For Jean Charost, a period of lethargy--I may almost call it--succeeded the scene last described. A dull, idle, heavy dream--a torpor of the spirit as well as of the body. It is not the man of many emotions who has the deepest: it is he who has the power, either from temperament or force of character, to resist them. His spirit has not been worn by them; his heart has not been soiled by them; and when at length they seize upon him, and conquer him, they have something to grasp.
It was thus with him. In early life he had never known love. The circumstances in which he had been placed, the constant occupation, the frequent moving from place to place, and the absence of any of those little incidents which plant and nourish passion, had left his life without the record of any thing more than a mere passing inclination. But when love seized upon him, it took possession of him entirely, filled him for a few days with hope and joy, and now plunged him into that spiritless lethargy. The events which were passing around him in France came upon him as a vision. Like the ancient prophet, he saw things in a trance, but having his eyes open; and they must be pictured to the reader in the same way that they appeared to him.
A large, fine city, on a beautiful river, is besieged by a numerous army. Its fortifications are old and insufficient, the troops within it scanty, the preparations small. The cannon thunder upon it, mines explode beneath its walls, the enemy march to its assault; but they are driven back, and Orleans remains untaken. There is a bridge, the key, as it were, to the city. It is attacked, defended, attacked again. An old castle seems its only protection. The castle is attacked, and taken by the enemy; and a man of magnificent presence, calm, and grave, and gentle, mounts the highest tower therein, to direct his soldiery against the city. Suddenly, the stone ball of a large cannon strikes the window at which he stands; and Salisbury is carried away to die a few hours after of his wounds.
The city still holds out; the attacks have diminished in fierceness; but round about the devoted place the English lines are drawn on every side, pressing it closer and closer, till famine begins to reign within the walls. There is a battle in the open fields, some miles from the besieged place. Wagons and tumbrils are in the midst, and gallant men, with the lily banner over them, fight bravely; but fight in vain. They fly--at length they fly. The bravest hearts in France turn from the fatal field, and all is rout, and slaughter, and defeat. Surely, surely Orleans must fall, and all the open country beyond the Loire submit to the invader.
Let us turn away our eyes from this scene to another. The king's council has assembled at Chinon; the news of the defeat has reached them. Hope, courage, constancy are lost. They advise their monarch to abandon Orleans to its fate; to abandon Berri and Touraine, and make his last struggle in the mountains of Auvergne. The counsels of despair had been spoken, nor is it wonderful that a young man fond of pleasure, ruled by favorites, weary of strife, contention, and cabal, should listen to them with a longing for repose, and tranquillity, and enjoyment. Oh, how often is it, in this working-day world of ours, that the most active, the most energetic, the most enduring, thirsts, with a burning thirst, such as the wanderer of the desert hardly knows, for the cool refreshment of a little peace. He stands in his own cabinet, not quite alone; for there is a beautiful figure kneeling at his feet. She raises her eyes to his face with looks of love and tenderness, yet full of energy and fire. "Never, never, my Charles!" she says. "Never, my king and master! Oh, never let it be said that France's king embraced the counsels of fear, rather than of courage; fled without need--turned from his enemy before he was defeated! It is God's will that gives the victory; but it is for you to struggle for it. What if the courage of the people of Orleans faint? what if a battle is lost? what if the English pass the Loire!"
"All this is true, or will be true within a month, my Agnes," replied the king, in a tone of deep despondency. "I can not prevent it. Suppose it happened; what can I do then?"
"Mount your horse. Set your lance in rest. Give your standard to the wind. Call France around you. March against the enemy--fight--fight--and, if need be, die! I will go with you--die with you, if it must be so. There is nothing for me but you and France on earth. God pardon us that it is so; but I have given, and you have taken from me all else."
Charles shook his head mournfully; and Agnes rose slowly from her knees, and drew a step back. "Then pardon me, my lord," she said, "if I retire from your royal court to that of his highness the Duke of Bedford. It was predicted to me long ago, by a learned astrologer, that I should belong to the greatest prince of my time. I fondly fancied I had found him; but I must have been mistaken." And she retired still further, as if to quit the room.
"Stay, Agnes, stay!" cried Charles. "Stay, if you love me!"
Agnes sprang back again, and cast her arms around his neck. "Love you!" she cried; "God knows I love you but too well; and though our love has humbled, debased, and dishonored me, if it is to last, it must raise, and elevate, and animate you. For my sake, Charles, if not for your own, cast the base thoughts which others have suggested far away. Take the nobler part which your own heart would prompt; dare all, encounter all, and save France, yourself, and Agnes; for be sure I will never outlive the freedom of my country. There is many a noble heart yet beating in our France. There is many a strong arm yet ready to strike for her; and it needs but the appearance of the king in the field, and proofs of strong determination upon his part, to quell the factions which distract the land, and gather every noble spirit round his king. Whatever your love may have done to injure me, oh let my love for you lead you to safety, honor, and renown."
