, "It is in vain to wait longer, Monsieur De Brecy. His highness's dinner-hour is now fast approaching. Return to me at two o'clock; and in the mean time, if possible, see Tanneguy du Châtel. He may befriend you much, for he is greatly in the prince's favor, and, moreover, he is honest and true, though somewhat fierce, and rough of speech, and unforgiving. But he is zealous and, faithful for his prince, and, strange to say, no envier of other men who seem rising into power with less truth and less merit than himself. I will not say farewell, for we shall meet again shortly. Remember, two o'clock."
Jean Charost retired at once; but, as he found his way down the stairs, he heard a door below thrown suddenly open, and several persons speaking, and even laughing, as they came out. In the hall, at the foot of the stairs, he found some twelve or fifteen persons slowly moving across, some stopping for a moment to add a word or two more to something which had gone before; others hurrying on toward the door by which he had entered the building. Among the former was a tall, powerful man, exceedingly broad in the shoulders, with a long peacock's feather in his cap, who paused for an instant just at the foot of the stairs to speak with a thin old man in a black gown.
Jean Charost had just passed them, when the servant with whom he had spoken before approached the taller man as if to speak to him; and before Jean had taken ten steps more, he heard his name pronounced aloud.
"Monsieur De Brecy--Monsieur De Brecy!" said the voice; and, turning round, he found the personage with the peacock's feather following him. His manner was quick and decided, and not altogether pleasant, yet there was a frankness about it which one often finds in men of a bold and ready spirit, where there is no great tenderness or delicacy of feeling--stern things and rough, but serviceable and sincere.
"This letter from De Royans," he said, "comes at a moment of some hurry; but yet your business wants speedy attention. Come to my house and dine. We will talk as we eat. We have not time for ceremony."
As he spoke, he took hold of Jean Charost's arm, as if he had been an old friend, and drew him on, with long strides, to the house at which the young gentleman had called in the morning. As they went, he inquired what he had done in the matter of his ransom, and when he heard that he had seen Mademoiselle De St. Geran, and interested her in his behalf, he exclaimed, "'Tis the best thing that could be done. I could not serve you as well as she can. Are you an old friend of hers?"
"I knew her when she was a mere girl," answered Jean Charost.
Du Châtel appeared hardly to hear his answer, for he seemed, like Agnes Sorel, subject to fits of deep thought that day; and he did not wake from the reverie into which he had fallen till they reached the door of his dwelling. Then, as they were mounting the steps, he broke forth again with the words, "She can do what she will--lucky that she always wills well for France; Let me see--" Then, speaking to a servant, he added, "Dinner instantly. Tell Marivault to have my armor all laid out ready. Come, De Brecy, all I can do for you I will. But that is only to make you known to the dauphin, and it must be hastily too. The fair Agnes must plead your cause with him, though I think it will not need much pleading."
While he had been speaking, he had advanced into a little room on the left hand side of the entrance, where a small table was laid, as if for the dinner of one person, and throwing himself on a stool, he pointed to another, saying, "If this interview ends well, I think there can be no doubt of your success."
"I trust it will end well," said Jean Charost "Is there any reason to think otherwise?"
"Hum!" said Tanneguy du Châtel. "That will depend altogether upon the Duke of Burgundy. He is puffed up and insolent, and there be hot spirits about the dauphin. It were well for him not to use such bold words as he has lately indulged in. We all mean him well, and fairly; but if he ruffles his wings as he has lately done, he may chance to go back with his feathers singed; and then, my good friend, your suit would be of no avail. Ah, here comes the pottage. Eat, eat; for we must be quick. It must be a strange thing," he continued, after he had taken his soup; "it must be a strange thing to go about the world with the consciousness that every man in all the land believes your death would be the salvation of France! I should not like the sensation. Here, wine--boy, give me wine! God send that this all ends well. If the Duke of Burgundy will but be reasonable, sacrifice some small part of his ambition to his country's good, remember that he is a subject and a Frenchman, and fulfill his promises, we may see some happy days again, and drive these islanders from the land. If not, we are all at sea again."
