The town and the castle were quiet; the hateful sound of the rattling cannon was heard no more;pierrier,veuglaire,[4]and culverin were still, and the drum and the trumpet sounded not. When Agnes looked out of the high window of the great round tower, after a sleep which had remained unbroken by the clang of war longer than usual, she could almost have supposed that every thing was peaceful around. The morning sun shone brightly, the morning air was sweet and fresh, few soldiers appeared upon the walls of the castle, there was no strife seen going on in the streets, and it was only the sight of a barricade immediately below the town gate of the citadel, and a breast-work of earth some way further down, with half a dozen soldiers loitering about each, that kept up the memory of a struggle.
Although she knew not the cause, Agnes was well pleased; for the very quiet stillness was a relief, restoring to the mind calmness and hope. But Agnes's hopes had now taken one particular direction, and her first thought was, "As there is no active struggle going on, dear Jean will be with us soon this morning."
But Jean Charost came not. An hour passed--an hour beyond the usual time of his coming--and both his mother and Agnes began to feel alarm. At length they sent down to inquire; but the answer brought up was, he had gone out on the preceding night, and had not yet returned.
Had the wars and contentions which had raged through the rest of France prevailed in the neighborhood of Bourges--had Madame da Brecy and Agnes been accustomed to the scenes of strife and confusion which reigned in the rest of the country--had they been drilled, as it were, and disciplined to hourly uncertainty, they might have felt little or no alarm. But Berri had been nearly free from the evils that scourged the rest of France, and a wandering troop of Royalist cavalry, or the sudden inroad of a small band of English or Burgundians, causing them to raise the draw-bridge and drop the portcullis, was all they knew of the dangers of the times. Even during the short period they had spent in the citadel of Bourges, however, Jean Charost had always found means to spend a short part of each day with them; and although his not coming at the usual hour might not have caused much apprehension, the reply that he had gone forth from the castle, and not returned, agitated them both.
The alarm of Agnes, however, was much more than that of Madame De Brecy. The aged feel this kind of apprehension, from many causes, much less than the young. Cares and griefs harden the spirit to endure. Each sorrow has its stiffening influence. Besides, as we approach the extreme term of life, we are led to value it less highly--to estimate it properly. When we contemplate it from the flowery beginning of our days, oh, what a rich treasury of golden hours it seems! and we think every one like us has the same dower. But as we look back at it when our portion is nearly spent, we see how little really serviceable to happiness it has procured, and we judge of others as ourselves. A friend dies; and, though we may grieve, we think that we may soon meet again. A friend is in danger, and we feel the less alarm, from a knowledge that in losing life he loses little--that a few years more or less are hardly dust in the balance, and that if he be taken away, it is but that he goes from an inn somewhat near us to his home further off.
Agnes was very anxious. Her's was a quick imagination, active either in the service of joy or sorrow; and she fancied all that might have occurred, and much that was not likely. At one time she was inclined to believe that the commander of the castle was deceiving Madame De Brecy and herself, anxious to save them pain--that Jean Charost had been killed, and that De Blondel would not tell them. She little knew how lightly a hardened soldier could deal with such a matter. Then, reasoning against her fears, she thought that De Brecy must have gone forth upon a sally, and been made prisoner, and memory brought back all the sorrows that had followed Azincourt. But worst of all was the uncertainty, the toilsome laboring of thought after some definite conclusion--the ever-changing battle between hope and fear, in which fear was generally triumphant. She sat at the high window, gazing over the country round, and watching the different roads within sight. Now she saw a group coming along toward the gates; but after eager scanning, it proved nothing but some peasants bringing in provisions for the soldiery. Then an indistinct mass was seen at a distance; but long ere it reached Bourges, it turned away in a different direction. Each moment increased her anxiety and alarm. One hour--two, went by. Again she saw some one coming, and again was disappointed, and the long-repressed tears rose in her eyes, the sobs with which she could struggle no longer burst from her lips.
"Agnes, Agnes my child, come hither," cried Madame De Brecy; and rising from her seat, Agnes cast herself upon her knees beside Jean Charost's mother, and hid her streaming eyes upon her lap.
"What is it, my dear Agnes?" asked Madame De Brecy, much moved. "Tell me, my child; what agitates you thus? Tell me your feelings--all your feelings, my Agnes. Surely I have been to you ever as a mother: conceal nothing from me."
