How the news spread through the castle, I know not; but Charles VII. had hardly recovered from the first surprise of the intelligence when, without waiting for permission or ceremony, all whose station justified their admission to the presence of the prince crowded into the little hall of Espaly. A bright and beautiful sight it presented at that moment; for it was a court of youth and beauty, and not more than two or three persons present had seen thirty years of age. Hope and enthusiasm was in every countenance, and the heavy beams of the vault rang with the cries of "Long live the king."
The bearer of the intelligence which had caused the acclamation seemed likely to be altogether forgotten by the monarch in the gratulations which poured upon him; but some bold, frank words of the young and heroic lord of La Hire gave to generous Agnes Sorel an opportunity of calling the attention of Charles to Jean Charost.
"Ay, God save the king!" cried La Hire, warmly; "and send him some more crowns in his purse to secure the one upon his head."
Agnes whispered something to the young queen, and Marie of Anjou turned gracefully toward De Brecy, saying, "This gentleman, my lord, has something to tell your majesty on that score."
"He is the messenger of all good tidings, sir," urged Agnes Sorel; "but perhaps your majesty forgets him. He was the trusted friend of your uncle of Orleans; he was wounded and made prisoner at Azincourt, and his first steps upon French ground after his liberation brings you tidings of dignity, and the promise of success. Speak, Monsieur De Brecy. Tell his majesty the good news you have in store."
Charles VII. fixed his eyes upon Jean Charost, and a shade came over his face--not of displeasure, indeed, but of deep melancholy. It is probable the memories awakened by the sight, as soon as he recognized him, were very sorrowful. The bloody bridge of Monterreau, the dying Duke of Burgundy, and all the fearful acts of a day never to be forgotten, came back to memory; but the impression was but momentary; and when he heard the tidings which the young gentleman bore of present relief, and of the prospect of large future supplies, and was made aware that he had also brought the news of his being King of France, he smiled graciously upon him, saying, "How can we reward you, Monsieur De Brecy? Few kings have less means than we have."
At that moment, Tanneguy du Châtel--to whose disinterested character history, dwelling on his faults, has not done full justice--came forward, and laid his hand upon Jean Charost's shoulder, saying, "Give him St. Florent, sir; which we were talking of the other day. Its lord not having appeared for fully fifteen years, the fief has clearly fallen into the demesne of the crown."
"But I promised, Du Châtel," said Charles, turning toward him.
"Never mind that, sire," said Du Châtel, bluffly. "I do not want it. De Brecy here has served the crown well, and suffered for his services. So did his father before him, I have been told. He brings you good tidings--good tidings for France also, I do hope. Give him the fief, sir. If I had it, every one would be jealous. No one will be jealous of him."
"Well, then, so be it," replied Charles. "The town and castle of St. Florent, near Bourges, Monsieur De Brecy, shall be yours; but, by my faith, you must keep them well; for the place is of importance, commanding the supplies at Bourges. The letters of concession shall be ready for you to-morrow, and you can do homage before you go, if you will but stay at our court for a few days."
"I must stay here, sire or at Puy, for the arrival of Messire Jacques Cœur," replied Jean Charost. "He has many another scheme for your majesty's service. In St. Florent I will do my duty, and I humbly thank you much for the gift."
"Stay here, stay here," said Charles; and then he added, with a faint and melancholy smile, "Our court is not so large as to fill even the Castle of Espaly to overflowing. Some one see that he is well cared for. And now, lords and ladies, other things are to be thought of. My first thought, so help me Heaven, has been of France, and of what benefit the event which has just happened may prove to her. But I can not forget that I have lost a father, a kind and noble prince, whom God has visited with long and sore afflictions, but who never lost the love of his people or his son. I do believe, from all that I have heard, that death was to him a blessing and relief; but still I must mourn that so sad and joyless a life has ended without one gleam of hope or happiness, even at the close. I had hoped that it might be otherwise, that my sword might have freed him from the durance in which he has been so long kept; that my care and love might have soothed his latest hours. It has been ordered otherwise, and God's will be done. But all to-morrow we will give up to solemn mourning, and the next day take counsel as to instant action."
Thus saying, he took the hand of the queen in his own, and was retiring from the room, the group around him only moving to give him passage, except one gentleman, who sprang to open the door. Two persons were left in the midst of the little crowd, not exactly isolated, but in circumstances of some awkwardness. Agnes Sorel, notwithstanding all her influence at the court, notwithstanding all her power over the mind of the young king, felt that the bonds between herself and those who now surrounded her were very slight, and that there were jealousies and dislikes toward her in the bosoms of many present. But she was relieved from a slight embarrassment by the unvarying kindness of Marie of Anjou. Ere Charles and herself had taken six steps through the hall, the queen turned her head, saying, with a placid smile, "Come with us, Agnes. I shall want you."
"Marvelous, truly!" said a lady standing near Jean Charost, speaking in a low tone, as if to herself. "Were I a queen, methinks I would have the vengeance Heaven sends me, even if I did not seek some for myself."