"I trust he will," answered Jean Charost; "but yet he is of a stern, unbending spirit, as I have cause to know."
"Ha! Has he been your enemy, too?" asked Du Châtel.
"Not exactly," answered Jean Charost. "Indeed, long ago he made me high offers if I would enter his service; but it was an insult rather than a compliment; for he had just then caused the assassination of the Duke of Orleans, my noble lord."
Du Châtel ground his teeth. "Ah, the villain," he said. "That is a score to be wiped off yet. But you must have done something to serve him previously. John of Burgundy is not a man to court any one without some strong motive of self-interest."
"I have often puzzled myself as to what could be his motive," answered Jean Charost, with a smile, "but have never been even able to guess at any inducement, unless it were some words of an astrologer at Pithiviers, who told him I should be present at his death, and try to prevent it."
"Heaven send the prophesy may be soon accomplished!" exclaimed Tanneguy du Châtel, with a laugh. "I longed to send my sword through him the other day at Troyes; but I thought it would be hardly courteous in his own house, when we were eating together. But if I could meet with him, lance to lance, in the field, I think one or the other of us would not ride far after."
"Shall I give you more wine, my lord?" asked a page, advancing with a flagon.
"No," replied his master; "I am hot enough already. Change that dish. What is there else for dinner?"
A man came in as he spoke, and said, in a low voice, "The duke is on the road, my lord."
"Well, let him come," replied Du Châtel. "We are ready for him."
"Perhaps he may not come on still," replied the man; "for Anthony of Thoulongeon and John of Ermay have been examining the barricades upon the bridge with somewhat dark faces, and have ridden out to meet the duke, their master."
"Then let him stay away," answered Du Châtel, abruptly. "We mean him no ill. He has been courted enough. It's his own conscience makes him afraid to come. Here is some hare, De Brecy. Take some wine, take some wine. You do not require so spare a diet as I do. Odds life! they let you blood enough at Azincourt to keep you calm and tranquil."
When the brief, frugal dinner was over, Tanneguy du Châtel started up, saying, "I must go get on my harness. You hurry back to the beautiful lady you wot of, and wait with her till you hear from me, unless the dauphin comes in and your business is settled. If not, I will present you to him before the interview, in the good hope that matters will go smoothly, and some fair conditions be settled for the good of France. I know not what is in me to-day. I feel as if quickened by another spirit. Well, I must get on this armor."
Thus saying, he left the room, and Jean Charost found his way back to the abbey, where he was kept some time before he obtained audience of Agnes Sorel. When he was at length admitted, he found her seated with another lady somewhat younger than herself, and very beautiful also, with their arms thrown round each other's waists. Neither moved when the young gentleman entered; but Agnes, bowing her head, said, "This is Monsieur De Brecy, madam, of whom I spoke to your highness. Monsieur De Brecy, I present you to the dauphiness."
Jean Charost, it need hardly be said, was greatly surprised, and, in some degree, embarrassed; for the suspicions of others had created suspicions in himself, which he now mistakenly thought were mistaken. He paid all due reverence to the dauphiness, however, and remained for nearly an hour conversing with her and the beautiful Agnes, who were both waiting anxiously, it seemed, for the appearance of the dauphin. The part of the house in which they were was very quiet; but the sounds from the country came more readily to the ear than those proceeding from the town. Some noise, like the hoof-tramp of many horses, was heard, and the dauphiness looked at Agnes anxiously.
"What is that? Can you see, Monsieur De Brecy?" asked the latter; and Jean Charost sprang to the window.
"A large party of horse," he answered. "I should judge from four to five hundred men."
"It is the duke," exclaimed the dauphiness. "Dearest Agnes, are you sure there is no danger? Remember the Duke of Orleans."