"Why does he not come?" asked Agnes, in a voice hardly audible. "Oh, dear mother, I fear he is ill--he is hurt--perhaps he is--"
"Nay, nay," replied Madame De Brecy, "you have no cause for such agitation, Agnes. A soldier can not command his own time, nor can he, amid many important tasks, always find the opportunity of letting those he loves best know his movements, even to relieve their anxiety. A soldier's wife, my child," she added, putting her arm gently round the kneeling girl, "must learn to bear such things with patience and hope--nay, more, must learn to conceal even the anxiety she must feel, in order to cast no damp upon her husband's spirits, to shackle none of his energies, and to add nothing to his sorrow of parting even with herself. Would you like to be a soldier's wife, my Agnes?"
"I know not what I should like," answered Agnes, without raising her head; but then she added quickly, as if her heart reproached her for some little insincerity, "Yes, yes, I should; but then I should like him to be a soldier no longer."
A faint smile came upon Madame De Brecy's lip, and she was devising another question to bring forth some further confession, when through the open window came the sound of a trumpet, and Agnes, starting up, darted back to her place of watching.
Oh, how eagerly she dashed away the tears that dimmed her eyes; and the next instant she exclaimed, with a radiant, rosy look of joy, which rendered all further confession needless, "It is he--it is he! There are a great number with him--some twenty or thirty; but I can see him quite plainly. It is he!"
Hardly five minutes elapsed, and Agnes had barely time to clear her face of the traces of emotion it displayed, when Jean Charost's step sounded on the stairs, and the next moment he was in the room.
Very strange, Agnes did not fly to meet him. Agnes uttered no word of gratulation. But she stood and trembled; for there are sometimes things as full of awe discovered, within the heart, as any which can strike our outward senses, and a vail had been withdrawn which exposed to her sight things which, when first seen, were fearful as well as dazzling.
"Joy, dear mother--joy, dearest Agnes," said De Brecy, holding out a hand to each. "Your prison hours are over. A truce is proclaimed, negotiations for reconciliation going on, and you have nothing to do but mount and ride away with me. Quick with your preparations, dearest mother--quick, my sweet Agnes!"
"Do not hurry her, my son," said Madame De Brecy, kindly. "She has been very much terrified by your long absence, and has hardly yet recovered. She shall go in the litter with me, and I will tell Suzette to get all ready for her."
"Terrified for me, dearest Agnes!" said Jean Charost, as his mother left the room; and he took her hand in his, and gazed into her face. "Did they not give you the message I sent last night?"
"No," answered Agnes, in a low tone. "They only told us this morning, when we sent to inquire, that you had gone forth, and had not returned. How could they be so cruel. One word from you would have saved us hours of pain."
"You are trembling now," said Jean Charost, still holding her hand. "What would you do, dear Agnes, if you were a soldier's wife?"
"Your mother asked me the same," answered Agnes, with a faint smile, "and I told her I did not know. I can but make you the same answer, Jean. I suppose all a woman can do is to love and tremble."
"And could you love a soldier?" asked De Brecy, in a very earnest tone.
"Oh that I could." murmured Agnes, trembling more than ever.
Jean Charost led her toward a seat, and as she trembled still, and he feared she would fall, he put his arm around her waist, merely to support her. It had been there a thousand times before, in years long past, when she had stood by his side or sat upon his knee; but the touch was different now to both of them. It made his heart thrill and beat; it made hers nearly stop altogether.
She was so pale, he thought she would faint; and instinct prompted that the safest way was that of the proverb--to speak true words in jest. So, in a gay tone, he said, as he seated himself beside her, still holding his arm round her waist, "Well, I'll tell you, dearest Agnes, how it shall be. When you have refused some half a dozen other soldiers, you shall marry Jean Charost; and I will give you leave to love as much as you like, and to tremble as little as possible."
Agnes suddenly raised her eyes to his face with a look of earnest inquiry, and then her cheek became covered with crimson, and she leaned her head upon his bosom.
She said nothing, however, and he asked, in a low and gentle tone, "Shall it be so, dearest Agnes?"
"No," she answered, wiping away some tears. "I do not wish to refuse any one else."
"Ah, then I must make haste," said Jean Charost, "for fear you should accept any one else. Will you be my wife, my own sweetest love?"
Again she answered not; but her small, soft fingers pressed gently on his hand.
"Nay, but I must have a word," said Jean Charost, drawing her closer to him; "but one word, dear girl. That little hand can not speak so clearly as those dear lips."