"Well, be it so," cried Charles, infected by her enthusiasm. "I swear by all I hold most sacred, I will not go back before the enemy. Let him cross the Loire--let Orleans fall--let every traitor leave me--let every faint heart counsel flight. I will meet him in the field, peril all on one last blow, free France, or die!"
Let us back to the besieged city again. Gaunt famine is walking in the streets; eager-faced men, and hollow-eyed women are seen prowling about, and vainly seeking food. Closer, closer draw the lines about the place, the bridge is broken down, as a last resource; but the enemy's cannon thunder still, and the hands are feeble that point those upon the walls. Suddenly there is a cry that help is coming, that food is on the way; food, and an army to force an entrance. There is a feeble flash of joy and hope; but it soon goes out. Men ask, Who is it leads the host? who brings the promised succor? A woman--a young girl of seventeen years of age--some say a saint--and some a fool; and many weep with bitter disappointment.
Nevertheless, on the day named, the ramparts are crowded, people go up to the towers and to the belfries. What do they see? A fleet of boats coming up the river, an army marching up the bank, lances and banners, pennons and bright arms are there enough. But still the hearts of the inhabitants, though beating with interest and expectation, hardly give place to hope. They have seen French armies as bright and gay fly before those hardy islanders who are now marching out of their lines to attack the escorting force. They have seen succor as near them intercepted on the way. But right onward toward them moves the host of France. Quicker, quicker--at the march, at the trot, at the gallop. Band mingles with band, spear crosses spear; the flag of France advances still; the boats sweep on and reach the city; and shouts of joy ring through the air--shouts, but not shouts so loud, nor warm, nor triumphant as those which greet that young girl as she rides through the streets of the city she has succored.
But she was not content to succor; she came to deliver; and forth she goes again to plant her banner between the walls and the besieging lines, and there she sleeps, lulled by the roar of the artillery.
Again the Maid of Arc is in the field. Again the standard of France is in her hand, and on she bears it from success to success. The enemy's forts are taken, the lines swept, the castle of the bridge recaptured, Orleans delivered, and her name united with it in everlasting memory.
Joy, hope, confidence returned to France, and men's hearts were opened to each other which had long been closed.
Gergeau, Beaugency, and many another small town was taken, and across a country delivered from his enemies, the King of France marched on to take his crown at Rheims.
Flitting like shadows in a mist, came many a great event in the history of France about that time, hardly known or appreciated by any except those who were the immediate actors in them; but amid them all, with a heavy heart, and a dejected spirit, Jean Charost remained in exile at Briare. Why he had chosen that small town for the place of his retreat, he himself hardly knew; for although no human action is probably without its motive, some motives are so quick and lightning-like, that all traces of them are instantly lost even in the cloud from which they issue. It might be that he had been thinking deeply of the words of Juvenel de Royans, from the second night of the siege of Bourges till the moment when his sentence of banishment from the court was spoken, and that he had fully made up his mind to go thither sooner or later to converse with the Abbot Lomelini. No other inducement, indeed, could be imagined; for Briare was then, as now, a very dull small place, with its single street, and hardly defensible walls, and nothing to recommend it but the smiling banks of the Loire, and the fine old abbey at the highest point of the whole town. Dull enough it was, in truth, to Jean Charost, without one object of interest, one source of occupation. Filial love, too, had deprived him of the consolation of his mother's company. The journey from De Brecy to Briare he thought was too long, the difficulties and dangers in the way too numerous for her to encounter them without risk to her health or to her life, and he had persuaded her to remain, and keep the management of his estates in her own hands. Thus, with a few servants, he remained at the principal inn of the place, poorly lodged, and poorly fed, but heeding little the convenience or inconvenience of the body in the dull, heavy anguish of the heart. His spirit fretted sore within him; but yet he did not venture to resist the sentence of the king, unjust as it might be. It was a strange state that France was in at that period. Nobles would actually take arms against the royal authority at one moment, and submit to the most arbitrary decrees the next; and not only did De Brecy remain at Briare in obedience to the king's command, but Richmond, with all his impetuous spirit, lingered on at Parthenay for months.
For some days after his arrival at his place of exile, occupied with other thoughts, Jean Charost forgot Lomelini entirely; and when he did remember him, and recalled the words which De Royans had spoken, he asked himself, "Why should I seek for information which may probably confirm the king's claim to the disposal of her I love?"
Man's mind, however, abhors uncertainty. That thirst for knowledge which was kindled in Paradise is upon us still. We would rather know evil than know not. On the fourth day, toward eventide, he set out and walked up to the abbey, and paused in the gray light, looking at the gray gates. One of the brethren, gazing forth, asked him if he would come in and see the church, and then De Brecy inquired for the abbot, and if he were still brother Lomelini.
