Sometimes very small and insignificant occurrences, even when anticipated and prepared for, produce mighty and unforeseen consequences; sometimes great and startling events the least expected, and the least provided against, pass away quietly without producing any immediate result.
Henry the Fifth of England had returned to France in high health, had triumphed over all enemies, and had used the very storms and tempests of passion and faction as instruments of his will. All yielded before him; victory seemed his right; health and long life his privilege; and success the obedient servant of his will. No one contemplated a change--no one even dreamed of a reverse; defeat was never thought of; death was never mentioned. There was no expectation, no preparation. But in the midst of triumph, and activity, and energetic power, he was touched by the transforming wand of sickness. Few hours were allowed him to set his house in order; and in the prime of life and the midst of glory, the successful general, the gallant knight, the wise statesman, the ambitious king closed his eyes upon the world, and nothing but a mighty name remained.
What changes might have been expected to follow an event so little contemplated! Yet very few, if any, occurred. His last hours, while writhing on a bed of pain, sufficed to regulate all the affairs of two great kingdoms, and his wisdom and foresight, as well as his energy and resolution, were never more strongly displayed than on the bed of death. All remained quiet; the sceptre of England passed from the hand of the hero to the hand of the child; and in France no popular movement of any importance showed that the people were awakened to the value of the chances before them. All remained quiescent; the vigorous and unsparing hand of Bedford seemed no less strong than had been that of his departed brother; and, reduced to a few remote provinces, the party of the dauphin was powerless and inert.
It was while this state continued, that three persons entered the old hall of the château of Brecy just as the sun was going down. The elder lady leaned with a feeble and fatigued air upon the arm of Jean Charost; Agnes had both her hands clasped upon his other arm, and all three paused at the door, and looked round with an expression, if not somewhat sad, somewhat anxious. All were very glad to be there again; all were very glad to be even in France once more. But three years make a great difference in men, in countries, and in places; and when we return to an ancient dwelling-place, we are more conscious, perhaps, of the workings of time than at any other period. We feel within ourselves that we are changed, and we expect to find a change in external objects also--we look to see a stone fallen from the walls, the moss or mildew upon the paneling, the monitory dust creeping over the floor, the symptoms of alteration and decay apparent in the place of cherished memories.
There was nothing of the kind, however, to be seen in the old hall of the château of De Brecy. The evening rays of sunshine gliding through the windows shone cheerfully against the wall; the room was swept and garnished. All was neat and in good array; and it seemed as if, from that little circumstance alone, Hope relighted her lamp for their somewhat despondent hearts.
"There may be bright days before us yet, my son," said Madame de Brecy, in a calm, grave tone.
"Oh, yes, there will be bright days," said Agnes, warmly and enthusiastically. "We are back in France--fair bright France; we are back, safe and well, and there must be happy days for us yet."
"I wonder," said Jean Charost, thoughtfully, "who has kept up the place so carefully. We left but poor old Augustine, incapable of much exertion. The friendly offices of Jacques Cœur must have had a hand in this."
"Not much, sir," said a voice behind him; "if that very excellent gentleman will permit me to say so."
Jean Charost turned round, and perceived Jacques Cœur himself entering the hall with a stout little man in a gardener's habit. I say a gardener's habit, because in those blessed days, called the good old times, which had their excellences as well as their defects, you could tell a man's trade, calling, profession, or degree--at least usually--by his dress. It was a good habit, it was a beneficial habit, was an honest habit. You could never mistake a priest for a life-guardsman, nor a shop-boy for a prime minister--nor the reverse. In our own times, alas--in our days of liberty (approaching license), equality (founded upon the grossest delusion), and fraternity (which, as far as we have seen it carried, is the fraternity of Cain), we are allowed to disguise ourselves as we will, to sail under any false colors that may suit us, to cheat, and swindle, and lie, and deceive in whatever garb may seem best fitted for our purpose. The vanity and hypocrisy of the multitude have triumphed not only altogether over sumptuary laws, but, in a great part, over custom itself and I know nothing that a man may not assume, except the queen's crown, and God protect that for her, and for her race forever!
The gardener's habit, however, with the blue cloth stockings bound on with leathern straps, was so apparent in the present instance, that Jean Charost, who was unconscious of having a gardener, could not for an instant conceive who the personage was, till the face of Martin Grille, waxen like that of the moon at the end of the second quarter, grew distinct to recollection.
"He says true, my good friend, Monsieur de Brecy," said Jacques Cœur, "and right glad I am, his care should have so provided that your first sight of your own house, on your return from captivity should be a pleasant one. The only share I have had in this, as your agent, has been to let him do what he would."