At the same moment, Tanneguy du Châtel laid his hand upon Jean Charost's arm: "You must come with me, De Brecy," he said. "You shall be my guest in the château. I have room enough there where I lodge. Wait but a moment till I speak a word or two with these good lords. We must not let the tide of good fortune ebb again unimproved. The royal name alone is a great thing for us; but it may be made to have a triple effect--upon our enemies, upon our friends, and upon the king himself. By my life, this is no time to throw one card out of one's hand."
He then spoke for several minutes in a low tone with Dunois, La Hire, Louvet, and others, and, returning to the side of Jean Charost, led him down to the outer court, on his way to that part of the building which he himself inhabited. There, patiently waiting by the side of the mule, they found the son of the landlord at Puy. The boy was dismissed speedily, well satisfied, with directions to send up the young gentleman's horse to the castle the next morning; and the rest of the evening was spent by Jean Charost and Tanneguy du Châtel almost alone. It was not an evening of calm, however; for the excitable spirit of theprévôt; was much moved with all that had passed, and with his prompt and eager impetuosity he commented, not alone upon the news that had been received, but upon all their probable consequences. Often he would start up and pace the room in a deep revery, and often he would question his young companion upon details into which the king himself had forgotten to inquire.
"The happy moment must not be lost," he said. "The happy moment must not be lost. The young king's mind must be kept up to the tone which it has received by this intelligence. Would to Heaven I could insure half an hour's conversation with the fair Agnes, just to show her all the consequences of the first great step. But I do not like to ask it; and, after all, she needs no prompting. She is a glorious creature, De Brecy. Heart and soul, with her, are given to France."
"Yet there be some," said Jean Charost; "some, even in this court, who seem not very well disposed toward her. Did you hear what was said by a lady near me just now?"
"Oh, Joan of Vendôme," cried Tanneguy, with a laugh; "she is a prescribed railer at our fair friend. She came to Poictiers two years ago, fancying herself a perfect paragon of beauty, and making up her mind to become the dauphin's mistress; but he would have naught to say to her faded charms--not even out of courtesy to her husband; so the poor thing is full of spleen, and would kill the beautiful Agnes, if she dared. She is too cowardly for that, however: at least I trust so."
Jean Charost meditated deeply over his companion's words, and whither his thoughts had led him might be perceived by what he next said.
"Strange," he murmured, "very strange, the conduct of the queen!"
"Ay, strange enough," answered Du Châtel. "We have here, within this little château of Espaly, De Brecy, two women such as the world has rarely ever seen, both young, both beautiful, both gentle. The one has all the courage, the intellect, the vigor of a man; and yet, as we see, a woman's weakness. The other is tender, timid, kind, and loving, and yet without one touch of that selfishness which prompts to what we call jealousy. By the Lord, De Brecy, it has often puzzled me, this conduct of Marie of Anjou. I do believe I could, as readily as any man, sacrifice myself to the happiness of one I love;[3]but I could not make a friend of my wife's lover. There are things too much for nature--for human nature, at least. But this girl--her majesty, I mean--seems to me quite an angel; and the other does, I will say, all that a fallen and repentant angel could to retain the friendship which she fears she may have forfeited. All that deference, and reverence, and humble, firm attachment can effect to wash away her offense, she uses toward the queen; and I do believe, from my very heart, that no counsel ever given by Agnes Sorel to Marie of Anjou has any other object upon earth but Marie's happiness. Still, it is all very strange, and the less we say about it the better."
Jean Charost thought so likewise; but that conversation brought upon him fits of thought which lasted, with more or less interruption, during the whole evening.
Society, in almost every country, has its infancy, its youth, its maturity, and its old age. At least, such has been the case hitherto. These several acts of life are of longer or shorter duration, according to circumstances, but the several epochs are usually sufficiently marked The age in which Jean Charost spoke was not one of that fine, moralizing tendency which belongs to the maturity of life; but it was one of passion and of action, of youth, activity, and indiscretion. Nevertheless, feeling often supplied a guide where reason failed, and from some cause Jean Charost felt pained that he could not find one character among those who surrounded him sufficiently pure and high to command and obtain his whole esteem. He asked himself that painful question which so often recurs to us ere we have obtained from experience, as well as reason, a knowledge of man's mixed nature, "Is there such a thing as virtue, and truth, and honor upon earth?"
The next day was passed as a day of mourning; but on the following morning early, all the nobles in the castle of Espaly met together in the great hall, and some eager consultations went on among them. There were smiles, and gay looks, and many a lively jest, and lances were brought in, and bucklers examined, as if for a tournament.
Jean Charost asked his companion, Du Châtel, the meaning of all that they beheld; and the other replied, with a grave smile, "Merely a boy's frolic; but one which may have important consequences."
A moment after, the young king himself, habited in scarlet, entered the hall, followed by a number of the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and received gracefully and graciously the greetings of his subjects. But an instant after, La Hire and two or three others surrounded and pressed upon him so closely, that Jean Charost thought they were showing scanty reverence toward the king, when suddenly a voice exclaimed, "Pardon us, sire;" and in an instant spears were crossed, a shield cast down upon them, and the young monarch lifted to a throne which might have befitted one of the predecessors of Charlemagne. Dunois seized a banner embroidered with the arms of France, and moving on through the doors of the hall into the chapel, the banner was waved three times in the air, and the voices of all present made the roof ring with the shout of, "Long live King Charles the Seventh!"