The monk replied in the affirmative, but said the abbot seldom received any one after sunset, unless he came on business of importance, or was an old friend.
"I am an old friend," replied Jean Charost. "Tell him Monsieur De Brecy is here. I will wait till you return."
He was speedily admitted, and Lomelini seemed really glad to see him. He had become an old man, indeed, with hair as white as silver, had grown somewhat bowed and corpulent, and was slightly querulous withal. He complained of many things--of man's ingratitude--the dullness of the place of his abode--the forgetfulness of friends--the perils of the land, and all those things easily borne by the robust spirit of youth, which age magnifies into intolerable burdens. Still, he seemed gratified with Jean Charost's visit, and besought him to stay and take a homely supper with him--poor monastic fare. But during the course of the evening, and the meal with which it concluded, the young nobleman found that his old acquaintance had lost none of that quiet subtlety which had distinguished him in other days, and that his taste for good things was in no degree diminished. It had increased, indeed. Like an old dog, eating had become his only pleasure. He had become both a glutton and an epicure.
Before he took his departure, the young nobleman asked openly and boldly for the papers which De Royans had mentioned. Lomelini looked surprised and bewildered, and assured him that Monsieur de Royans had made a mistake. "I recollect nothing about them whatever," he said, with an air of so much sincerity, that Jean Charost, though he had acquired a keener insight into character than in former times, did not even doubt him.
He went back from lime to time to see the old man, who always seemed glad of his society, and, indeed, Jean Charost could not doubt that company of any kind was a relief to one who was certainly not formed by nature to pass his days in a monastery. He remarked, however, that Lomelini from time to time would look at him from under his shaggy white eyebrows with a look of cunning inquiry, as if he expected something, or sought to discover something; but the moment their eyes met, the abbot's were averted again, and he never uttered a word which could give any clue to what was passing in his mind at such moments.
Thus had time passed away, not altogether without relief; a few hasty lines, sometimes from his mother, sometimes from Agnes Sorel, sometimes from his own Agnes, gave him information of the welfare of the latter, and cheered his spirits for a day. But often would the momentary sunshine be clouded by dark anxieties and fears.
He had not heard any thing for some weeks; and after a long ride through the neighboring country, he was about to retire to rest, when steps came rapidly through the long gallery of the inn, and stopped at his chamber door. It was a young monk come to tell him that the abbot, after supper, had been seized with sudden and perilous sickness, and earnestly desired to see him instantly. Jean Charost hurried up with the messenger to the abbey, and being brought into the old man's chamber, instantly perceived that the hand of death had touched him: the eyes spoke it, the temples spoke it, it was written in every line.
Lomelini welcomed him faintly; and as Jean Charost bent kindly over him, he said, almost in a whisper, "Bid all the others leave the room--I have something to say to you."
As soon as they were alone together, the old man said, "Put your hand beneath my pillow. You will find something there."
Jean Charost obeyed, and drew forth a packet, yellow and soiled. His own name was written on it in a hand which he recognized at once.
"Something more--something more," said Lomelini; and searching again, he found another packet, also addressed to himself; but the seals of this had been broken, though those on the other cover had been left undisturbed. Without ceremony he unfolded the paper, and found within a case of sandal wood inlaid with gold, and bearing the letters M. S. F. twisted into a curious monograph. It opened with two small clasps, and within were two rows of large and brilliant diamonds.
De Brecy's examination had been quick and eager, and while he made it, the dying man's eyes had been fixed upon his countenance. As he closed the case, Lomelini raised his voice, saying, "Listen, Seigneur De Brecy."
Jean Charost put up the packets, and sat down by the old man's side. He could not find it in his heart at that moment to speak harshly, although he now easily divined why the packets had been kept from him, so long.
"What is it, father?" he said, bending his head.
"What, not an angry word?" asked Lomelini.
"Not one," replied Jean Charost. "I have too many sorrows of my own, father, to add to yours just now."
"Well, then, I will tell you all," said Lomelini. "You think I kept these packets on account of the diamonds. That had something to do with it; but there was more. After you entered the Orleans palace you were trusted more than me. I had been the keeper of all secrets; you became so. The duke's daughter was put under your charge, notwithstanding your youth; and I resolved you should never be able to prove her his daughter."
"I knew not that she was so," replied Jean Charost. "The duke himself knew it not."
"Nay, nay, do not lie," said Lomelini, somewhat bitterly. "I watched you--I watched you both well--I followed you to the convent of the Celestins, where the murderer had taken sanctuary; and I know the child was made over to you then, though you pretended to find it in the forest."
"On my Christian faith, and honor as a knight," replied De Brecy, "I heard nothing either of murderer or child at the convent of the Celestins. The dear babewas; given to me in the forest by a tall, strange, wild-looking man, who seemed to me half crazed."