"'Tis explained in a word, sir," said Martin Grille. "You told me you could not afford to keep me while you were a prisoner; and I thought I could afford to keep myself, out of the waste ground about the castle, and keep the castle in good order too. I had always a fancy for gardening when I was a boy, and had once a whole crop of beans in an old sauce-pan, on the top of the garret where my mother lived in Paris. The first five sous I ever had in my life was for an ounce of onion seed which I raised in a cracked pitcher. I was intended by nature for digging the earth, and not for digging holes in other people's bodies; and the town of Bourges owes me some of the best cabbages that ever were grown, when I am quite sure I should have reaped any thing but a crop of glory if I had cultivated the fields of war. However, here I am, ready to take up the trade of valet again, if you will let me; and, to show that I have not forgotten the mystery, I rubbed up all your old arms last night, brushed coats, mantles, jerkins, houseaux, and every thing else I could find, and swept up every room in the house to save poor old Augustine's unbendable back."
In more ways than one, the house was well prepared for the return of its lord, and, thanks to the care of good Martin Grille, a very comfortable supper had not been forgotten. It was a strange sensation, however, for Jean Charost, when the sun had gone down and the sconces were lighted, to sit once more in his own hall, a free man, with friendly faces all about him--a pleasant sensation, and yet somewhat overpowering. The tears stood in Madame De Brecy's eyes more than once during that evening; but Agnes, whose spirits were light, and who had fewer memories, was full of gay joyfulness.
Jean Charost himself was very calm; but he often thought, had he been alone, he could have wept too.
Thus some thought and some feeling was given to personal things; but the fate, the state, the history of his country during his absence occupied no small portion of his attention. In those days news traveled slowly. Great facts were probably more accurately stated and known than even now; for there was no complicated machinery for the dissemination of falsehood, no public press wielded by party spirit for the purpose of adulterating the true with the false. A certain generosity, too, had survived the pure chivalrous ages, and men, even during life, could attribute high and noble qualities to an enemy; but details were generally lost. Jean Charost was anxious to hear those details, and when they gathered round the great chimney and the blazing hearth--for it was now October, and the nights were frosty--Jacques Cœur undertook to give his young friend some account of all that had taken place in France since the battle of Azincourt, somewhat to the following effect.
"You remember well, my friend," he said, "that, after the fall of Harfleur, John of Burgundy only escaped the name of traitor by a lukewarm offer to join his troops to those of France in defense of the realm. But he was distrusted, and probably not without cause. You were already a prisoner in England when the Orleanist party obtained entire preponderance at the court, and the young duke being in captivity like yourself, the leading of that faction was assumed by his father-in-law, the Count of Armagnac. Rapid, great, and perilous was his rise, and fearless, bold, and bloody he showed himself. The sword of constable placed the whole military power of France at his disposal, and the death of the dauphin Louis left him no rival in authority or favor. Happy had it been for him had he contented himself with military authority; but he must grasp the finances too; and in the disastrous state of the revenues of the crown, the imposts, only justified by a hard necessity, raised him up daily enemies. His rude and merciless severity, too, irritated even more than it alarmed, and it was not long before all those who had been long indifferent went to swell the ranks of his adversaries. True, his party was strong; true, hatred of the Burgundian faction was intense in a multitude of Frenchmen. But the great lords, and many of the princes attached to the house of Orleans, were absent and powerless in English prisons. By every means that policy and duplicity could suggest, John of Burgundy strove to augment the number of his friends. All those who fled from the persecution of Armagnac were received by him with joy and treated with distinction. He increased his forces; he hovered about Paris; he treated the orders of the court to retire, if not with contempt, with disobedience. At length, however, he seemed to give up the hope of making himself master of the capital, and retreated suddenly into Artois.
"Not judging his enemy rightly, the Count of Armagnac resolved to seize the opportunity of an open path, in order to strike a blow for the recovery of Harfleur; and, leaving a strong garrison in Paris, he set out upon his expedition. No sooner was he gone, than John of Burgundy hastened to profit by his absence, and rapid negotiations took place between him and his partisans within the walls of Paris. You know the turbulent and factious nature of the lower order of citizens in the capital. Many of them were animated with mistaken zeal for the house of Burgundy; more were eager for plunder, or thirsty for blood; and one of the darkest and most detestable plots that ever blackened the page of history was formed for the destruction of the whole Armagnac party, and that, too, with the full cognizance of the Duke of Burgundy. It was determined that, at a certain hour, the conspirators should appear in arms in the streets of Paris, seize upon the queen, the king, and the young dauphin, John, murder the-whole of the Armagnac faction, and, after having seized the Duke of Berri and the King of Sicily, load them with chains, and make a spectacle of them in the streets of Paris mounted on an ox, and then put them to death likewise.
"The plot was frustrated by the fears or remorse of a woman, within a few minutes of the hour appointed for its execution. Precautions were taken; the royal family placed in safety; and Tanneguy du Châtel, at the head of his troops, issued forth from the Bastile, and made himself master of the houses and the persons of the conspirators. There was no mercy, my friend, for any one who was found in arms. Some suffered by the cord or hatchet, some were drowned in the Seine; and Armagnac returning, added to the chastisement already inflicted on individuals, the punishment of the whole city of Paris. Suspicion was received as proof, indifference became a crime, the prisons were filled to overflowing, and the very name of Burgundian was proscribed. The troops of the Duke of Burgundy, which had approached the city of Paris, were attacked in the open field, and civil war, in its most desolating aspect, raged all around the metropolis.