"Oh, do not tease me," said Agnes, raising her head for a moment, and taking a glance at his face. "I hardly know whether you are bantering me or not."
"Bantering you!" said Jean Charost, in a graver tone. "No, no, my love. I am not one to banter with your happiness or my own; and mine, at least, is staked upon this issue. For all that the world contains of joyful or of fortunate, I would not peril yours, Agnes. For this, when Monsieur De Brives sought your hand, I hid my love for you in my own heart, lest ancient regard and youthful fondness for an old dear friend, should bias your judgment toward one unsuited to you. For this, I would fain have let you see a little more of life before I bound you by any tie to one much older than yourself. But I can refrain no longer, Agnes; and, having spoken, I must know my fate. Will you be mine, sweet love?"
"Yes, yes--yes!" said Agnes, throwing her arm round his neck. "I am yours. I ever have been yours. I ever will be yours. You can not make me otherwise, do as you will."
"I will never try," replied Jean Charost, kissing her. "Dear mother," he continued, as Madame De Brecy re-entered the room, "here is now your daughter, indeed. I know you can not love her more than you do; but you will love her now for my sake, as well as her own."
Madame De Brecy held wide her arms, and Agnes flew to her bosom. "My child, my dear child," said the old lady. "But calm yourself, Agnes; here is Martin Grille, come to say the litter is ready. Let us go."
"Ah, I thought how it would be," said Martin Grille to himself. "I never saw dear friendships between a man under forty and a girl under sixty end otherwise. My lord, the litter is ready, and all the men-at-arms you named. The rest, however, seem somewhat surly at being left behind; for I think they have had enough of being besieged. I am sure I have. I shall not get that big gun out of my head for the next month."
"Tell them there is a truce for three days," said Jean Charost; "and if, at the end of that time, war is not at an end, I will return and join them. We must not strip the castle of its defenders."
In a few minutes Jean Charost and his little cavalcade were beyond the walls of Bourges; but Madame De Brecy remarked that they did not take the way toward their own well-loved home, but, passing the River Langis, directed their course toward Pressavoix. "Where are you taking us, Jean?" she said to her son, who was riding beside the litter.
"To the castle of Felard, my dear mother," replied Jean Charost. "I promised the queen that I would bring you and Agnes thither for a day. I am in great favor at court now," he added, gayly, "for having had some share in bringing about this negotiation. The king, indeed, seems somewhat moody and irritable, but not with me; and he insists that I shall take part in the conferences to be held this night at Pressavoix. Nay, dearest mother; no objections on the score of dress and equipment; for, let me tell you, the court is in traveling guise as well as we are, and you will find more soiled and dusty apparel there than we bring into it."
Madame De Brecy was in some trepidation; for it was long, long since she had moved in courts, and the retired and quiet life which she had passed for years unfitted her for such scenes. She made no opposition, however; and, in somewhat less than half an hour, the little cavalcade began to fall in with the outposts of the king's army. There was no difficulty in passing them, however; for, from the moment the truce was proclaimed, the soldiers on both posts concluded that some agreement would be arrived at between the different factions, and began to mingle together with as much gayety and good-will as if they had never drawn the sword against each other. Groups were seen galloping about the fields in different directions, standing and talking together upon the road, riding rapidly about to and fro between Pressavoix and Bourges, and the scene presented all the gayety and brilliancy of war, without any of its terrors.
Shortly after passing the second line of posts upon the high-road, Jean Charost led the way down a narrow lane, which seemed to plunge into a deep, heavy wood. All was now quiet and solitary, and nothing but the waving branches of great old trees was seen around for nearly half a mile. The undulations of the ground were so slight that no eminence gave a view over the prospect, and all that varied their course as they advanced were the strongly-contrasted lines of light and shade that crossed the road from time to time. At length, however, the lane turned sharply, an open space was presented to view, and the ancient château of Felard, which has long since given place to the present modern structure, rose upon the sight in the midst. It had towers and turrets, walls, ditch, and draw-bridge, like most large country houses at that time; but it was by no means defensible against any regular force, and was only chosen for the residence of the court on account of the accommodation it afforded. Charles VII. had not yet learned to dread the approach of his subjects to his person, to see poison in his food, and an enemy in every stranger, and the gates were wide open, without guards, and nothing but a few pages in attendance, lingering about.
Descending in the outer court, Jean Charost assisted his mother and Agnes to alight, and then led them on to the principal entrance of the building, where they were shown into a vacant chamber, to wait the pleasure of the queen.