"St. Florent himself," murmured Lomelini.
"I call Heaven to witness," continued Jean Charost, "I never even suspected any connection between the duke and that child till long after--I am not sure of it even yet."
"Be sure, then," said Lomelini, faintly. "The duke took her mother from that mother's husband--carried her off by force one night as she returned from a great fête, with those very diamonds on her neck."
"By force!" murmured De Brecy; and then from a feeling difficult to define, he added, "thank God for that!"
"For what?" said Lomelini. "Doubtless she went willingly enough. Women will scream and declare they are made miserable for life, and all that. At all events, she stayed when she was there, and that was her daughter; for I knew the child again as soon as I saw it at the cottage, by a mark upon her temple; and the old father died of grief, and the mad husband stole in one night and stabbed his wife, and carried away the child; and that is all."
He seemed to ramble, and a slight convulsion passed over his face. "I know the whole," he added, "for I had a share in the whole," and a deep groan followed.
"Let me call in a priest," said De Brecy. "You have need of the consolations of the Church."
"Ay, ay; call in a priest," answered Lomelini, partly raising himself on his arm. "I would not have my corpse kicked about the streets like the carcass of a dog; but do not suppose I believe in any priestly tales, young man. When life goes out, all is ended. I have enjoyed this life. I want no other; I expect no other--I--I fear no other--surely there is no other. Well, call in a priest--haste, or you will be too late--is this faintness--is this death?"
Jean Charost sprang to the door, near which he found several of the monks. The penitentiary was called for in haste. But he was, as Lomelini had said, too late. They found the abbot passed away, the chin had dropped, the wide open eyes seemed to gaze at nothing, and yet to have nothing within them. Something had departed which man vainly tries to define by words, or to convey by figures. A spirit had gone to learn the emptiness of the dreams of earth.
With a slow step, and deep gloom upon his mind, Jean Charost turned back to his dwelling. As he went, his thoughts were much occupied with the dark, sad, material doctrines--philosophy I can not call them--creed I can not call them--which at that time were but too common among Italian ecclesiastics. When he was once more in his own chamber, however, he took forth the packets he had received from Lomelini, and opened the cover of the one which had the seals unbroken. It contained a letter from the Duke of Orleans, brief and sad, speaking of the child which De Brecy had adopted, of her mother, and of the jewels contained in the other packet. The duke acknowledged her as his child, saying, "I recognized her at once by the ring which you showed me, as the daughter of her whom I wronged and have lost. It was taken at the same time that my poor Marie's life was taken; for, as you doubtless know, she was murdered under my very roof--yes, I say murdered. Had the dagger found my heart instead of hers, another word, perhaps, would have been better fitted; for mine was a wrong which merited death. I wronged her; I wronged her murderer."
He then went on to urge Jean Charost to perform well the task which he had undertaken, and which he had certainly well performed without exhortation; and the duke ended by saying, "I have seen you so far tried, Monsieur De Brecy, that I can trust you entirely. I know that you will be faithful to the task; and, as far as I have power to give authority over my child, I hereby give it to you."
Those were joyful words to Jean Charost, and for a moment he gave way to wild and daring hopes. He thought he would claim that right, even against the king himself; but short consideration, and what he knew of the law of France, soon dimmed all expectation of success.
The other papers which the packet contained were merely letters in a woman's hand, signed Marie de St. Florent; but they were pleasant to Jean Charost's eyes, for they showed how the unhappy girl had struggled against her evil fate. In more than one of them, she besought the duke to let her go--to place her in a convent, where, unknown to all the world, she might pass the rest of life in penitence and prayer. They spoke a spirit bowed down, but a heart uncorrupted.
Several hours passed; not so much in the examination of these papers, as in the indulgence of thoughts which they suggested; and it was midway between midnight and morning when Jean Charost at length lay down upon his bed.
De Brecy woke with a start just in the gray of the dawn. His thoughts were confused. He had had troublous dreams. He had fancied himself in the midst of war and strife again, and the well-known sounds, "Alerte! alerte! Aux armes! aux armes!" seemed to ring in his ears.
In an instant he had thrown on the furred gown which lay beside him, and had seized his sword; but the only sound he now heard was a sharp tap at the door, and a voice saying, "Monsieur De Brecy! Monsieur De Brecy! Pray let me in. I wish to speak to you in haste."
Jean Charost opened the door, and, to his surprise, beheld the face of his good servant, Martin Grille, who had been especially left at the court with Agnes, to attend upon and watch over her. A vague feeling of alarm instantly took possession of De Brecy's heart, and he exclaimed, ere the man could tell his errand, "How is your lady? Is she ill?"