"Every sort of evil seemed poured out upon France, as if all the fountains of Heaven's wrath were opened to rain woes upon the land. Another dauphin was snatched away from us, and rumors of poison were very general; but the death of one prince was very small in comparison with the treason of another. There is no doubt, De Brecy, that John of Burgundy, frustrated in his attempt upon Paris, entered into a league with the enemies of his country, and secretly recognized Henry of England as king of France. Dissensions arose between the queen and the Count of Armagnac, in which our present dauphin, Charles, was so far compromised as to incur the everlasting hatred of his mother. Burgundy, the queen, and England, united for the destruction of the dauphin and the Count of Armagnac, and vengeance and ambition combined for the final ruin of the country. The politic King of England took advantage of all, and marched on from conquest to conquest throughout Normandy, while, by slow degrees, the Duke of Burgundy approached nearer and nearer to the capital. The perils by which he was surrounded appeared to deprive Armagnac of judgment: he seemed possessed of the fury of a wild beast, and little doubt exists that he meditated a general massacre of the citizens of Paris. But his crimes were cut short by the crimes of others. The troops of Burgundy were in possession of Pontoise. A well-disposed and peaceable young man, insulted and injured by a follower of Armagnac, found means to introduce his enemies into the city of Paris. At the first cry of Burgundy, thousands rose to deliver themselves from the tyranny under which they groaned, and, headed by a man named Caboche, retaliated, in a most fearful manner, on the party of Armagnac, the evils which it had inflicted. The prisons were filled; the streets ran with blood; and the Count of Armagnac, himself forced to fly, was concealed for a few hours by a mason, only to be delivered up in the end. The queen and the Duke of Burgundy encouraged the massacre; the prisons were broken into, the prisoners murdered in cold blood; the Châtelet was set on fire, and the unhappy captives within its walls were driven back into the flames at the point of the pike; and the leaders of the Armagnac faction were dragged through the streets for days before they were torn to pieces by the people. Tanneguy du Châtel alone showed courage and discretion, and obtained safety, if not success. He rescued the dauphin in the midst of the tumult, placed him in safety at Melun, returned to the capital, fought gallantly for some hours against the insurgents and the troops of Burgundy, and then retired to counsel and support his prince. The queen and the Duke of Burgundy entered the city in triumph; flowers were strewed before her on the blood-stained streets; and a prince of the blood-royal of France was seen grasping familiarly the hands of low-born murderers. But the powers, which he had raised into active virulence, were soon found ungovernable by the Duke of Burgundy, and he determined first to weaken, and then to destroy them. The troops of assassins fancied themselves soldiers, because they were butchers, and demanded to be led against the enemy. The duke was right willing to gratify them, and sent forth two bands of many thousands each. The first was beaten and nearly cut to pieces by the Armagnac troops. The remnant murdered their leaders in their rage of disappointment, but did not profit by the experience they had gained. The second party were defeated with terrible loss, and fled in haste to Paris; but the gates were shut against them; and dispersing, they joined the numerous bands of plunderers that infested the country, and were pursued and slaughtered by the troops of Burgundy. Thus weakened, the insurgents, who had brought back the Duke of Burgundy to Paris, were easily subjugated by the duke himself: their leaders perished on the scaffold; and thousands of the inferior villains were swept away by various indirect means. A still more merciless scourge, however, than either Armagnac or Burgundy was about to smite the devoted city--a scourge that spared no party, respected no rank or station. The plague appeared in the capital, and, in the space of a few months, the grave received more than a hundred thousand persons of every age, class, and sex. In some of these events perished Caboche, the uncle of your servant Martin Grille, who, with the courage of a lion and the fierceness of a tiger, combined some talents, which, better employed, might have won him an honorable name in history."
"And what has become of his son?" asked Jean Charost. "He was attached, I think, to the court of the queen."
"He left her," answered Jacques Cœur, "and came hither to Bourges with Marie of Anjou, the wife of the dauphin, when that prince removed from Melun to Bourges. You know somewhat of what happened after--how his highness was driven hence to Poictiers, how negotiations took place to reunite the royal family; how divided counsels, ambitions, and jealousies prevented any thing like union against the real enemy of France; how, step by step, the English king made himself master of all the country, almost to the gates of Paris. You were present, I am told, at the death of the Duke of Burgundy--shall I, or shall I not call it murder? Well had he deserved punishment--well had he justified almost any means to deliver France from the blasting influence of his ambition. But at the very moment chosen for vengeance, he showed some repentance for his past crimes, some inclination to atone, and perhaps the very effects of his remorse placed his life in the hands of his adversaries. Would to God that act had not been committed."