Almost at the same time, another personage was added to the group around the altar, and Jacques Cœur himself repeated heartily the cry, adding, "I have brought with me, sire--at least, so I trust--the means to make you King of France, indeed. It is here in this château, and all safe."
"Thanks, thanks, my good friend," said the young king. "We must take counsel together how it may be used to the best advantage; and our deep gratitude shall follow the service, whatever be the result of the use we make of it. And now, lords and ladies, to Poictiers immediately--ay, to-morrow morning, to be solemnly crowned in the Cathedral there. That city, at least, we can call our own, and there we will deliberate how to recover others."
What a wild whirlpool is history, and how strange it is to gaze upon it, and to see the multitudes of atoms that every instant are rushing forward upon the whirling and struggling waters of Time, borne fiercely along by causes that they know not, but obey--now catching the light, now plunged into darkness, agitated, tossed to and fro, turned round in giddy dance, and at length swallowed up in the deep centre of the vortex where all things disappear! It is a strange, a terrible, but a salutary contemplation. No sermon that was ever preached, no funeral oration ever spoken, shows so plainly, brings home to the heart so closely, the emptiness of all human things, the idleness of ambition, the folly of avarice, the weakness of vanity, and the meanness of pride, as the sad and solemn aspect of history--the record of deeds that have produced nothing, and passions that have been all in vain. But there is a Book from which all these things will at one time be read; and then, how awful will be the final results disclosed!
To men who make history, however, while floating round in that vortex, and tending onward, amid all their struggles, to the one inevitable doom, how light and easy is the transition, how imperceptible the diminution of the circle, as onward, onward they are carried--how rapid, especially in times of great activity, is the passage of event into event. Time seems to stop in the heat of action, and energy, like the prophet, exclaims, "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon!"
It seemed to Jean Charost--after several years had passed--but as a day and a night since he had left Agnes and his mother in the château of Brecy, near Bourges. Each day had had its occupation, each hour its thought: the one had glided into the other, and one deed trod so hastily upon the steps of another that there was no opportunity to count the time. And yet so many great events had happened that one would have thought the hours upon the dial were marked sufficiently. He had taken part in battles, he had been employed in negotiations, he had navigated one of the many armed vessels, now belonging to Jacques Cœur, upon the Mediterranean, in search of fresh resources for his king; and one of those lulls had taken place at the court of France--those periods of idle inactivity which occasionally intervened between fierce struggles against the foreign enemy, or factious cabals among the courtiers themselves. He took his way from Poictiers toward Bourges, to fulfill the promise he had often made to himself of returning, at least for a time, to those he loved with unabated fondness; and as he went, he thought with joy of his dear mother just as he left her--not knowing that her hair was now as white as snow; and his dear little Agnes--forgetting that she was no longer a mere bright girl of fourteen years of age.
But Jean Charost now no longer appeared as a poor youth struggling to redeem his father's encumbered estates, nor as a soldier followed to battle by a mere handful of followers. His train was strong and numerous. The lands of St. Florent, so near his own castle and the town of Bourges as to be under easy control of an intendant, had furnished not only ample revenues but hardy soldiers, and with a troop of some sixty mounted men, all joyful, like himself, to return for a period to their homes, he rode gladly onward, a powerful man in full maturity, with a scarred brow and sun-burned face, but, with the rich brown curls of his hair hardly streaked with gray, except where the casque had somewhat pressed upon it, and brought the wintery mark before its time. But it was in the expression of his countenance that youth was most strongly apparent still. There were no hard lines, no heavy wrinkles. There was gravity, for he had never been of what is called a very merry disposition, but it was--if I may be allowed an expression which, at first sight, seems to imply a contradiction--it was a cheerful gravity, more cheerful than it had been in years long past. Success had brightened him; experience of the world and the world's things had rubbed off the rust that seclusion, and study, and hard application had engendered; and a kind, a generous, and an upright heart gave sunshine to his look.
The country through which he passed was all peaceful: the troops of England had not yet passed the Loire; the Duke of Bedford was in England, and his lieutenants showed themselves somewhat negligent during his absence. After the fiercest struggle, the spirit of the Frenchman soon recovers breath; and in riding from Poictiers to Bourges, one might have fancied that the land had never known strife and contention--that all was peace, prosperity, and joy. There was the village dance upon the green; there was the gay inn, with its well-fed host, and his quips, and jests, and merry tales; the marriage-bells rang out; the procession of the clergy moved along the streets, and there was song in the vineyard and the field.
It was an evening in the bright, warm summer, when the last day's march but one came toward an end; and on a small height rising from the banks of the Cher, with a beautiful village at its foot, and woods sweeping round it on three sides, appeared the old castle of St. Florent, where Jean Charost was to halt for the night, and journey on to De Brecy the following day. It was a pleasant feeling to his heart that he was coming once more upon his own land; and there above, upon the great round tower--for it was a very ancient building even then--floated a flag which bore, he doubted not, the arms of De Brecy. Just as he was passing one of the curious old bridges over the Cher, with its narrow, pointed arches, and massy, ivy-covered piers, a flash broke from the walls of the tower, and a moment after the report of a cannon was heard.
"They see us coming, and are giving us welcome, De Bigny," said Jean Charost, turning to one of his companions who rode near. "Oh, 'tis pleasant to enjoy one's own in peace. Would to Heaven these wars were over! I am well weary of them."