"Have the courtesy," said Jean Charost to the page, "to let Messire Jacques Cœur know that I am here, after you have informed the queen;" and, turning to his mother, whose face brightened at the name of her old friend, he added, "I only saw him for an instant last night; but his presence was most serviceable in obtaining for me speedy audience."
At the end of about five minutes, the door opened, and a lady entered alone, the richness of whose apparel, and perhaps still more, the brilliance of her beauty, made Madame De Brecy suppose that she beheld the queen. Jean Charost, however, addressed her as Mademoiselle De St. Geran, and introduced his mother and Agnes to her, not altogether without some embarrassment in his manner.
Agnes Sorel did not seem to remark it, however, spoke frankly and kindly to Madame De Brecy, and then, turning to Agnes, gazed upon her with a look of deep interest. "So this is your Agnes," she said, turning to Jean Charost. "Oh, De Brecy, do not bring her into courts. They are not places for such a flower as this. Is not that a hard speech, my dear young lady? Doubtless, your young imagination has painted courts as very brilliant places; but I myself know, from sad experience, that they are fields where little grows but sorrows, disappointments, and regrets."
"I have no inclination, indeed, madam, ever to mingle with them," replied Agnes.
But Agnes Sorel was by this time in a deep fit of meditation, and seemed not to hear the fair girl's reply. After a minute's silence, however, she turned quickly to Jean Charost, and said, "Why did you name her Agnes?"
"Youthful regard for yourself, I believe, was the chief motive," he answered, frankly. "I had seen you, dear lady, in many a trying situation. You had generously, nobly befriended me, even at that time, and I wished this dear girl to be like you."
Agnes shook her head slowly and sorrowfully, with an air which seemed to speak as plainly as words, "You wish so no longer." Suddenly, however, she roused herself, and said, with a sweet smile, "I had almost forgotten my duty. Her majesty has commanded me to bring you to her apartments. If you will follow me, Madame De Brecy, I will show you the way, and afterward will show you your lodging."
Just behind the old stone cross on the green of the little village of St. Privé, about half a mile south of Pressavoix, a large pavilion was erected, not far from the bank of the river. Between the two poles which supported it was spread a great table covered with writing materials, with two or three candlesticks placed in no very seemly order. Two men, who appeared to be clerks, were seated at the table mending pens, and venting dry jokes at one another; and round about the pavilion, at the distance of about fifty yards on either side, patrolled a number of archers of the King's Guard, to keep prying eyes and curious ears afar. For about a quarter of an hour, the tent remained vacant of all but the clerks; but at the end of that time a group of several gentlemen entered it, and took their place on the northern side of the table, not sitting down, but standing together conversing earnestly, though in low tones. Shortly after, Jean Charost and Monsieur De Blondel appeared, and, joining the others, took part in their conversation. Then came Richmond, La Marche, and Clermont, with several other gentlemen of their faction; but these remained to the south of the table, although an occasional word or two passed between them and those on the other side.
"Does his majesty come in person?" said Richmond at length, in his deep-toned voice.
"On my life, I know not," replied Blondel; "but, of course, I should suppose not, my lord constable."
"Then what do we wait for?" asked Richmond, again.
"Monsieur De la Trimouille is, I believe, commissioned by the king to treat--" said Jean Charost; "at least, I heard so, my lord, while I was at the castle of Felard."
"By the Lord, he must come soon, then," said Richmond, with a discontented air, "or no treating will there be at all; for I am not going to lackey a Trimouille, and wait upon his lordship's pleasure."
A few minutes more passed in gloomy silence, and then the sound of horses coming fast was heard upon the road, through the canvas walls of the tent.
The next instant, La Trimouille himself, a tall, powerful, handsome man, entered the pavilion, leaning on the arm of Juvenel de Royans, his countryman and connection, and followed by Dunois and several others.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for keeping you waiting," he said, with the blandest possible smile; "but I had to hear his majesty's pleasure, in order that there might be no doubt or difficulty upon our part. Let us be seated, and discuss this matter."
Each one took his seat at the table without much order, the party of the king on one side--for kings were at heads of parties in those, days--and the party of the three counts on the other. A pause ensued, which seemed to fret the spirit of Richmond; for at length he spoke, after giving a snort like a wild horse, exclaiming, "Some one speak--in Heaven's name! What are we here for? Not to sit silent, I suppose. Speak, Trimouille!"