"And what has followed?" asked Jean Charost. "I have heard but little since, except that at Arras a treaty was concluded by which the crown of France was virtually transferred to the King of England on his marriage with the Princess Catharine."
"The scene is confused and indistinct," said Jacques Cœur, "like the advance of a cloud overshadowing the land, and leaving all vague and misty behind it. Far from serving the cause of the dauphin, far from serving the cause of France, the death of the Duke of Burgundy has produced unmitigated evil to all. His son has considered vengeance rather than justice, the memory of his father, rather than the happiness of his country. Leagued with the queen, and with the King of England, he has sought nothing but the destruction of the dauphin, and has seen the people of France swear allegiance to a foreign conqueror whom his connivance enabled to triumph. From conquest to conquest the King of England has gone on, till almost all the northern part of France was his, and the River Loire is the boundary between two distinct kingdoms. Here and there, indeed, a large town and a strong fortress is possessed by one party in the districts where the other dominates, and a border warfare is carried on along the banks of the river. But for a long time previous to King Henry's death, fortune seemed to follow wherever he trod, and the whole western as well as northern parts of France were being gradually reduced beneath his sway. During a short absence in England, indeed, a false promise of success shone upon the arms of the dauphin. A re-enforcement of six thousand men from Scotland enabled him to keep the field with success, and the victory of Baugé, the death of the Duke of Clarence, and the relief of Angers, gave hope to every loyal heart in France. Money, indeed, was wanting, and I was straining every nerve to obtain for my prince the means of carrying on the war, when the return of Henry, and his rapid successes in Saintonge and the Limousin cut me off from a large part of the resources I had calculated upon, and once more plunged us all into despair. The last effort in arms was the siege of Cone, on the Loire, garrisoned by the Burgundian troops. The dauphin presented himself before its walls in person, and the Duke of Burgundy marched to its relief, calling on his English allies for aid. Henry was not slow to grant it, and set out from Senlis to show his readiness and his friendship. Death struck him, it is true, by the way; but even in death he seemed to conquer, and Cone was relieved as he breathed his last at Vincennes. Happily have you escaped, De Brecy; for had the Lord Willoughby received intimation of the king's dying commands before he freed you, you would have lingered many a long year in prison. Well knowing that the captives of Azincourt would afford formidable support to the party of the dauphin as soon as liberated, it has always been Henry's policy to detain them in London, and almost his last words were an order not to set them free till his infant son had attained his majority. You are the only one, I believe, above the rank of a simple esquire who has been permitted to return to France."
"I owe it all to this dear girl," answered Jean Charost, laying his hand upon the little hand of Agnes. "She went to plead for me at a happy moment. But where is the dauphin now? He needs the arm of every gentleman in France, and I will not be long absent from his army."
"Army!" said Jacques Cœur, with a melancholy shake of the head. "Alas! De Brecy, he has no army. Dispirited, defeated, almost penniless, seeing the fairest portions of his father's dominions in the hands of an enemy--that father's name and authority used against him--his own mother his most rancorous foe, the Duke of Burgundy at the head of one army in the field, and the Duke of Bedford, hardly inferior to the great Henry, leading another, he has retired, almost hopeless, to the lonely Castle of Polignac; and strives, I am told, but strives in vain, to forget the adversities of the past, and the menaces of the future, in empty pleasures. An attempt must be made to rouse him; but I can do nothing till I have obtained those means, without which all action would be hopeless. To Paris I dare not venture myself; but I have agents there, friends who will aid me, and wealth locked up in many enterprises. Diligently have I labored during the last month to gather all resources together; but still I linger on in Bourges without receiving any answer to my numerous letters."
"Can not I go to Paris?" asked Jean Charost. "You know, my friend of old, that I want no diligence, and had once some skill in such business as yours."
Jacques Cœur paused thoughtfully, and then answered, "It might, perhaps, be as well. You have been so long absent, your person would be unknown. When could you set out?"
Jean Charost replied that he would go the very next day; and the conversation was still proceeding upon these plans, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard in the castle court, and in a minute or two after, a tall, elderly weather-beaten man was brought in by Martin Grille. Jean Charost looked at him, thinking that he recognized the face of Armand Chauvin, the chevaucheur of the late Duke of Orleans; but the man walked straight up to Jacques Cœur, put a letter in his hand, and then turned his eyes to the ground, without giving one glance to those around.
"This is good news, indeed," said Jacques, who had read the letter by the light of a sconce. "A hundred thousand crowns, and two hundred thousand more in a month! What with the money from Marseilles we may do something yet. This is good news indeed!"
"I have more news yet," said Chauvin, gravely. "Hark, in your ear, Messire Jacques. I have hardly eaten or drank, and have not slept a wink from the gates of Paris to Bourges, and Bourges hither, all to bring you these tidings speedily. Hark in your ear!" and he whispered something to Jacques Cœur. The other listened attentively, gave a very slight start, and appeared somewhat, but not greatly moved.