They rode on toward the slope, and entered a sort of elbow of the wood, where the dark oak-trees, somewhat browned by the summer sun, stretched their long branches overhead, and made a pleasant shade. It was a sweet, refreshing scene, where the eye could pierce far through the bolls of the old trees, catching here and there a mass of gray rock, a piece of rich green sward, a sparkling rivulet dashing down to meet the Cher, a low hermitate, with a stone cross raised in front, and two old men, with their long, snowy beards, retreating beneath the shady archway at the sight of a troop of armed men.
"This is pleasant," said De Brecy, still speaking to his companion; "but to-morrow will afford things still pleasanter. The face of Nature is very beautiful, but not so beautiful as the faces of those we love."
A hundred steps further, and the gates of the old castle appeared in view, crenelated and machicolated, with its two large flanking-towers, and the walls running off and losing themselves behind the trees. But there was the flutter of women's garments under the arch, as well as the gleam of arms. The heart of De Brecy beat high, and, dashing on before the rest, he was soon upon the draw-bridge.
It is rarely that Fortune comes to meet our hopes. Hard school-mistress! She lessons man's impatience by delay. But there they were--his mother and little Agnes, as he still called her. The change in both was that which time usually makes in the old and in the young; and with old Madame De Brecy we will pass it over, for it had no consequences. But upon the changes in Agnes it may be necessary to pause somewhat longer. From the elderly to the old woman, the transition is easy, and presents nothing remarkable. From the child to the young woman the step is more rapid--more distinct and strange. There is something in us which makes us comprehend decay better than development.
Agnes, who, up to the period when Jean Charost last beheld her, had been low of stature, though beautifully formed, seemed to have grown up like a lily in a night, and was now taller than Madame De Brecy. But it was not only in height that she had gained: her whole form had altered, and assumed a symmetry as delicate, but very different from that which it had displayed before. Previously, she had looked what Jean Charost had been fond to call her--a little fairy; but now, though she might have a fairy's likeness, still there was no doubting that she was a woman. Beautiful, wonderfully beautiful, she was to the eyes of Jean Charost; but yet there was something sorrowful in the change. The dear being of his memory was gone forever, and he had not yet had time to become reconciled to the change. He felt he could not caress, he could not fondle her as he had done before--that he could be to her no longer what he had been; and he dreamed not of ever becoming aught else.
Strange to say, Agnes seemed to feel the change far less than he did. Indeed, she saw no change in him. His cheek might be a little browner; the scar upon his brow was new; but yet he was the same Jean Charost whom she had loved from infancy, and she perceived no trace of Time's hand upon his face or person. She had not yet learned to turn her eyes upon herself, and the alteration in him was so slight, she did not mark it. She sprang to meet him, even before his mother, held up her cheek for his first kiss, and gazed at him with a look of affection and tenderness, while he pressed Madame De Brecy to his heart, which might have misled any beholder who knew not the course of their former lives.
But Jean Charost was very happy. Between the two whom he loved best on all the earth, he entered the old château; was led by them from room to room which he had never seen; heard how, as soon as they had received news of his proposed return, they had come on from De Brecy to meet him; how the hands of Agnes herself had decked the hall; and how the tidy care of good Martin Grille had seen that every thing was in due order for the reception of his lord. Joyfully the evening passed away, with a thousand little occurrences, all pleasant at the time, but upon which I must not dwell now. The supper was served in the great hall, and after it was over, and generous wine had given a welcome to De Brecy's chief followers, he himself retired, with his mother and his fair young charge, to talk over the present and the past.
During that evening the conversation was rambling and desultory--a broken, ill-ordered chat, full of memories, and hardly to be detailed in a history like this. Jean Charost heard all the little incidents which had occurred in the neighborhood of Bourges; how Agnes had become an accomplished horse-woman; how she had learned from a musician expelled from Paris to play upon the lute; how Madame De Brecy had ordered all things, both on their ancient estates and those of St. Florent, with care and prudence; and how there were a thousand beautiful rides and walks around, which Agnes could show him, on the banks of the Cher.
Then again he told them all he himself had gone through, dwelling but lightly upon his own exploits, and acknowledging, with sincere humility, that he had been rewarded for his services more largely than they deserved. Many an anecdote of the court, too, he told, which did not give either of his hearers much inclination to mingle with it; how the adhesion of the Count of Richmond had been bought by the sword of Constable and other honors; how the somewhat unstable alliance of the Duke of Brittany had been gained by the concession of one half of the revenues of Guyenne; how Richmond had played the tyrant over his king, and forced him to receive ministers at his pleasure; how he had caused Beaulieu to be assassinated; and how, after a mock trial, he had tied Giac in a sack, and thrown him into the Loire. Happily, he added, La Trimouille, whom he had compelled the king to receive as his minister, had avenged his monarch by ingratitude toward his patron; how Richmond was kept in activity at a distance from the court, and all was quiet for a time during his absence. Thus passed more than one hour. The sun had gone down, and yet no lights were called for; for the large summer moon shone lustrous in at the window, harmonizing well with the feelings of those now met after a long parting. Madame De Brecy sat near the open casement; Agnes and Jean Charost stood near, with her hand resting quietly in his--I know not how it got there--and the fair valley of the Cher stretched out far below, till all lines were lost in the misty moonlight of the distance. Just then a solemn song rose up from the foot of the hill, between them and St. Florent, and Agnes, leaning her head familiarly on Jean Charost's shoulder, whispered, "Hark! The two hermits and the children of the village, whom they teach, are chanting before they part."