"Right willingly, my lord constable," replied Trimouille. "You are aware you are in arms against the king your sovereign."
"False to begin with," cried Richmond. "I am in arms against favorites and court flatterers--in arms to restore to the king the right use of his own authority, for the good of the nation and the safety of the land."
"In arms against me, you would say," replied Trimouille, with a dark spot on his brow which belied the smile upon his lips. "But let us hear what you complain of. I know of nothing done by me which can justify such acts as yours. However, if you have cause, state it before these gentlemen here present, who are commissioned by his majesty, as well as myself, to inquire into this matter, and will report to him every word you say without gloss or comment, such as you accuse me of making. What are your griefs, my lords?"
"Heavy enough," said Richmond, sternly. "Your ingratitude, Trimouille, I could pass over; but--"
"My ingratitude!" exclaimed the king's minister. "I know not that you have given me cause to be grateful or ungrateful."
"Did I not place you where you are?" demanded Richmond. "Did I not remove better men than yourself to place you there? Did I not force Louvet from the council to make room for you, and punish the audacity of Beaulieu--"
"And drown Giac," said the Count of Clermont, with a sarcastic smile; and all around the table laughed, except Trimouille himself, who had married the dangerous widow of the deceased nobleman. He waved his hand, however, saying, "This is all trifling. I hold the place I occupy by the king's favor and approval, and by the act of no other man. But you are in arms, you say, for the public service. What has been done to give you a color for this pretense?"
"I will tell you speedily," replied Richmond, bitterly. "You have frustrated all my plans for the service of the state. During this last campaign in Brittany, you kept me idle before Pontorson, for want of men and money, or it would have fallen a week before it did. The same was the case before St. James, and now, for the last four months, not a livre have I been able to wring from your hands, either for my own pay or to keep my men on foot."
"You have been able to keep them on foot to war against your monarch," said Trimouille, bitterly; "but I will meet the charge with frankness and truth. I have not sent you money when you demanded it, for the same reason that I did not send any to my lord the Count of La Marche here, to whom I eagerly wished to send it--simply because I had it not to send."
"A mere pretense," exclaimed Richmond, striking the table with his fist, and rising as he spoke. "We have found in the papers of Jacques Cœur, which we seized in Bourges, proof positive that a large sum was sent to Chinon at the very time you refused my demand."
"Which was all forestalled before it came," said La Trimouille. But his voice was drowned by the angry tones of the constable, who exclaimed, "If we are again to be put off with such pitiful excuses as that, negotiations can produce no good;" and he turned to leave the tent.
The counts of La Marche and Clermont rose also; but Jean Charost exclaimed, "Stay, I beseech you, my lords. Consider what you are doing--casting away the safety of France, giving her up a prey to the enemy, not only sacrificing your loyalty to your king, but your duty to your country. If there be one particle of patriotism, or of generosity, or of honor in you, stay and listen to what Monsieur La Trimouille has to propose."
The word "propose" was happily chosen, holding out vague ideas of advantages to be obtained which affected both Clermont and La Marche.
"What shall we do, Richmond?" said the latter, in a hesitating tone.
"Stay, if you will," said the constable, gruffly. "You can act for me, if you choose to remain. I shall go; for I only lose my temper."
Thus saying, he quitted the tent. La Marche and Clermont hesitated for a moment, and then returned to their seats; the latter observing, with a quiet sneer, that the constable lately gave them more fire than light.
"Well, gentlemen," said Trimouille, in his most placable tones, "now this hot spirit is gone, we are likely, meseems, to come to some result. Pray let me hear your demands."
The Count La Marche turned a somewhat puzzled look toward the Count of Clermont, and the latter laughed gayly.
"Speak, I beseech you," said La Trimouille. "What are your demands?"
"Why, the first of them we decided upon," replied the Count of Clermont, "was one so unpleasant to utter, that it sticks in the throat of La Marche here--simply your removal from the council of the king, Monsieur La Trimouille."
"I will not stand in the way," replied the minister, with the utmost frankness of manner. "No personal interest of mine shall prevent an accommodation. But upon this point the king alone can, of course, decide. It shall be referred to him, exactly as you state it. Let us pass on to other things. What more do you demand?"
"Nay, we would rather hear what you have to propose," said the Count of Clermont, who began to doubt how the negotiations would turn.