"God rest his soul!" he said, at length. "He has had a troublous life--God rest his soul!"
Who has not heard of the beautiful Allier? Who has not heard of the magnificent Auvergne? But the horseman stopped not to gaze at the mountains round him. He lingered not upon the banks of the stream; he hardly gave more than a glance at the rich Limagne. At Clermont, indeed, he halted for two whole hours, but it was an enforced halt, for his horse broke down with hard riding, and all the time was spent in purchasing another. A crust of bread and a cup of wine afforded the only refreshment he himself took, and on he went through the vineyards and the orchards, loaded with the last fruits of autumn. At Issoire he gave his horse hay and water, and then rode on at great speed to Lempole, but passed by its mighty basaltic rock, crowned with its castle, though he looked up with feelings of interest and regret as he connected it with the memory of Louis of Orleans. At Brioude he was forced to pause for a while; but his horse fed readily, and on he went again, out of the narrow streets of that straggling, disagreeable town, over the mountains, through the valleys, with vast volcanic forms all around him, and hamlets and villages built of the dark gray lava, hardly distinguishable from the rocks on which they stood. More than seventy miles he rode on straight from Clermont, and drew not a rein between Brioude and Puy, which burst upon his sight suddenly on the eastern declivity of the mountains, with its rich, unrivaled amphitheatre, and its three rivers flowing away at the foot. The sun was within a hand's breadth of the horizon. All the valleys seen from that elevation were flooded with light; the old cathedral itself looked like a resplendent amethyst, and devout pilgrims to the miraculous shrine still crowded the streets, some turning on their way homeward, some mounting the innumerable steps to say one prayer more at the feet of the Virgin.
Jean Charost rode straight up to the little old inn--small and miserable as compared with many of the vast buildings appropriated in those days to the reception of the traveler in France, and still smaller in proportion to the number of devout persons who daily flocked into the city. But then the landlord argued that the pilgrims came for grace, and not for good living, and that therefore the body must put up with what it could get, if the soul was taken care of. Jean passed under the archway into the court-yard, gave his horse to an hostler of precisely the same stamp as the man who afforded a type to Shakspeare, and then, turning back toward the street, met the host in the doorway, prepared to tell him that he must wait long for supper, and put up with a garret.
"I want nothing at present, my good friend," replied Jean Charost, "but a cup of wine, which is ready at all times, and some one to show me my way on foot to Espaly. Indeed, I should not have turned in here at all, but that my horse could go no further."
"Ah, sir," cried the host, with his civility and curiosity both awakened together; "so you are going to see Monseigneur le Dauphin? News now, I warrant, and good, I hope--pray, what is it?"
"Excellent good," replied Jean Charost.
"First, that a thirsty man talks ill with a dry mouth; and, secondly, that a wise man never gives his message except to the person it is sent to. The dauphin will be delighted with these tidings; and so now give me a cup of wine, and some one to show me the way."
"Ha, you are a wag!" said the landlord; "but harkee, sir; you had better take my mule. It will be ready while I am drawing the wine, and you drinking it. Though they say, 'Espaly, near Puy,' it is not so near as they call it. My boy shall go with you on a quick-trotting ass to bring back the mule."
"And the news," said Jean Charost, "if he can get it. So be it, however; for, good sooth! I am tired. I have not slept a wink for six-and-thirty hours; but let them make all haste."
"As quick as an avalanche, sir," said the landlord; "and God speed you, if you bring good news to our noble prince. He loves wine and women, and is exceedingly devout to the blessed Virgin of Puy; so all men should wish him well, and all ladies too."
The landlord did really make haste, and in less than ten minutes Jean Charost was on his way to Espaly, along a sort of natural volcanic causeway which paves the bottom of the deep valley. The sun was behind the hills, but still a cool and pleasant light was spread over the sky, and the towers of the old castle, with their many weather-cocks, and a banner displayed on the top of the donjon, rising high above the little village at the foot of the rock, seemed to catch some of the last rays of the sun, and
"Flash back again the western blaze,In lines of dazzling light."
"Flash back again the western blaze,In lines of dazzling light."
The ascent was steep, however, and longer than the young gentleman had expected. It was dim twilight when he approached the gates, but there was little guard kept around this last place of refuge of the son of France. Nested in the mountains of Auvergne, with a long, expanse of country between him and his enemies, Charles had no fear of attack. The gates were wide open, not a solitary sentinel guarded the way, and Jean Charost rode into the court-yard, looking round in vain for some one to address. Not a soul was visible. He heard the sound of a lute, and a voice singing from one of the towers, and a merry peal of laughter from a long, low building on the right of the great court; but besides this there was nothing to show that the castle was inhabited, till, just as he was dismounting, a page, gayly tricked out in blue and silver, crossed from one tower toward another, with a bird-cage in his hand.