"No, sir; not ill," replied Martin Grille; "though ill at ease, I have a notion. But I have hastened here with such speed that I believe I have left my horse no lungs, nor myself either, any more than a cracked pair of bellows, to warn you, my lord, of a danger that menaces you. So I beseech you, before you hear it, to order all your people to get upon horseback, and make ready to set out yourself, for there is no great time to lose."
"Nay, I must hear the danger first," replied Jean Charost "What is the matter, my good friend?"
"Well, tell the people to get ready, at all events," said Martin, earnestly; "then you can do as you like. Stories are sometimes long in telling, questions long in asking, and longer in being answered. It is better always, my lord, to be ready to act upon the news when it comes, than to have to wait to make ready after you have got it."
There was some truth in what he said; and Jean Charost sent by him the orders he desired, nor was he long in giving them.
"Now tell me all, while I am dressing," said his master, as soon as he had returned. "I know no cause for fearing any thing; but it is an uncertain world, good Martin, and there are unseen dangers around our every step."
"This one is plain enough," answered Martin Grille. "Nôtre Dame is not plainer. It is simply, sir, that the king has sent a certain sergeant of his, with a long troop of archers at his back, to arrest and bring you to his presence. He is now at Bourges, in the house of good Messire Jacques Cœur, which he fills tolerably well; and the distance not being very great from Bourges to Briare, you may expect our friend the sergeant every hour. It was late at night, however, when the order was given, and master sergeant vowed that he would have a nap first, king or no king. But, vowing I would have no nap, I came away at once; and so you have three good hours, and perhaps a few minutes more."
De Brecy mused, and then asked, "Do you know any motive for this order?"
"None at all," replied Martin Grille; "nor can I even guess. But I'll tell you all that happened, as I have it from one who saw all. There is one Jeanne de Vendôme about the court; they call her also Marquise De Mortaigne--"
"I have seen her," said Jean Charost. "What of her? Go on."
"Why, she has a nephew, sir, one Peter of Vendôme," replied Martin Grille, "whom she is very fond of; but he is an enemy of yours."
"I never even saw him," replied De Brecy.
"Well, sir, the king's mind is poisoned against you," said Martin Grille, "that is clear enough; and I know not what else to attribute it to. But, upon my word, you had better mount your horse and ride away. I can tell you the rest of the story as we go. I never was a very good horseman, and, if the sergeant rides better than I, he may be here before we are in the saddle."
"Well, be it so," said Jean Charost, thoughtfully. "Gather all those things together, while I go and reckon with my host. I would rather not be taken a prisoner into Bourges, and I think I will prevent it."
He spoke with a slight smile, and yet some bitterness of tone; but Martin Grille applied himself at once to pack up all that was in his master's room, and in about half an hour Jean Charost and his followers were in the saddle.
"Were it not better to take the road to Bussiere, my lord?" said Martin Grille, who rode somewhat near his master's person. "It seems to me as if you were going toward Oussin."
"No; methinks we shall be safer on this side," said Jean Charost. "Now, as we ride along, let me hear all that has been passing at the court. Perhaps I may be able to pick out some cause for this sudden displeasure of the king."
"Well, sir, I am sorry to be obliged to say what I must say," answered Martin Grille; "but the king has treated you very ill. This Peter of Vendôme, whom I was talking about--the devil plague him!--is at the bottom of it all; though his aunt, who is a worse devil than himself, manages the matter for him. She has taken it into her head that she must ally herself to the royal family. Now, it runs every where at the court that Mademoiselle Agnes is the daughter of the poor Duke of Orleans, who was killed near the Porte Barbette; that she was intrusted by him to your care; and that, for ambition, you want to marry her, and then tell all the world who she is."
Jean Charost had been gazing in his face for the last moment or two in silence; but now he inclined his head slowly, saying, "Go on. I now see how it is."
"Well, sir, about a month ago this Jeanne de Vendôme proposed to the king that her nephew should marry our young lady, and the king, it would seem, was willing enough; but a certain beautiful lady you know of opposed it, and, as she can do nearly what she likes, for some time the day went with her. Then Jeanne of Vendôme went and curried favor with Monsieur La Trimouille, who can do nearly what he likes on the other side, and then the day went against us for some time. The king was very violent, and swore that if he had any power or authority over Mademoiselle Agnes, she should marry Peter of Vendôme, though she told him all the while she would not, and begged him, humbly and devoutly, rather to let her go into a nunnery. Kings will have their way, however, sir, and things were looking very bad, when suddenly, three days ago, our young lady disappeared--"
"Where did she go to? Where is she?" asked Jean Charost, sharply.
"That I can not tell, sir," answered Martin Grille; "but she is safe enough, I am sure; for when I told Mademoiselle De St. Geran about it, she said, with one of her enchanting smiles, 'Has she, indeed, my good man? Well, I dare say God will protect her.' But the king did not take it so quietly. He was quite furious; and neither Peter of Vendôme nor his aunt would let his passion cool."