"I will willingly take the lead," said Trimouille; "for his majesty's intentions are kind and generous. First, however, it is necessary to state how matters stand, in order to show that it is by no compulsion the king acts, but merely from his gracious disposition. Here are three noblemen, two of them closely allied to the blood royal, take arms against their sovereign at a time when disunion is likely to be fatal to the state. The two I have mentioned, his majesty believes to have been misled by the third, an imperious, violent man, overestimating both his services and his abilities--"
"Nay, nay," cried the Count La Marche.
"Hear me out," said La Trimouille; "a man who pretends to dictate to the king who shall be his ministers, and publicly boasts of placing and displacing them at his pleasure. These three noblemen actually seize upon a royal city, and besiege the royal garrison in the citadel. The king, judging it necessary to check such proceedings at once, marches against them as rebels--and in great force. To speak plainly, my lords, you have five thousand men in and about Bourges; he has ten thousand men between you and Paris, five thousand more arrived an hour ago at La Vallée, and a large force under La Hire is marching up from Chateauroux."
He paused, and the countenances of the constable's party fell immensely. However, the Count of Clermont replied, with his usual sarcastic smile, "A perilous situation as you represent it, my good lord; but methinks I have heard an old fable which shows that men and lions may paint pictures differently."
"You will find my picture the true one, Clermont," said La Trimouille, coolly. "I have I taken care not to exaggerate it in the least, and both the generosity with which the king treats you, and the firmness with which his majesty will adhere to his determinations, will prove to you that he is convinced of these facts likewise. He is desirous, however, that Frenchmen should never be seen shedding Frenchmen's blood, and therefore he proposes, in mitigation of all griefs, real or supposed, and also as a mark of his love and regard for his good cousin, the Count of La Marche, to bestow upon him the fief of Besançon. To you, Monsieur De Clermont, he offers to give the small town of Montbrison, or some other at your choice, of equal value. To the other noblemen and gentlemen I see around you, and whose names were furnished to me this morning, each a benefice, the list of which I have here; and all this upon the sole condition that they return to their loyalty, and serve the crown against the common enemy, with zeal, fidelity, and obedience."
"And the Count of Richmond," said La Marche. I
"What for the constable?" asked the Count of Clermont.
A heavy frown came upon La Trimouille's brow. He had remarked keenly the effect produced upon the constable's companions by the offers made, and saw that the faction was in reality broken up; and he replied, in a slow, stern tone, "Permission for him to retire unmolested to Parthenay, and live in peace and privacy."
A dead silence pervaded all the tent, which was first broken by Jean Charost, who saw both peril and injustice in the partiality just shown, and attributed it rightly to La Trimouille's personal enmity toward his former friend.
"Nay, my good lord," he exclaimed. "Surely his majesty will be moved to some less strict dealing with the lord constable."
"What, you sir!" cried La Trimouille, in a sharp and angry tone.
"Yes, my good lord," replied De Brecy. "I had his majesty's own commands to be present here, and, as he said, to moderate between contending claims, and I shall feel it my duty to urge him strongly to reconsider the question in regard to the Count of Richmond, whom I do not mean to defend for the part he has taken with these two noble counts; but who has formerly served the crown well, and is only a sharer in the same faults as themselves."
"You had better be silent, Monsieur De Brecy," said La Trimouille, with a lowering brow.
"My lord, I was not sent here to be silent," said De Brecy, "and, in speaking, I only obey the king's commands."
"Then go to the king, and hear what he says now," said La Trimouille, putting on a more placable air. "I have seen him since yourself, and received his last directions. Go to him, I say; I am quite willing."
De Brecy fell into the trap. "I will," he said, rising. "If you will proceed with all other points, I will be back before you can conclude."
La Trimouille saw him depart with a smile; but no sooner heard his horse's feet, than, sure of his advantage, he hurried on all the proceedings of the conference, threw in an inducement here, promised a greater advantage there, employed all the means he had kept in reserve of working upon the selfishness of the constable's late confederates, and in less than twenty minutes had triumphed completely over faith, and friendship, and generosity to Richmond. He made the descent easy, however, by leaving all questions concerning the constable to be settled afterward, and succeeded in obtaining a written promise from La Marche and Clermont to return to their duty, and submit to the king's will, without any condition whatever in favor of Richmond.
His leave-taking was hasty as soon as this was accomplished; and, mounting his horse with all speed, he galloped back to Felard as fast as he could go. There, approaching the building by the back, he hurried up to the king's apartments, and inquired, eagerly, if Monsieur De Brecy had obtained admission.