Jean Charost listened attentively till the song was ended, and then remarked, in a quiet tone, "I saw two old men going into the hermitage. I hope their reputation is fair; for it is difficult to dispossess men who make a profession of sanctity; and yet their proximity is not always much to be coveted."
"Oh yes, they are well spoken of," replied Madame De Brecy; "but one of them, at least, is very strange, and frightened us."
"It was but for a moment," cried Agnes, eagerly. "He is a kind, good man, too. I will tell you how it all happened, dear Jean; and we will go down and see him to-morrow, for he and I are great friends now. The day after our arrival here, I had wandered out, as I do at De Brecy, thinking myself quite as safe here as there, when suddenly in the wood, just by the little waterfall, I came upon a tall old man, dressed in a gray gown, and walking with a staff. What it was he saw in me, I do not know; but the instant he beheld me he stopped suddenly, and seemed to reel as if he were going to fall. I started forward to help him; but he seized hold of my arms, and fixed his eyes so sternly in my face, he frightened me. His words terrified me still more; for he burst forth with the strangest, wildest language I ever heard, asking if I had come from the grave, and if his long years of penitence had been in vain; saying that he had forgiven me, and surely I might forgive him; that God had forgiven him, he knew; then why should I be more obdurate; and then he wept bitterly. I tried to soothe and calm him; but he still held me by the arm, and I could not get away. Gradually, however, he grew tranquil, and begged my pardon. He said he had been suffering under a delusion, asked my name, and made me sit down by him on the moss. There we remained, and talked for more than half an hour; for, whenever I wished to go, he begged me piteously to stay. All the time I remained, his conversation seemed to me to ramble a great deal, at least I could not understand one half of it. He told me, however, that he had once been a rich man, a courtier, and a soldier, and that many years ago he had been terribly wronged, and in a moment of passionate madness he had committed a great crime. He had wandered about, he said, for some years as a condemned spirit, not only half insane, but knowing that he was so. After that, he met with a good man who led him to better hopes, and thenceforth he had passed his whole time in penitence and prayer. When he let me go, he besought me eagerly to come and see him in his hermitage, and, taking Margiette, the maid with me, I have been down twice. I found him and his companion teaching the little children of the village, and he seemed always glad to see me, though at first he would give a sidelong glance, as if he almost feared me. But he seemed to know much of you, dear Jean, at least by name. He said you had always been faithful and true, and would be so to the end, and spoke of you as I loved to hear. So you must come down with me, and see him and his comrade."
"I will see him," replied Jean Charost. He made no further remark upon her little narrative; but what she told him gave him matter for much thought, even after the whole household had retired to rest.
When Jean Charost awoke, it was one of those pleasant, drowsy summer mornings when the whole of nature seems still inclined to sleep, when there is a softness in the air, a misty haze in the atmosphere, streaky white clouds are half veiling the sky, and even the birds of the bush, and the beasts of the field, seem inclined to prolong the sweet morning slumber in the midst of the bounteous softness of all around. A breath of air, it is true, stirred the trees; but it was very gentle and very soft, and though the lark rose up from his fallow to sing his early matins at heaven's gate, yet the sounds were so softened by the distance, that one seemed to feel the melody rather than to hear it. It was very early, and from the window no moving object was to be seen except the mute herds winding on toward their pasturage, a rook wending its straight flight overhead, and an early laborer taking his way toward the fields. The general world was all asleep; but, nevertheless, the young Lord De Brecy was soon equipped in walking guise and wandering on toward the hermitage. He found its tenants up, and ready for the mornings' labors; but one of them welcomed him as an old acquaintance, and, leading him into their cell, remained with him in conversation for more than an hour.
De Brecy came forth more grave than he had gone in, though that was grave enough, and immediately on his return to the castle messengers were dispatched to several public functionaries in Bourges. It was done quietly, however, and even those who bore the short letters of their lord had no idea that his impulse was a sudden one, supposing merely that he acted on orders received before he had set out from Poictiers.
Ere he joined his mother and Agnes too, De Brecy passed some time in examining a packet of old papers, a few trinkets, and a ring, and then walked up and down thoughtfully in his room for several minutes. Then casting away care, he mingled with his household again, and an hour went by in cheerful conversation. Perhaps Jean Charost was gayer than usual, less thoughtful, yet his mother observed that once or twice his eyes fixed upon the face of Agnes for a very few moments with a look of intense earnestness and consideration. Nor was Agnes herself unconscious of it; and once, for a single instant, as she caught his look directed toward her, a fluttering blush spread over her cheek, and some slight agitation betrayed itself in her manner.