"True, madam," replied Agnes; "but he was well-nigh alone. His highness has twenty thousand men around him."
The dauphiness cast down her eyes in thought, and the moment after one of the officers of the household entered, saying, "Monsieur De Brecy, the Seigneur du Châtel desires to see you below."
When Jean Charost reached the bottom of the great stair-case, he found every thing below in a state of great hurry and confusion. A number of persons were passing out, and stately forms, and burnished arms, and waving plumes were seen flowing along through the corridor like a stream. At the foot of the stairs stood Tanneguy du Châtel in complete arms, with his right foot raised upon the first step, his knee supporting the pommel of a small battle-ax, and his hand resting on the blade of the weapon. His beaver was up, and the expression of his countenance eager and impatient. "Quick, quick, De Brecy," he said. "The prince has gone on. We must catch him before the interview begins, if you would speed in your suit."
"I am ready," said the young man; and on they hastened, somewhat impeded by the number of attendants and noblemen of the dauphin's court, who were already following him toward the bridge over the Seine. They issued out of the abbey, at length, and then made greater progress in the open streets. But, nevertheless, they did not overtake the prince and the group that immediately surrounded him, till he had reached the foot of the high arched bridge on which the barriers were erected. In the open space on either side of the road, between the houses and the water, were assembled a strong body of horse and two large companies of archers. A herald and a marshal kept the way clear for the prince and his train, and no one appeared upon the bridge itself but some men, stationed at each of the four barriers, to open and close the gates as the several parties passed in. On the opposite side of the river towered up the old castle, with its outworks coming quite down to the bridge; but nobody appeared there except a few soldiers on the walls.
"Here is Monsieur De Brecy, royal sir," said Tanneguy du Châtel, approaching the dauphin--a tall and graceful, but slightly-formed young man--"the gentleman who has been a prisoner! since Azincourt, of whom I spoke to your highness, as did also, I hear, your royal lady, and Mademoiselle De St. Geran."
The dauphin turned partly round, and gave one glance at Jean Charost, saying, "Bring him in with you, Du Châtel. We will speak with him within the barriers; for, by all I see, my fair cousin of Burgundy intends to keep me waiting."
Thus saying, the dauphin passed on with two or three other persons, the barrier being raised to give him admission. The man in charge of the gate seemed to hesitate at the sight of Jean Charost in his monk's gown; but Du Châtel exclaimed, sharply, "The Baron De Brecy. Let him pass. I am his warrant."
The second barrier was passed in the same way as the first by the dauphin and his immediate followers; but a number of the train remained between the two barricades, according to orders apparently previously given. The keeper of the second barrier made greater difficulty than the other to let Jean Charost pass and it was not till the dauphin himself turned his head, and said, "Let him enter," that the rail was raised.
Across the centre of the bridge a single light rail was drawn, and in the space between that and the second barrier was placed a little pavilion, decorated with crimson silk, and furnished with a chair for the use of the prince. He advanced at once toward it and seated himself, and those who accompanied him, in number about two or three and twenty, gathered round, and an eager conversation seemed to take place among them. Tanneguy du Châtel mingled with the rest, approaching close to the side of the dauphin; but Jean Charost remained on the verge of the group, unnoticed, and apparently forgotten.
Some one was heard to say something regarding the insolence of keeping his highness waiting; and then the voice of Du Châtel answered, in a frank tone, "Not insolence, perhaps--suspicion and fear, very likely."
"We wish him no ill," said the dauphin. "Let him keep his promises, and we will embrace him with all friendship. Perhaps he does not know that we are here. Go and summon him, Du Châtel."
Without reply, Tanneguy hastened away, vaulted, armed as he was, over the rail which crossed the bridge at the centre, and passed through the two other barriers on the side of the castle, disappearing under the archway of the gate.
The eyes of most persons present were turned in that direction; but the dauphin looked round, with a somewhat listless air, as if for some object with which to fill up the time, and, seeing Jean Charost, he beckoned him up.