"No, my lord," replied the attendant. "His majesty was fatigued, and lay down to rest for an hour. We, therefore, refused Monsieur De Brecy admission."
"You must not refuse me," said La Trimouille.
The man hesitated; but the minister passed him boldly, and knocked at a door on the opposite side of the ante-room. A moment after, he disappeared within, and then the murmur of conversation was heard, apparently eager, but not loud. At the end of some five minutes, La Trimouille looked out, saying to the attendants, "If Monsieur De Brecy returns to seek an audience, tell him his majesty will see him at the general reception this evening, for which he is invited;" and then drawing back, he closed the door.
Many are the perils of greatness, but among them all, there are few more disastrous than that of being subject continually to influences the most corrupt, which poison the stream of human action almost at the fountain-head. False representations, sneers, innuendoes, mis-statements, are ever fluttering about the heads of princes, guard themselves how they will against them; and I have seen the base, the treacherous, the coward, and the fool raised to office, honor, and emolument; the good, the wise, the just, and the true rejected, neglected, and despised by men, not feeble-minded, not corrupt themselves, but strong in intellect, clear of sight, and with the highest and the noblest purposes. Princes and powerful men can but, as others do, judge and decide from what they see and hear, and the very atmosphere around them is misty with falsehood, their very closet is an echo which repeats little else but lies.
There was a great hall in the château of Felard, and in it, about nine o'clock, were assembled many of the prime nobility of France. Gay habits were there, and handsome forms; and, being so numerous, the party of course comprised some who were good and wise. It consisted principally of men, indeed; but there were ladies likewise present--the queen herself, Agnes Sorel, several high dames of Berri, and ladies attending upon the court. The young king, graceful and handsome, stood at the upper end of the hall, by the side of his wife; and various guests from time to time advanced, spoke a few words to him, and passed on. All seemed gay and smiling. The news had spread around that the principal conditions of a treaty of accommodation with the late rebels had been signed, and joy and satisfaction at a result so greatly to be desired, yet which had been so little expected, spread a cheerfulness like sunshine over all. Little did he who had first suggested the steps which had led to such a conclusion, and had principally contributed to their adoption, dream at that moment of the evil that awaited himself.
Jean Charost, after several persons of higher station than himself had passed the king's presence, advanced with a grave air from the end of the circle near which he stood. His countenance was calm and well assured, though thoughtful, and his eyes were raised direct to the monarch. He could see a dark cloud suddenly come upon Charles's face, and La Trimouille, who was at some little distance from the king, immediately drew nearer to him. The king bowed his head somewhat ungraciously in answer to the young nobleman's salutation, and then, seeing him pause without passing on, said, harshly, "What is it, Monsieur de Brecy? Speak, if you have any thing to say."
De Brecy instantly divined that the king had been prepossessed; but that ancient spirit in him, which had led him, when a mere boy with the Duke of Orleans, to speak his mind plainly, had not been beaten out of him, even by all the hard blows of the world, and he replied, with one glance at his mother and Agnes, who stood at a little distance from the queen, but whom he could have well wished absent, "I have something to say, sire, which I would not venture to say at present, had you not yourself appointed me this as my hour of audience."
The king slowly nodded his head, as if directing him to proceed; and Jean Charost continued, "To-night, by your commands, I took part in a conference at Pressavoix, and gladly found that your majesty was disposed to be most gracious to a number of your vassals and subjects who had ventured to take arms upon very shallow pretexts against your authority. Although no motive was necessary to explain your clemency, the motive which Monsieur La Trimouille did express, was to reunite all Frenchmen in the service of the country. One solitary exception was made in this act of grace and goodness, and that exception was against a nobleman who, whatever may have been his faults lately, has, in times past, served the crown with zeal, skill, and courage."
The frown was darkening more and more heavily on Charles's brow every moment; but he did not speak, and Jean Charost went on boldly, "I have ventured to believe, sire, that you might be led to mitigate the severity of your just anger against the constable, and to consider former services as well as present faults, to remember how useful he has been, and may be still to France, and might be even induced to extend to him the same grace and favor which you hold out to his comrades in offense."
"Did you hear my will expressed by Monsieur La Trimouille?" demanded the king, sternly, and in a loud tone.
"I heard what he was pleased to say was your will, sire," replied De Brecy; "but I presumed to differ with Monsieur La Trimouille, and to believe that by proper representations to your majesty, which I imagined had not been made, you might be brought to reconsider your decision, and be gracious in all, as well as in part."