Shortly after she left the hall; and Madame De Brecy said, in a quiet tone, but not without a definite purpose, "I doubt not we shall have an early visit, my son, from a young neighbor of ours who lives between this place and De Brecy: Monsieur De Brives, whose château, and the village of that name you can see from the top of the tower. He has frequently been to see us both here and at De Brecy--I believe I might say to see our dear Agnes. You see, my dear son, how beautiful she has become; and, to say the truth, I am very glad you have arrived before this young gentleman has come to any explanation of his wishes; for I could not venture to tell him even the little that I know of Agnes's history, and yet he might desire some information regarding her family."
She watched her son's countenance quietly while she spoke, but she could discover no trace of emotion thereon. Jean Charost was silent, indeed, and did not reply for two or three minutes; but he remained quite calm, and merely thoughtful. At length he asked, "Do you know, my dearest mother, any thing of this young gentleman's character?"
"It is very fair, I believe, as the world goes," replied Madame De Brecy. "He seems amiable and kind, and distinguished himself in the attack of Cone some years ago, I am told. He is wealthy, too, and altogether his own master."
"How does Agnes receive him?" asked Jean Charost, thoughtfully.
"Friendly and courteously," replied his mother; "but I have remarked nothing more. Indeed, I have given no great encouragement to his visits, thinking that perhaps the dear girl might meet with a sad disappointment if her affections became entangled, and her obscure history were to prove an insurmountable obstacle in the eyes of the man she had chosen."
"Did it do so, he would be unworthy of her," answered Jean Charost, rising, and walking slowly to and fro in the room. Then stopping opposite to his mother, he added, "I have been thinking all this morning, my dear mother, of telling Agnes every thing I can tell of her history. It is a somewhat difficult and somewhat painful task, but yet it must be done."
"I think the sooner the better," replied Madame De Brecy. "I have long thought so; but trusting entirely to your judgment, I did not like to interfere."
"Does she know that she is in no degree allied to us?" asked Jean Charost.
"Yes, yes," answered his mother; "that her own questions elicited one day. I could see she would have fain known more; but I merely told her she was an orphan committed to your care and guardianship. That seemed to satisfy her, and she asked no more. But I think it is right that she should know all."
"She shall," answered Jean Charost. "I will tell her; but it must be at some moment when we are alone together."
"If you will give me any sign, I will quit the room," answered Madame De Brecy.
"No," replied her son, thoughtfully; "no: that will not be needful. I could not tell it in a formal way. It must be told gently, easily, my dear mother, in order not to alarm and agitate her. Some day when we are riding or walking forth in the woods around, or on the castle walls, I will say something which will naturally lead her to inquire. Then, piece by piece, I will dole it out, as if it were a matter of not much moment. There sounds the horn at the gates. Perhaps it is this Monsieur De Brives."
"What will you do if he speaks at once?" asked Madame De Brecy quickly, adding, "I doubt not that he will do so."
"I will refer him to Agnes herself," answered Jean Charost. "She must decide. First, however, I will let him know as much of her history as I may, and, as some counterpoise, will assure him that all which I have gained by my labors or my sword shall be hers."
"But you will some day marry, yourself, deal Jean--I hope, I trust so," said his mother, earnestly.
"Never!" answered her son; and the next moment Monsieur De Brives was in the room.
He was a tall, handsome young man, of some five or six-and-twenty, polished and courteous in his manners, with a tone of that warm sincerity in his whole address which is usually very winning upon woman's heart. Why, it is hardly possible to say, Jean Charost received him with somewhat stately coldness; and the first few words of ceremony had hardly passed, when Agnes herself re-entered the room and welcomed their visitor with friendly ease. De Brecy's eyes were turned upon her eagerly. At the end of a few minutes, Monsieur De Brives turned to Jean Charost, saying, "I am glad you have returned at last, Monsieur De Brecy; for I have a few words to say to you in private, if your leisure serves to give me audience."
"Assuredly," replied De Brecy, rising; and whispering a word to his mother as he passed, he led the way to a cabinet near, giving one glance to the face of Agnes. It was perfectly calm.
His conversation with Monsieur De Brives lasted half an hour, and some time before it was over, Madame De Brecy quietly left the hall, while Agnes remained embroidering a coat of arms. At length the two gentlemen issued from the cabinet, and Monsieur De Brives took his way at once to the room where Agnes was seated. Jean Charost, for his part, went down to the lower hall, which had been left vacant while his followers sported in the castle court. There, with a grave, stern air, and his arms crossed upon his chest, Jean Charost paced up and down the pavement, pausing once to look out into the court upon the gay games going on; but he turned away without even a smile, bending his eyes thoughtfully upon the old stones as if he would have counted their number or spied out their flaws. The time seemed very long to him, and yet he would not interrupt the lover in his suit. At length, however, he heard a rapid step coming, and the next instant Monsieur De Brives entered the hall, as if to pass through it to the court. His face was deadly pale, and traces of strong emotion were in every line.
"Well," cried De Brecy, advancing to meet him; "she has accepted you--of course, she has accepted you."
De Brives only grasped his hand, and shook his head.
"Did you tell her you knew all?" asked De Brecy. "Did you tell her of your generous--"
"In vain--all in vain," said the young man; and, wringing De Brecy's hand hard in his, he broke away from him, and left the castle.