"Doubtless attributed it all to me," said Jean Charost, whose face had greatly lighted up within the last few minutes. But Martin Grille replied, to his surprise, "I do not think they did, sir. The painted old woman hinted, though she did not venture to say so, that the beautiful young lady you wot of had helped her namesake's escape; and the nephew said that if the king would but sign the papers, he would soon find the fugitive, for he had a shrewd notion of where she was."
"He did not sign them!" exclaimed Jean Charost, with a look of dread.
"He had well-nigh done it, my lord," replied Martin Grille. "Last night, when the king was sitting with the queen in the large black room on the second floor, which you remember well--very melancholy he was, for somewhat of a coolness had sprung up between him and her whom he loves best, and he can not live without her--they brought him in the papers to sign, that is to say, Peter of Vendôme and his aunt, looking all radiant and triumphant. Some one watched them, however; for, just at that minute, in came the chancellor and two or three others, and among them one of the pages, with a paper in his hand addressed to the king. The king took it, just looked at the top, and then handing it up to the chancellor, was about to sign what Peter of Vendôme demanded, and let him go; but Monsieur Des Ursins--that is the chancellor--cried, 'Hold, your majesty. This is important; in good and proper form; and must have your royal attention.' Then he read it out; but I can not tell you all that it contained. However, it was a prohibition, in good set form, for any one to dispose of the hand, person, or property of our young lady, Mademoiselle Agnes, either in marriage, wardship, or otherwise, and setting forth that the writer was her true and duly-constituted guardian, according to the laws of France. It was signed 'St. Florent;' and, though the king was mighty angry, the chancellor persuaded him not to sign the papers till the right of the appellant, as he called it, was decided by some competent tribunal."
"And how came you to know all this so accurately?" asked Jean Charost, after meditating for several minutes over what he had heard.
"Part one way, part another, my noble lord," replied Martin Grille. "Principally, however, I learned the facts from a young cousin of mine, who is now chief violin player to the queen. When she found her husband so dull that night, she sent for Petit Jean to solace him, because she could not very well have sent for the person who would have solaced him best. He heard all, and marked all, and told me all; for you are a great favorite of his. However, I had something to do with it afterward myself; for the king, knowing that I was in the house, sent for me, and made me tell him whether, when you were last in Berri, you signed your name St. Florent. I was frightened out of my wits, and said I believed you did. The next minute the king said, looking sharply at the sergeant, who was standing near, 'Bring him at once from Briare. Lose no time.' Then he turned to me, with a face quite savage, and said, 'You may go.' I thought he was going to add, 'to the devil;' but he did not, and I slunk out of the room. The sergeant went out at the same time; but he laughed, and said, 'Sleep wasted no time, and he was not going to set off for Briare at midnight, not he.' So I did, instead of him; for as I feared I had done some mischief, I thought I might as well do some good."
Jean Charost smiled with a less embarrassed look than he had worn during the ride; but he made no reply, and during the next half hour he seemed to hear nothing that Martin Grille said, although it must not be affirmed that Martin Grille said nothing. It were hardly fair to look into his thoughts, to inquire whether the injustice he had met with, the wrong which was meditated against him, and the ingratitude for services performed and suffering endured in the royal cause had shaken his love toward the king. Suffice it, they had not shaken his loyalty toward his country, and that although he might contemplate flying with his Agnes beyond the reach of an arm that oppressed him, he never dreamed of drawing his sword against his native land, or of doing aught to undermine the throne of a prince to whom he had sworn allegiance.
At length, however, Martin Grille pulled him by the sleeve, saying, "I can not help thinking, my good lord, that you are taking a wrong course. You are going on right toward Bourges, and at any point of the road you may meet with the sergeant and his men. Indeed, I saw just now a party of horsemen on the hill there. They have come down into the valley; but that is the high road to Bourges they were upon."
"My good friend, I am going to Bourges," replied Jean Charost; "but as I do not intend to go as a prisoner, if I can help it, we will turn aside a little here, and go round Les Barres, that hamlet you see there. We can then follow the by-roads for eight or ten miles further, and cross the river at Cosne. I know this country well; for, during the last twelvemonth, I have had nothing to do but to think, and to explore it."