"I am glad to see you, Monsieur De Brecy," he said. "They tell me you have a letter for me from my cousin of Orleans. Were you not, if I remember right, the secretary of his father, my uncle, who was so basely murdered?"
"I was, your highness," replied Jean Charost. "Permit me to present you the young duke's letter."
The dauphin took it, but did not break the seal, merely saying, "I grieve deeply for my good cousin's long imprisonment, and if we can bring this stout-hearted Duke of Burgundy to any thing like reasonable terms of accommodation, I doubt not that we shall be able to conclude an honorable peace with England, in which case his liberation shall be stipulated, and yours, too, Monsieur De Brecy; for I am told you not only served well, and suffered much at Azincourt, but that your noble devotion to my murdered uncle had well-nigh cost your own life. Rest assured you shall be remembered."
Jean Charost judged rightly whence the prince's information came; and he was expressing his thanks, when some of those who were standing round exclaimed, "The duke is coming, your highness!"
"Somewhat late," said the young prince, with a frown; "but better that than not come at all. Well go, some of you, and do him honor."
Thus saying, he rose and advanced slowly to the rail across the bridge, on which he leaned, crossing his arms upon his chest.
In the meanwhile, a small party, consisting of ten or twelve people, were seen approaching from the gate of the castle. At the first barrier they halted, and a short consultation seemed to take place. Before it was finished they were joined by some six or seven noblemen who had left the group about the dauphin by his command. They then moved forward again; but some way in advance of them came Tanneguy du Châtel, with a quick step and a flushed countenance.
"This man is very bold, my prince," he said, in a low tone. "God send his looks and words may be more humble here, for I know not how any of us will bear it."
"Go back--go back, and bring him on," said the dauphin. "He shall hear some truths he may not lately have heard. Be you calm, Du Châtel, and leave me to deal with him. I will not spare."
Eagerness to see all the strange scene that was passing had led Jean Charost almost close to the rail by the time that Tanneguy du Châtel turned, and advanced once more to meet the Duke of Burgundy. That prince was now easily to be distinguished a little in advance of his company, and Jean Charost remarked that he had greatly changed since he last saw him. Though still a strong and active man, he looked much older, and deep lines of anxious thought were traced upon his cheek and brow. At first his eyes were fixed upon the dauphin, who continued to lean against the rail without the slightest movement; but as he came on, the duke looked to the right and left, running his eyes over the prince's attendants, and when about ten steps from the rail, they rested firmly and inquiringly on the face of Jean Charost. For a moment the sight seemed to puzzle him; but then a look of recognition came over his countenance; and the next instant he turned deadly pale.
A sort of hesitation was seen in his step and air; but he recovered himself at once, advanced straight to the dauphin, and bent one knee to the ground before him, throwing his heavy sword behind with his left hand.
The dauphin moved not, spoke not, for a moment, but gazed upon the duke with a heavy, frowning brow. "Well, cousin of Burgundy," he said, at length, without asking him to rise, "you have come at length. I thought you were going to violate your promise now, as in the other cases."
"I have violated no promises, Charles of France," replied the duke, in a tone equally sharp.
"Heaven is witness that you have," answered the dauphin. "Did you not promise to cease from war? Did you not promise to withdraw your garrisons from five cities where they still are?"
The duke's face flushed, his eyes sparkled, and his brow contracted. What he replied, Jean Charost did not hear; but seeing a gentleman close to the dauphin lay his hand upon his dagger, he caught him by the arm, whispering, "Forbear! forbear!"
At the same moment, one of the dauphin's officers, who had gone to meet the duke, took that prince by the arm, saying, "Rise, sir--rise. You are too honorable to remain kneeling."
Whether the duke heard, or mistook him, I know not; but he turned sharply toward him, with a fierce look, and, either moved by his haughty spirit, or in order to rise more easily, he put his right hand on the hilt of his sword; and Robert de Loire exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "Dare you put your hand on your sword in the presence of our lord the dauphin!"