Jean Charost stood for an instant in the midst of the hall buried in deep thought, and then mounted the stairs to the room where he had left Agnes. He found her weeping bitterly; and going gently up to her, he seated himself beside her and took her hand. "Dear Agnes," he said, "you are weeping. You regret what you have done. It is not yet too late. Let me send after him. He has hardly yet left the castle."
"No, no--no!" cried Agnes, eagerly. "I do not regret what I have said, though I regret having given him pain--I regret to give pain to any thing. But I told him the truth."
"What did you tell him?" asked Jean Charost, perhaps indiscreetly.
Agnes's face glowed warmly, but she answered at once, "I told him I could not love him as a woman should love her husband."
"Bitter truth enough from such lips as those," said Jean Charost in a low tone.
"Indeed, indeed," cried Agnes, who seemed to feel some reproach in his words, "I did not intend to grieve him more than I could help in telling him the truth. But how could I love him?" she asked, with a bewildered look; and then shaking her head sadly, she added, "no--no!"
"Not a word more, dear Agnes," answered Jean Charost. "You did right to tell him the truth; and I am quite sure you did it as gently as might be. Now let us forget this painful incident as soon as we can, and all be as we were before."
"Oh gladly," cried Agnes, with a bright smile. "I hope for nothing, I desire nothing but that."
He soothed her with kindly tenderness, and soon whiled her away from all painful thoughts, gradually and with more skill than might have been expected, leading the conversation by imperceptible degrees to other subjects and to distant scenes. The return of Madame De Brecy to the room renewed for a time the beautiful girl's agitation; and Jean Charost left her with his mother, with a promise to take a long ramble with her that evening, and make her show him every fair spot in the woods around the castle.
Woman's heart, it is generally supposed, is more easily opened to a fellow-woman than to a man; and sometimes it is so, but sometimes not. If we have watched closely, most of us must have seen the secret within more carefully guarded from a woman's eyes than from any other--perhaps from a knowledge of their acuteness. Such, indeed, might not--probably was not.--the case with Agnes. Nevertheless, it was in vain that Madame De Brecy questioned her. She told all that had occurred frankly and simply, every word that had been uttered, as far as she could recollect them. But there was something that Agnes did not tell--the cause of all that had occurred. True, she could not tell it; for it was intangible to herself--misty, indefinite--a something which she could feel, but not explain. Gladly she heard the trumpet sound to dinner; for she had set Madame De Brecy musing; and Agnes did not like that she should muse too long over her conduct of that day.
Noon proved very sultry, and Jean Charost had plenty of occupation for several hours after the meal. Horsemen came and went: he saw several persons from Bourges, and several of the tenants of St. Florent. He sent off a large body of the men who had accompanied him from Poictiers to the neighboring city, and the castle resumed an air of silence and loneliness.
Toward evening, however, he called upon Agnes to prepare for her walk; and as he paced up and down the hall waiting for her, Madame De Brecy judged from his look and manner that he meditated speaking to his fair charge, that very evening, on the delicate subject of her own history.
"Be gentle with the dear girl, my son," she said, "and if you see that a subject agitates her, change it. There is something on Agnes's mind that we do not comprehend fully; and one may touch a tender point without knowing it."
"Do you suspect any other attachment?" asked Jean Charost, turning so suddenly, and speaking so gravely, that his mother was surprised.
"None whatever," she answered. "Indeed, I can not believe such a thing possible. To my knowledge she has seen no one at all likely to gain her affections but this Monsieur De Brives. The stiff old soldiers left to guard this castle and De Brecy, good Martin Grille, and Henriot, the groom, upon my word, are the only men we have seen."
The return of Agnes stopped further conversation; and she and De Brecy took their way out by one of the posterns on the hill. Agnes was now as gay as a lark; the shower had passed away and left all clear; not a trace of agitation lingered behind. De Brecy was thoughtful, but strove to be cheerful likewise, paused and gazed wherever she told him the scene was beautiful, talked with no ignorant or tasteless lips of the loveliness of nature, and of the marvels of art which he had seen since he was last in Berri; but there was something more in his conversation. There was a depth of feeling, a warmth of fancy, a richness of association which made Agnes thoughtful also. He seemed to lead her mind which way he would; to have the complete mastery over it; and exercising his power gently and tenderly, it was a pleasant and a new sensation to feel that he possessed it.
There was one very beautiful scene that came up just when the sun was a couple of hands' breadth from the horizon. It was a small secluded nook in the wood, of some ten or fifteen yards across, surrounded and overshadowed by the tall old trees, but only covered, itself, with short green grass. It was as flat and even, too, as the pavement of the hall; but just beyond, to the southwest, was a short and sharp descent, from the foot of which some lesser trees shot up their branches, letting in between them, as through a window, a prospect of the valley of the Cher, and the glowing sky beyond.
"This is a place for Dryads, Agnes," said Jean Charost, making her sit down by him on a large fragment of stone which had rolled to the foot of an old oak. "Nymphs of the woods, dear girl, might well hold commune here with spirits of the air."
"I was thinking but the day before yesterday," said Agnes, "what a beautiful spot this would be for a cottage in the wood, with that lovely sky before us, and the world below."
"It is always better," said Jean Charost, with a smile, "to keep the world below us--or, rather, to keep ourselves above the world; but I fear me, Agnes, it is not the inhabitants of cottages who have the most skill in doing so. I have little faith either in cottages or hermitages."