"Ho, boy!" cried Jean Charost; "can you tell me where I shall find the servant of Mademoiselle De St. Geran; or can you tell her yourself that the Seigneur de Brecy wishes to speak with her?"
"Come with me, come with me, Beau Sire," said the boy, with all the flippant gayety of a page. "I am going to her with this bird from his highness; and this castle is the abode of liberty and joy. All iron coats and stiff habitudes have been cast down in the chapel, and a vow against idle ceremony is made by every one under the great gate."
"Well, then, lead on," said Jean Charost "My business might well abridge ceremony, if any did exist. Wait here till I return," he continued, speaking to the innkeeper's son; and then followed the page upon his way.
The tower to which the boy led him was a building of considerable size, although it looked diminutive by the side of the great donjon, which towered above, and with which it was connected by a long gallery, in a sort of traverse commanding the entrance of the outer gate. The door stood open, as most of the other doors throughout the place, leading into an old vaulted passage, from the middle of which rose a narrow and steep stair-case of gray stone. A rope was twisted round the pillar on which the stair-case turned; and it was somewhat necessary at that moment, for, to say sooth, both passage and stair-case were as dark as Acheron. Feeling his way, the boy ascended till he came to a door on the first floor of the tower, which he opened without ceremony. The interior of the room which this sudden movement displayed, though darkness was fast falling over the earth, was clear and light compared with the shadowy air of the stair-case, and Jean Charost could see, seated thoughtfully at the window, that lovely and never-to-be-forgotten form which he had last beheld at Monterreau. Agnes Sorel either did not hear the opening of the door, or judged that the comer was one of the ordinary attendants of the place, for she remained motionless, plunged in deep meditation, with her eyes raised to a solitary star, the vanward leader of the host of heaven, which was becoming brighter and brighter every moment, as it rose high above the black masses of the Anis Mountains.
"Madam, here is a bird for you which his highness has sent," said the page, abruptly. "Some say it is a nightingale; and, though his coat is not fine, he sings deliciously."
Agnes Sorel turned as the boy spoke, but she looked not at him, or the cage, or the bird, for her eyes instantly rested upon the figure of Jean Charost, as he advanced toward her, apologizing for his intrusion. Though what light there was fell full upon him through the open window, it was too dark for her to distinguish his features; but his voice she knew as soon as he spoke, though she had heard it but rarely. Yet there are some sounds which linger in the ear of memory--echoes of the past, as it were--which instantly carry us back to other days, and recall circumstances, thoughts, and feelings long gone by, with a brightness which needs no eye to see them but the eye of the mind. The voice of Jean Charost was a very peculiar voice--soft, and full, and mellow, but rounded and distinct, like the tones of an organ, possessing--if such a thing be permitted me to say--a melody in itself.
"Monsieur de Brecy!" she exclaimed, "I am rejoiced to see you here--no longer a prisoner, I hope--no longer seeking ransom, but a free man. But what brings you to this remote corner of the earth? Some generous motive, doubtless. Patriotism, perhaps, and love of your prince. Alas! De Brecy, patriotism finds cold welcome where pleasure reigns alone; and as to love--would to God your prince loved himself as others love him!"
"What shall I say to his highness, madam?" asked the boy, whom she had hardly noticed; "what shall I say about the bird?"
"Tell him," replied Agnes, rising quickly from her seat--"tell him that if I am a good instructor, I will teach that bird to sing a song which shall rouse all France in arms--Ay, little as it is, and feeble as may be its voice, I am not more powerful, my voice is not more strong; and yet--I hope--I hope--Get thee gone, boy. Tell his highness what I have said--tell him what you will--say I am half mad, if it please you; for so I am, to sit here idly looking at that mountain and that star, and to think that the banners of England are waving triumphant over the bloody fields of France. Well, De Brecy--well," she continued, as the boy retired and closed the door. "What news from the court of the conquerors? What news from the proud city of London? We have lost our Henry; but we have got a John in exchange. What matters Christian names in these unchristian times? A Plantagenet is a Plantagenet; and they are an iron race to deal with, which requires more steel, I fear, than we have left in France."
"My news, dear lady," replied Jean Charost, "is not from London, but from Paris."
"Well, what of Paris, then?" asked Agnes Sorel, in an indifferent tone, taking another seat partly turned from the window. "Let me ask you to ring that bell upon the table. It is growing dark--we must have lights. One star is not enough, bright as it may be--even the star of love--one star is not enough to give us light in this darksome world."
Jean Charost rang the bell; but ere any attendant could appear, he said, hurriedly, "Dear lady, listen to me for one moment: I bring important news."
"Good or bad?" asked Agnes Sorel, quickly.
"One half is unmingled good," answered Jean Charost; "the other is of a mixed nature, full of hope, yet alloyed with sorrow."
"Even that is better than any we have lately had," replied Agnes. "Nevertheless, I am a woman, De Brecy, and fond of joy. Give me the unmingled first: we will temper it hereafter."