"It is time that this should cease!" cried Tanneguy du Châtel, his whole countenance inflamed, and his eyes flashing fire; and at the same moment he struck the duke a blow with the ax he carried in his hand.
Burgundy started up, and partly drew his sword; but another blow beat him on his knee again, and another cast him headlong to the ground. A strong man, named Oliver de Laget and another sprang upon him, and thrust a sword into his body. At the same moment, a scuffle occurred at a little distance between one of the followers of the duke and some of the dauphin's party, and Jean Charost saw a man fall; but all was confused and indistinct. Horror, surprise, and a wild, grasping effort of the mind to seize all the consequences to France, to England, to himself, which might follow that dreadful act, stupefied and confounded him. Every thing passed, as in a dream, with rapid indistinctness, to be brought out vivid and strong by an after effort of memory. That the duke was killed at the very feet of the dauphin, was all that his mind had room for at the moment.
The next instant a voice exclaimed, "Look to the dauphin--look to the dauphin!" and Jean Charost saw him staggering back from the rail as pale as death, and with his eyes half closed.
It is not unlikely that many there present had contemplated as possible some such event as that which had taken place, without any definite purpose of effecting it, or taking any part therein. Popular expectation has often something prophetic in it, and the warning voice, which had rendered so many grave and thoughtful during the whole course of that morning, must have been heard also by the actors of the scene which had just passed. But one thing is certain, and the whole history of the time leaves no doubt of the fact, that the dauphin himself had neither any active share in his cousin's death, nor any participation in a conspiracy to effect it. They bore him back, fainting, to the little pavilion which had been raised for his accommodation, and thence, after a time, led him, in profound silence, to the abbey, while his followers secured a number of the Duke of Burgundy's immediate attendants, and the soldiery, crowding on the bridge, threatened the castle itself with assault.
Jean Charost retired from the scene with a sad heart. His hopes were disappointed; his fate seemed sealed; but though he felt all this bitterly, yet he felt still more despondency at the thought of his unhappy country's fate. Personal rivalry, selfish ambition, greed of power and of wealth, undisciplined valor, insubordinate obstinacy, were all urging her on to the verge of a precipice from which a miracle seemed necessary to save her. The feelings which filled his breast at that moment were very like those expressed by the contemporary historian when he wrote, "Only to hear recounted this affair is so pitiful and lamentable that greater there can not be; and especially the hearts of all noble men, and other true men, natives of the kingdom of France, must be of great sadness and shame in beholding those of such noble blood as of thefleur de lis, so near of kindred, themselves destroy one another, and the same kingdom placed, in consequence of the facts above mentioned, and others past and done before, in the way and the danger of falling under a new lord and altogether going to perdition."
To dwell minutely upon a period unfilled by action, and merely marked by the revolution of day and night, even in the life of a person in whom we have some interest, would be almost as dull as to describe in detail the turning of a grindstone. It is not with the eventless events of a history that we have to do--not with the flat spaces on the road of life. We sit not down to relate a sleep or to paint a fishpond.
Little occurred to Jean Charost during the rest of his stay in France that is worth the telling which will not be referred to hereafter. Let us change the scene then, and, spreading the wings of Fancy, fly on through the air of Time to a spot some years in advance.
There was an old house, or rather palace, and well it deserved the name, situated near the great city of London, close upon the banks of the River Thames. Men now living can remember parts of it still standing, choked up with houses, like some great shell of the green deep incrusted with limpets and other tiny habitations of the vermin of the sea. At the time of this history it had gardens running all around it, extending wide and pleasantly on the water side, though but narrow between the palace itself and the stone-battlemented wall which separated them from the great Strand road leading from the Temple gate of the city to the village of Charing.