It gives one a curious sensation to stand on the spot where great deeds have been enacted: to tread the halls where true tragedies have been performed: to fancy one sees the bloody stains upon the floor: to fill the air with the grim faces of the actors: to imagine one's self surrounded with the fierce passions of other days, like midnight ghosts emitted from the grave. I have stood in the small chamber where the most brutal murder that ever stained the name of a great nation was devised and ordered by the counselors of John of Bedford. I have stood where an act of justice took the form of assassination against Henry of Guise. I have beheld the prison of the guilty and the unhappy Mary, and the lingering death-chamber of the innocent and luckless Arabella Stuart. But, although these sights were full of deep interest, and even awe, the effect was not so strange as that produced by passing through ancient places of more domestic interest, where courts and kings, the brave, the fair, the good, the wise, or their opposite, had lived and loved, enjoyed and suffered, reveled and wept, in times long, long gone by. Often, when I have read some glowing description of mask or pageant, or scene of courtly splendor, and have visited the place where it occurred, I have asked myself, with wonder, "Could it have been here, in this mean and poor-looking place?" and have been led from an actual comparison of the scene with that described in the past, to conclude that in those earlier days men were satisfied with much less, and that the splendor of those times would be no splendor to ourselves.
The great hall of Jacques Cœur, the wealthiest merchant in France, now holding high office at the court, and, in fact, the royal treasurer--a hall celebrated throughout all Berri--was indeed a large and well-shaped apartment, but still very simple in all its decorations. It was, perhaps, more than forty feet in length, and four or five and twenty feet in width: was vaulted above with a semicircular arch, ceiled with long planks, finely jointed together, of some dark, unpolished wood. The same material lined the whole hall; but on the walls the wood was polished and paneled, and four pilasters, in the Italian fashion, ornamented each corner of the wall, and seemed, but only seemed, to support the roof.
Many candles were required to give light to that large dark room; but it was very insufficiently illuminated. What little light there was fell principally upon the figure of the young king, as, seated at a small table in the midst, he leaned his head upon his hand in a somewhat melancholy attitude, and bent his eyes down toward the floor.
"Will she come?" he said to himself; "will she come? And if she will not, how must I act? This good merchant says she will? but I doubt it--I doubt it much. Hers is a determined spirit; and once she has chosen her part, she abides by it obstinately. Well, it is no use asking myself if she will come, or thinking what I must do if she refuse. Kings were made to command men, I suppose, and women to command them;" and a faint smile came upon his lips at the conceit.
While it still hung there, a door opened hard by--not the great door of the hall, but a smaller one on the right--and a sweet voice said, "Your majesty sent for me."
"Agnes!" said the king, rising and taking her hand, "Agnes! why have you left me so long?"
"Because I have been ill and miserable," she answered; and the tears rose in her beautiful eyes.
"And I have been ill and miserable too," said Charles, leading her to a seat close by his own. "Do you not know," he continued, in an earnest and sad voice, "that, from time to time, a moody, evil spirit seems to take possession of me, making me sicken at all the toil and pomp of state, at all the splendor, and even all the gayety of a court? His visits are becoming more frequent and more long. There is no one can drive him from me but you, Agnes."
"Can I drive him from you always?" she asked. "Has he not resisted me lately, very lately, till I lost hope, lost courage, and was repelled, to take counsel with my own heart, and listen to all its bitter self-reproach. Charles, Charles! oh, my king and lord! there is nothing can console--nothing can comfort--under the weight of my own thoughts, but to believe and know that you are worthy of better love than mine--the love of your whole people. Take not that comfort from me. Let me, let me believe that passion, nor moodiness, nor any evil spirit will lead you to do an act of injustice to any of your subjects."
"Well, well," said Charles, kissing her hand, "it shall be as you will, my Agnes. You shall decide De Brecy's fate yourself, of however rebellious a spirit he may be--however insolent his tone. I will forgive him for your sake. It shall be as you will."
"Nay, not so," answered Agnes, gently, "I ask you not to forgive insolence or rebellion. All I beseech you is, to inquire unprejudiced, and judge without favor. De Brecy is somewhat bold, and free of speech. He always was so, even from his boyhood; but he is faithful and true in all things. I saw him peril his life rather than give up a letter to the Duke of Burgundy. I saw him submit to the torture rather than betray to the Council the secrets of your uncle, the Duke of Orleans. It is his nature to speak fearlessly, but it is his nature to speak truly; and all I ask of you is to judge of him as he is, untinged by the yellow counsels of Trimouille, or the black falsehoods of that woman of Vendôme. I hear that some paper he has sent you has excited your anger, and that you have ordered his arrest. Before you judge, investigate, my dear lord. Remember that he has many enemies--that he has offended Trimouille, who never forgives; and that the love of my bright little namesake for him is an obstacle in the way of Jeanne of Vendôme, than whom a more poisonous viper does not crawl upon the earth."
"I will investigate," answered Charles. "I will judge unprejudiced; and my better angel shall be by my side to see whether I keep my word with her."