"Well, then, dear lady, I am sent to tell his highness, from our good friend Jacques Cœur, that a hundred thousand crowns of the sun are by this time waiting his pleasure at Moulins, and that two hundred thousand more will be there in one month."
"Joy, joy," cried Agnes, clasping her hands; "oh, this is joyful indeed! But then," she added, "Heaven send that it be used aright. I fear--oh, I fear--Nay, nay, I will fear no more! It is undeserved misfortune crushes the noble heart, bows the brave spirit, and takes its energy away from greatness. Have you told him, De Brecy? What did he say? How did he look? Not with light joy, I hope; but with grave, expectant satisfaction, as a prince should look who finds his people's deliverance nigher than he thought."
"I have not seen him," replied De Brecy, "first, because I knew not well how to gain admission, and, secondly, because I wished that you should have the opportunity of telling him of a change of fortunes, hoping--knowing that you would direct his first impulses aright."
"I--I?" exclaimed Agnes. "Oh, De Brecy, De Brecy, I am unworthy of such a task! How should I direct any one aright? Yet it matters not what I be--Weak, frail, faulty as I am--the courage and resolution, the energy and purpose, which once possessed me solely, shall, all that is left, be given to him and to France. One error shall not blot out all that is good in my nature. Ha! here come the lights--"
She paused for a moment or two, while the servant entered, placed lights upon the table, and retired; and then, in a much calmer tone, resumed the discourse.
"I have been much moved to-day," she said, "but even this brief pause of thought has been sufficient to show me the right way--Lights, you have done me service," she added, with a graceful smile. "Come, De Brecy, I will lead you to her who alone is worthy, and fitted to give these good tidings--to my friend--to my dear good friend--the princess, his wife."
"But you have forgotten," replied Jean Charost. "I have other tidings to tell."
"Ha!" she said, "and those mingled--I did forget, indeed. Say what it is, De Brecy. We must not raise up hopes to dash them down again."
"That will not be the effect," said De Brecy. "The news I have is sad, yet full of hope. That which has been wanting on the side of his highness and of France, in this terrible struggle against foreign enemies and internal traitors, has been the king's name. In his powerless incapacity, the mighty influence of the monarch's authority has been arrayed against the friends, and for the foes of France. Dear lady, it will be so no more!"
"No more!" exclaimed Agnes, eagerly, and with her whole face lighting up. "Has he been snatched from their hands, then? Tell me, De Brecy, how? when? where? But you look grave, nay, sad. Is the king dead?"
"Charles the Sixth is dead," answered De Brecy. "But Charles the Seventh lives to deliver France."
"Stay--stay," said Agnes Sorel, seating herself again, and putting her hand thoughtfully to her brow. "Poor king--poor man! May the grave give him peace! Oh, what a life was his, De Brecy! Full of high qualities and kindly feelings, born to the throne of the finest realm in all the world, adored by his people, how bright were once his prospects! and who would ever have thought that the life thus begun would be passed in misery, madness, sickness, and neglect--that his power should be used for his own destruction--his name lead his enemies to battle against his son--his wife contemn, despise, and ill treat him, and his daughter wed his bitterest foe--that he should only wake from his insane trances to see his kinsmen murder and be murdered before his face, all his sons but one passing to the tomb before him--perchance by poison--and that he himself should follow before he reached old age, without that tendance in his lingering sickness that a common mechanic receives from tenderness, the beggar from charity? Oh, what a destiny!"
"We might well weep for his life," said De Brecy; "but we can not mourn his death. To him it was a blessing; to France it may be deliverance. This news, however, you have now to carry to the king."
"True, true," cried Agnes; but then she paused a moment, and repeated his last words with a thoughtful and anxious look. "To the king!" she said; "to the king! No, I will take it to the queen, De Brecy. Come you with me, in case of question, and to receive those honors and rewards which are meet for him who brings such tidings. Ay, let us speak it plainly--such good tidings. For on these few words, 'Charles the Sixth is dead,' depends, I do believe, the salvation of our France."
As she spoke, she rose and moved toward the door, and De Brecy followed her down the stair-case, and through the long passage which connected the tower with the donjon. The yellow autumn moon peeped up above the hills, and poured its light upon them through the tall windows as they went. There was a solemn feeling in their hearts which prevented them from uttering a word. The way was somewhat lengthy, but at last Agnes stopped before a door and knocked. The sweet voice of Marie of Anjou bade them come in, and Agnes opened the door.
"Ah, my Agnes," cried the princess, "have you come to cheer me? I know not how it is, but I have felt very sad to-night. I have been moralizing, dear girl, and thinking how much happier I should have been had we possessed nothing but this castle and the demesne around, mere lords of a little patrimony, instead of seeing kingdoms called our own, but to be snatched away from us. France seems going the way of Sicily, my Agnes. But who is this you have with you? His face seems known to me."