Fretted and richly carved in some parts, plain and stern in others, the old palace of the Savoy combined in itself the architecture of several ages. Many were the purposes it had served too--sometimes the place of revelry and mirth--sometimes the witness of the prisoner's tears. It had been the residence of John, king of France, during his captivity in England some half century before; and since that time it had principally served--grown almost by prescription to be so used--as an honorable prison for foreign enemies when the chances of war brought them in bonds to England.
In the midst of the embattled wall that I have mentioned, and projecting a little beyond its line, stood a great gate-house, which has long since been pulled down, or has fallen, perhaps, without the aid of man; and that gate-house had two large towers of three stories each, affording very comfortable apartments, as that day went, to their occasional tenants. They were roomy and pleasant of aspect enough. One of these towers was appropriated to the wardens of the Savoy and their families, while the other received at various times a great number of different denizens, sometimes princes, sometimes prisoners, sometimes refugees, people who remained but a few days, people who passed there half a lifetime. The stone walls within were thickly traced with names, some scrawled with chalk, or written in ink; and among these the most conspicuous were records of the existence there for several years of persons attached to the unfortunate King John.
It was a cheerful building in those days; nothing obscured the view or hid the sunshine; and the smiling gardens, the glittering river, or the busy high-road could be seen from most of the windows of the palace.
In a room on the first floor of the eastern tower of the gate-house, Jean Charost is once more before us. Monterreau's blood-stained bridge, the dauphin and the murderers, and the dying Duke of Burgundy, have passed away; and there are but two women with him. Yes, I may call them women both, though their ages are very far apart. One is in the silver-haired decline of life, the other is just blossoming; they are the withered flower and the bud.
They were seated round a little table, and had evidently been talking earnestly. Madame De Brecy's eyes had traces of tears on them, and those of the young girl, turned up to Jean Charost's face, were full of eagerness and entreaty.
"In vain, dear mother--in vain," said Jean Charost. "My resolution is as firm as ever. Jacques Cœur is generous; but I can not lay myself under such an obligation, and even at the most moderate rate, to raise such a sum in the present state of France, would deprive you of two thirds of your whole income. This captivity is weary to me. To remain here year after year, while France has been dismembered, her crown bought and sold, her fair fields ravaged, her cities become slaughter-houses, has been terrible--has doubled the load of time, has depressed my light spirits, and almost worn out hope and expectation. But yet I will not trust the fate of two, so dear as you two are, to the power of circumstances. You say, apply to Lord Willoughby. I have applied; but it is in vain. He gives me, as you know, all kindly liberty: no act of kindness or courtesy is wanting. But on one point he is inflexible, and we all feel and know that he is ruled by a power which he must obey. It is the same with others who have prisoners of some consideration. They can not place them at reasonable ransom, though the rules of chivalry and courtesy require it."
"He seems a kind man, Jean," said the young girl, still looking in his face. "He spoke gently and good-humoredly to me."
"Ay, gentleness and good humor, my sweet Agnes," said Jean Charost, "will not make a man disobey the commands of his monarch. Another month, and I shall have lain a prisoner seven long years. Why, Agnes, my hair is growing gray, while yours is getting darker every hour. I can recollect your locks like sunshine on a hill, and now a raven's wing is hardly blacker."
"Ah, I saw a gray hair the other day in that curl upon your temple," said the girl, with a laugh. "You will soon be a white-headed old man, Jean, if you obstinately remain here, when our dear mother would willingly sell all to free you. Though I think, after all, you are getting a little younger since we came. We have now been three years with you in this horrible country, and I think you look a year younger."
Jean Charost smiled, saying, "Certainly I do, Sunshine, else do you shine in vain."
"Well, I am going out to seek more sunshine," said the girl. "I will wander away up the bank of the river, and say an ave at the Blackfriars' Church. And then, perhaps, I will go into the Church of the Templar's, and look at the tombs of the old knights, with their feet crossed, and their swords half drawn; and then I will come back again; for then it will be dinner-time. Good-by till then."