"And you expressed that difference at the council-table?" said Charles.
"I did, sire," replied De Brecy, "judging it necessary to the safety of France to do so."
"For which, sir," said the king aloud, and using the imperious plural representing the many powers united in a king; "for which, sir, we banish you from our court and presence, and make you share the punishment of the fault you have defended. You did your best to frustrate our purposes intrusted to the execution of our minister. You nearly rendered abortive his efforts to bring about a pacification, necessary to the welfare of the country; and it is probable that, had you remained on the spot, that pacification would not have been accomplished. We would have you know, and all know, that we will be obeyed. We have punished his rebellion in the Count of Richmond more leniently, perhaps, than his offense required, taking into full consideration his former services, but weighing well the fact that he was the head and leader, the chief and instigator of the conspiracy, in which the rest were but his deluded followers. Unwarned by his example, you thought fit to oppose our will at our very council-table, and we therefore inflict on you the same punishment as on him. The only grace we can grant you is to leave you the choice of your retreat, within ten miles of which, wherever it may be, we require you to limit your movements. Say whither you will go."
The first part of the king's speech had surprised and confounded De Brecy; but he gradually recovered himself as the monarch went on. He had long seen that Trimouille had sought to establish an almost despotic authority over the court of France, and he easily divined that Charles was not speaking his own sentiments, but those of his minister. This was some consolation, and he had completely recovered himself before the king ended. It was more by chance, however, than any thing else that, thus suddenly called upon, he fixed on a place of retreat. "By your majesty's permission," he replied, "I will retire to Briare. I have, however, some weighty business to conclude, having been too much engaged in your majesty's service to visit De Brecy for several years. May I have permission to remain yet a few days in this part of the country?"
"We give you three days," said the king, coldly inclining his head.
"It will need every exertion to accomplish what I have to do in the time," answered Jean Charost, with much mortification in his tone. "I will, therefore, beg leave to retire to De Brecy this very night. Come, my dear mother--come, Agnes," he continued, taking a step back.
"Hold!" cried the king. "Madame De Brecy, of course we do not oppose your departure with your son; but as for this young lady, we have had reason to believe very lately, that the right to her guardianship exists in us, rather than in Monsieur De Brecy. She must remain at our court, and under the protection of the queen, till such time, at least, as the matter is inquired into."
A red, angry glow spread over De Brecy's face; and Agnes herself was starting forward, as if to cling to him in that moment of anguish and indignation; but Agnes Sorel laid her hand upon her arm and held her back, whispering eagerly, "Do not oppose the king now. If you refrain, all may yet be well. Resist you can not, and opposition will be destruction."
"He has brought her up from her infancy, my lord the king," said Madame De Brecy, in an imploring tone. "I know of no one who could have so good a right to her guardianship as himself."
"Dare he venture to say that he has any right to her guardianship at all?" asked the king; "that that guardianship is his by blood, or that he has received it from one competent to give it?"
"Perhaps not, sire," replied De Brecy, boldly. "But I know of no one who has a better right than myself."
His eyes were flashing, his face heated, his whole frame trembling with emotion; and, with his free and possibly rash habit of expressing his thoughts, it is impossible to tell what he might have said; but Dunois and Juvenel de Royans took him by the arms, and forcibly drew him away from the king's presence toward a door at the end of the line of ladies and gentlemen, on the king's right hand.
As this painful and exciting scene had proceeded, the open space before the monarch had been gradually crowded, the ring around had become narrower and narrower, and De Brecy was soon lost to the monarch's eyes in the number of persons about him. Dunois paused for a moment there, urging something to which Jean Charost gave no heed; but nearly at the same instant a small hand was laid upon his arm, and the voice of Agnes Sorel said, in a low, earnest tone, "Leave her to me, De Brecy; leave her to me. I know all you fear; but, by my Christian faith, I will protect her, and guard her from all evil. Here, here--give your mother your arm; and, for Heaven's sake, for your own sake, for her sake, do not irritate the king."
De Brecy heard no more; but, with the heaviest heart that had ever rested in his bosom, suffered Dunois to lead him from the hall.
Juvenel de Royans followed, and, when they leached the vestibule beyond, he wrung De Brecy's hand hard, saying, "This is my fault--all my foolish chattering. But, by the Lord, I will set it right before I have done, or I will cut my cousin Trimouille's heart out of his body;" and with those words he turned sharply and re-entered the hall.