"You have seen him once before, madam," said Agnes. "He is the bringer of great tidings; but no lips but mine must give them to my queen;" and, advancing gracefully, she knelt at the feet of Marie of Anjou, and kissed her hand, saying, "Madam, you are Queen of France. His majesty, Charles the Sixth, has departed."
The queen stood as one stupefied; for so often had the unfortunate king been reported ill, and then recovered, so little was known of his real state beyond the walls of the Hôtel St. Pol, and so slow was the progress of information in that part of France, that not a suspicion of the impending event had been entertained in the château of Espaly. After gazing in the face of Agnes for a moment, she cast down her eyes to the ground, remained for a brief space in deep thought, and then exclaimed, "But, after all, what is he? A king almost without provisions, a general without an army, a ruler without power or means. Rise, rise, dear Agnes;" and, casting her arms round her neck, Marie of Anjou shed tears. They were certainly not tears of sorrow for the departed, for she knew little of the late king; we do not even know from history that she had ever seen him; but all sudden emotions must have voice, generally in laughter, or in tears. It has been very generally remarked that joy has its tears as well as sorrow; but few have ever scanned deeply the fountain-source from which those drops arise. Is it not that, like those of a sealed fountain unconsciously opened, they burst forth at once, to sparkle, perhaps, in the sunshine of the hour, but yet bear with them a certain chilliness from the depths out of which they arise?
Marie of Anjou recovered herself speedily, and Agnes Sorel, rising from her knee, held out her hand to Jean Charost, and presented him to the queen, saying, "He brings you happier tidings, madam--tidings which, I trust, may give power to the sceptre just fallen into his majesty's hand; ay, and edge his sword to smite his enemies when they least expect it. By the skill and by the zeal of one I may venture to call your friend as well as mine--noble Jacques Cœur--the means which have been so long wanting to make at least one generous effort on behalf of France, are now secured. Speak, De Brecy--speak, and tell her majesty the joyful news you bear."
The young gentleman told his tale simply and well; and when he had concluded, the queen, with all traces of sorrow passed away, exclaimed, "Let us hasten quick, dear Agnes, and carry the news to my husband! There be some men fitted for prosperity, and he is one. Misfortune depresses him; but this news will restore him all his energies. Oh, this castle of Espaly! It has seemed to me a dungeon of the spirit, where chains were cast around the soul, and the fair daylight of hope came but as a ray through the loophole of a cell. Come with me--come with me, my friends! I need no attendants but you two."
Jean Charost raised a light from the table and opened the door, then followed along the dark passages till they reached a small hall upon the ground-floor, which the queen entered without waiting for announcement or permission. Her light step roused no one within from his occupation, and the whole scene was before her eyes ere any one engaged in it was aware of her presence. She might, perhaps, have seen another, less tranquil to look upon. At a table under a sconce, in one corner of the room, sat a young man reading the contents of a book richly illuminated. His cap and plume were thrown down by his side, his sword was cast upon a bench near, and his head was bent over the volume, with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the page, deciphering, probably with difficulty, the words which it presented. In another corner of the room, far removed from the light, and with his shoulders supported by the angle of the building, sat Tanneguy du Châtel, sound asleep, but with his heavy sword resting on his knees, and his left hand lying upon the scabbard. Nearer to the windows--some seven paces probably in advance--stood a boy dressed as a page, looking at what was going on at a table before him, but not venturing to approach too near. At that table, with a large candelabra in the centre, sat a young gentleman of powerful frame, though still a mere lad, with a slight mustache on the upper lip, and his strong black hair curling round his forehead and temples. On the opposite side of the table, nearest to the page, was Charles the Seventh himself. He was the only one in the room who wore his cap and plume, and to the eyes of Jean Charost--whether from prepossession or not, I can not tell--there seemed an air of dignity and grace about his youthful figure which well befitted the monarch. The thoughts of France, however, were evidently far away, and his whole attention seemed directed to the narrow board before him, on which he was playing at chess with his cousin, the after-celebrated Dunois.
Still the step of the queen and her companions did not rouse him: his whole soul seemed in the move he was about to make, and it was not till they were close by that he even looked round.
Even then he did not speak, but turned his eyes upon the game again, and in the end moved his knight so as to protect the king.
"That is a good move," said his wife, taking a step forward; "but some such move must be made speedily, my lord, upon a wider board." Then, bending her knee, she added, "God save his majesty, King Charles the Seventh!"
Charles started up, nearly overturning the board, and deranging all the pieces. "What is it, Marie?" he asked, looking almost aghast; but Agnes Sorel and Jean Charost knelt at the same time, saying, "God save your majesty! He has done his will with your late father."
Up started Dunois, and waved his hand in the air, exclaiming, "God save the king!" and the other three in the chamber pressed around, repeating the same cry.
Charles stood in the midst, gazing gravely on the different faces about him, then slowly drew his sword from the scabbard, and laid it on the table, saying, in a calm, thoughtful, resolute tone, "Once more!"