"Do not destroy my dreams, dear Jean," said Agnes, almost sadly.
"Oh, no," he answered, "I would not destroy, but only read them."
Agnes paused, with her eyes bent down for a moment or two, and then looked earnestly in his face: "They are very simple," she said, "and easily read. The brightest dream of my whole life, the one I cherish the most fondly, is but to remain forever with dear Madame De Brecy and you, without any change--except," she added, eagerly, "to have you always remain with us--to coax you to throw away swords and lances, and never make our hearts beat with the thought that you are in battle and in danger."
Jean Charost's own heart beat now; and he was silent for a moment or two. "That can not be, Agnes," he said, "and you would not wish it, my dear girl. Every one must sacrifice something for his country--very much in perilous times--men their repose, their ease, often their happiness, their life itself, should it be necessary; women, the society of those they love--brothers, fathers, husbands. Now, dear Agnes, I am neither of these to you, and therefore your sacrifice is not so much as that of many others."
"I know you are not my father," answered Agnes. "That our dear mother told me long ago; but do you know, dear Jean, I often wish you were my brother."
Jean Charost smiled, and seemed for a moment to hesitate what he should reply. He pursued his purpose steadily, however, and at length answered, "That is a relationship which, wish as we may, we can not bring about. But, indeed, we are none to each other, Agnes. You are only my adopted child."
"No, not your child," she said; "you are too young for that. Why not your adopted sister?"
"I never heard of such an adoption," replied De Brecy; "but you are like a child to me, Agnes. I have carried you more than one mile in my arms, when you were an infant."
"And an orphan," she added, in a sad tone. "How much--how very much do I owe you, kindest and best of friends."
"Not so much, perhaps, as you imagine, Agnes," replied Jean Charost. "To save my own life in a moment of great danger, I made a solemn promise to protect, cherish, and educate you, as if you were my own. I had incautiously suffered myself to fall into the hands of a party of ruthless marauders, who, imagining that I had come to espy their actions, and perhaps to betray them, threatened to put me to death. There was no possibility of escape or resistance; but a gentleman who was with them, and who, though not of them, possessed apparently, from old associations, great influence over them, induced them to spare me on the condition I have mentioned. You were then an infant lying under the greenwood-tree, and I, it is true, hardly more than a boy; but I took a solemn promise, dear Agnes, and I have striven to perform it well. Yet I deserve no credit even for that dear Agnes; for what I did at first from a sense of duty, I afterward did from affection. Well did you win and did you repay my love; and, as I told Monsieur De Brives this morning, although at my death the small estate of De Brecy must pass away to another and very distant branch of my own family, all that I have won by my own exertions will be yours."
"Do you think I could enjoy it, and you dead?" asked Agnes, in a sad and almost reproachful tone. "Oh, no--no! All I should then want would be enough to find me place in a nunnery, there to pray that it might not be long till we met again. You have been all and every thing to me through life, dear Jean. What matters it what happens when you are gone?"
Jean Charost laid his hand gently upon hers and she might have felt that strong hand tremble; but her thoughts seemed busy with other things. She knew not the emotions she excited--doubtless she knew not even those which lay at the source of her own words and thoughts.
"It is sad," she continued, after a brief pause, "never to have seen a father's face or known a mother's blessing. To have no brother, no sister; and though the place of all has been supplied, and well supplied, by a friend, I sometimes long to know who were my parents, what was my family. I know you would tell me, if it were right for me to know, and therefore I have never asked--nor do I ask now, though the thought sometimes troubles me."
"I am ready to tell you all I know this moment," answered Jean Charost; "but that is not much, and it is a sad tale. Are you prepared to hear it, Agnes?"
"No--not if it is sad," she answered. "I have been looking forward to the time of your return, dear friend, as if every day of your stay were to be a day of joy, and not a shadow to come over me during the whole time. Yet you have been but one day here, and that has been more checkered with sadness than many I have known for years. I have shed tears, which I have not done before since you went away. I would have no more sad things to-day. Some other time--some other time you shall tell me all about myself."
"All that I know," answered Jean Charost; "and I will give you, too, some papers which, perhaps, may tell you more. There are some jewels, too, which belong to you--"
"See," said Agnes, interrupting him, as if her mind had been absent, "the sun is half way down behind the edge of the earth. Had we not better go back to the castle? How gloriously he lights up the edges of the clouds, changing the dark gray into crimson and gold. I have often thought that love does the like; and when you and our dear mother are with me, I feel that it is so; for things that would be otherwise dark and sad seem then to become bright and sparkle. Even that which made me weep this morning has lost its heaviness, and as it was to be, I am glad that it is over."
"Will you never repent, my Agnes?" asked Jean Charost, with a voice not altogether free from emotion. "Of this Monsieur De Brives I know nothing but by report, yet he seemed to me one well calculated to win favor--and perhaps to deserve it."
"What is he to me?" asked Agnes, almost impatiently. "A mere stranger. Shall I ever repent? oh, never--never!"
"But you must marry some one nearly as much a stranger to you as he is," replied Jean Charost.
She only shook her head sadly, again answering, "Never!"
Jean Charost was silent for a moment; and then rising, they returned to the castle with nothing said of all that might have been said.