She tripped away with a light step, down the stair-case, out upon the road; and when Jean Charost looked after her out of the window he saw her going slowly and thoughtfully along. But Agnes did not continue that pace for any great distance. As soon as she was out of the gate tower of the Savoy, she hurried on with great rapidity, turned up a narrow lane between two fields on the west of the road, and, passing the house of the Bishop of Lincoln, not even stopping to scent her favorite briar rose which was thick upon the hedges, paused at a modern brick house--modern in those days--with towers and turrets in plenty, and the arms of the house of Willoughby hung out from a spear above the gate.
An old white-headed man sat upon the great stone bench beneath the archway; and a soldier moved backward and forward upon a projecting gallery in front of the building. A page, playing with a cat, was seen further in under the arch, in the blue shade, and one or two loiterers appeared in the court beyond, on the side where the summer sun could not visit them.
Agnes stopped by the porter's side, and asked if she could see the Lord Willoughby.
"Doubtless, doubtless," said the man, "if he be not taking his forenoon sleep, and that can hardly be, for old Thomas of Erpingham has been with him, and the right worshipful deaf knight's sweet voice would well-nigh rouse the dead--'specially when he talks of Azincourt. Go, boy, to our lord, and tell him a young maiden wants to see him. Ah, I can recollect the time when that news would have got a speedy answer. But alack, fair lady, we grow slow as we get old. Sit you down by me now, till the page returns, and then the saucy fellows in the court dare not gibe."
Agnes seated herself, as he invited her; but she had not waited long ere the boy returned, and ushered her through one long passage to a room on the ground floor, where she found the old lord writing a letter--with some difficulty it must be confessed; for he was no great scribe--but very diligently. He hardly looked round, but continued his occupation, saying, "What is it, child? The boy tells me you would speak with me."
"When you have leisure, my good lord," replied Agnes, standing a little behind him. But the old man started at her voice, and turned round to gaze at her.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "My little French lady, is that you? It is very strange, your face always puts me in mind of some one else, and your tongue does so too. However, there is no time in life to think of such things. Sit you down--sit you down a moment. I shall soon have finished this epistle--would it were in the fire. I have but a line to add."
He was near a quarter of an hour, however, in finishing that line; and Agnes sat mute and thoughtful, gazing at his face, and, as one will do when one has important interests depending on another, drawing auguries from every line about it. It was a good, honest old English face, with an expression of frank good nature, a little testiness, and much courtesy; and the young girl drew favorable inferences before she ended her reverie.
At length the letter was finished, folded, sealed, and dispatched; and then turning to Agnes, the old soldier took her hands in his, saying, "I am glad to see you, my dear. What is it you want? Our friend at the Savoy--your father--brother--husband--I know not what, is not ill, I hope."
"Very ill," replied Agnes, in a quiet, gentle tone.
"Ha!" cried the old gentleman. "How so? What is the matter?"
"He is ill at ease, my lord--sick at heart--is in a fever to return to his own land."
"You little deceiver," cried Lord Willoughby, laughing. "You made me anxious about the good young baron, and now it is but the old story, after all. But why should he pine so to get back to France? This is a fine country--this a fine city; and God is my witness I do all I can to make him happy. He is little more than a prisoner in name."
"But still a prisoner, my lord," replied Agnes, with a touching earnestness. "The very name is the chain. Think you not that to a gentleman, a man of a free spirit, the very feeling of being a prisoner is heavier than fetters of iron to a serf. You may cage a singing-bird, my lord, but an eagle beats itself to death against the bars. Would you be content to rest a captive in France, however well treated you might be? Would you be content to know that you could not revisit your own dear land, see the scenes where your youth had passed, embrace your friends and relations, breathe your own native air? Would you be content to sit down at night in a lonely room, not in your own castle, and, looking at your wrists, though you saw not the fetters there, say to yourself, 'I am a captive, nevertheless. A captive to my fellowman--I can not go where I would, do what I would. I am bound down to times and places--a prisoner--a prisoner still, though I may carry my prison about with me!' Would any man be content with this? and if so, how much less can a knight and a gentleman sit down in peace and quiet, content to be a prisoner in a foreign land, when his country needs his services, when every gentleman of France is wanted for the aid of France, when his king is to be served, his country's battles to be fought, even against you, my lord, and his own honor and renown to be maintained?"
"Ay; you touch me there--you touch me there, young lady," said the old nobleman. "On my life, for my part, I would never keep a brave enemy in prison, but have him pay only what he could for ransom, and then let him go to fight me again another day."
"Monsieur De Brecy's father," continued Agnes, simply, "died in a lost field against the English. The son is here in an English prison. Think you not that he envies his father?"
"Perhaps he does, perhaps he does," cried Lord Willoughby, starting up, and walking backward and forward in the room. "But what can I do?" he continued, stopping before Agnes and gazing at her with a look of sincere distress. "The king made me promise that I would not liberate any of my prisoners, so long as he and I both lived, without his special consent, except at the heavy ransoms he himself had fixed. My dear child, you talk like a woman, and yet you touch me like a child. But you can, I am sure, understand that it is not in my power; or, upon my faith and chivalry, I would grant what you desire."
The tears rose in Agnes's beautiful eyes. "I know you would be kind," she said. "But his mother insisted upon selling all they have to pay his ransom. He would not have it; for it would reduce her to poverty, and I came away to see if I could not move you."
"On my life," cried Lord Willoughby, "I have a mind to send you to the king."
"Where is he?" cried Agnes. "I am ready to go to him at once."
The old lord shook his head: "He is in France," he said; and was going to add something more, when a tall servant suddenly opened the door, and began some announcement by saying, "My lord, here is--"
But he was not suffered to finish the sentence; for a powerful, middle-aged man, unarmed, but booted and spurred, pushed past him into the room, and Lord Willoughby exclaimed, "Ha, Dorset! what brings you from France? Has aught gone amiss?"
There was some cause for the latter question; for there was more than haste in the expression of the Earl of Dorset's countenance: there was grief, and there was anxiety.
With a hasty step he advanced to Lord Willoughby, laid his hand upon his arm, and said something in a low voice which Agnes did not hear. The old lord started back with a look of sorrow and consternation. "Dead!" he exclaimed. "Dead! So young--so full of life--so needful to his people. Dorset, Dorset; in God's name, say that my ears have deceived me. Killed in battle, ha! Some random bolt from that petty town of Cone, whither he was marching when last I heard. It must be so. He, like the great Richard, was doomed to find such a fate--to fall before an insignificant hamlet by a peasant's hand. He exposed himself too much, Dorset--he exposed himself too much."
Dorset shook his head: "No," he replied, "he died of sickness in his bed; but like a soldier and a hero still--calmly, courageously, without a faltering thought or sickly fear. Heaven rest his soul: we shall never have a greater or a better king. But harkee, Willoughby, I must go on at once and summon the council. Come you up with all speed; for there will be much matter for anxious deliberation, and need of wise heads, and much experience."
"I will, I will," replied Lord Willoughby. "Ho, boy! without there. Get my horses ready with all speed. Farewell, Dorset; I will join you in half an hour. Now--Odds' life, my sweet young lady, I had forgot your presence. What was it we were saying? Oh, I remember now. The course of earthly events is very strange. That which brings tears to some eyes wipes them away from others. Come hither; I will write a note to your young guardian, and none but yourself shall be its bearer. My duty to my king is done, and I am free to act as I will. Stay for it; it shall be very short."
He then drew a scrap of paper toward him, and wrote slowly, "The ransom of the Baron De Brecy is diminished one half.
"In witness whereof I have set my hand.
"Willoughby."
"There, take it, dear child," he said, "and let him thank God, and thank you;" and drawing her toward him, he imprinted a kind and fatherly kiss upon her forehead, and then led her courteously to the door.