"Not alone, not alone," said Agnes, "or they will say, in their malice, that favor for me, not sense of justice, has swayed the king. Have your chancellor here. He is a noble man, and true of heart. Nay, let all who will be present, to see you act, as I know you will act, justly and nobly--sternly, if you will; for I would not even have love pleading for love affect you in this matter. Oh, think only, my noble Charles, of how you may have been deceived against this young gentleman, how Trimouille's enmity may have read an evil gloss upon his actions, how Jeanne of Vendôme and her false nephew may have distorted the truth. Take the whole course of his life to witness in his favor; and then, if you assoil him of any fault--then Agnes, perhaps, may plead for favor to him."
"She shall not plead in vain," said Charles embracing her. "Some time to-morrow probably, the sergeant will be back, and I will hear and judge his cause at once, for we are lingering in Bourges too long. There is, moreover," he continued, holding her hand in his, and gazing into her eyes with a smile, "there is another cause for speedy decision. The king's authority, till this is all concluded, suffers some contempt. A daring act has been committed against our state and dignity, and hints have reached us that the traitor is above our power. 'Tis policy, in such a case, not to investigate too closely, but to remove all cause of contest as soon as possible."
Agnes sank upon her knees, with a glowing cheek, and bent down her fair forehead on his hand, murmuring, "Forgive me--oh, forgive me!"
Charles threw his arm round her fondly, saying, "Thank thee, my Agnes--thank thee for letting me have something to forgive."
She was still at his feet, when some one knocked at the door, and, raising her gently, Charles said aloud, "Come in."
"May it please your majesty," said a page, entering, "Monsieur De Brecy waits below to know your pleasure concerning him."
A slight flush passed over the king's cheek. "This is quick, indeed," said Charles. "Why does not the sergeant whom I sent present himself?"
"There is no sergeant there, your majesty. Monsieur De Brecy, with a few attendants, came but a moment ago, and is in the vestibule below with Messire Jacques Cœur."
"Let him wait," said Charles; "and, in the mean time, summon Monsieur Des Ursins hither. Wait; I will give you a list of names."
"Now, Agnes," continued the king, when he had dispatched the boy, "I will act as you would have me. We must have other ladies here. Go call some, love--some who will best support you."
About an hour after, in that same hall, Charles was seated at the table in the midst, with his bonnet on his head, and some papers before him. The queen was placed near, and some fifteen or sixteen ladies and gentlemen, members of the court, stood in a semicircle round. The door opened, and, ushered in by one of the attendants, Jean Charost, followed close by Jacques Cœur, advanced up the hall with a bold, free step. When within two paces of the table, he paused, and bowed his head to the king, but without speaking.
"Monsieur De Brecy," said Charles, "I sent one of the sergeants of our court to bring you hither."
"So I have heard, sire," replied De Brecy; "but, learning beforehand that your majesty required my presence, I set out at once to place myself at your disposal."
"You have done well," said the king; "and we would fain believe that there is no contempt of our authority, nor disloyalty toward our person, at the bottom of your heart."
"I have proved my loyalty and my reverence, sire," replied De Brecy, "by shedding my blood for you in the field against your enemies, at all times, and on all occasions, and by lingering in inactivity for long months at Briare in obedience to your commands."
"Well," said the king, "it is well. But there be special circumstances, when men's own interests or passions will lead them to forget the general line of duty, and cancel good services by great faults. Charges of this kind are made against you."
"My lord, they are false," replied De Brecy; "and I will prove them so, either in your royal court, by evidence good and true, or in the lists against my accuser, my body against his, and God to judge between us."
He glanced, as he spoke, toward a slight young man standing beside La Trimouille; and the king, mistaking his look, replied, with a light laugh, "Our ministers are not challenged to the field for their actions, Monsieur De Brecy. La Trimouille is a flight above you."
"I thought not of Monsieur La Trimouille, sire," replied De Brecy. "I know not that I have offended him; and, moreover, I hold him to be the best minister your majesty ever had, because the one who has made your authority the most respected. I spoke generally of any accuser."
"Well, then," said the king, "in the first place, tell me, with that truth and freedom of speech for which you have a somewhat rough reputation, have you, or have you not just cause to think that a young lady who has been brought up under your charge from infancy, and lately at our court, is the daughter of our late uncle, the Duke of Orleans?"
"I have, sire," answered De Brecy.
"Then how did you presume to claim the guardianship of her against our power?" said the king, sternly. "As our first cousin, legitimate or illegitimate, she is our ward."
"My answer is simple, sire," replied De Brecy. "I have never done what your majesty says; and if I had, when last I stood before you, I should have done it in ignorance; for it is but three days since I received from one Lomelini, abbot of Briare, then upon his death-bed, any certain information regarding her birth. These packets should have been delivered to me long before, but they were retained through malice. I now lay them before you, to judge of them as may seem meet."
"Look at them, Des Ursins," said the king; and the chancellor took them up.
"I can prove, my lord the king," said Juvenel de Royans, stepping forward, "that when last in Berri, Monsieur De Brecy was quite uncertain whose child the young lady was; for we had a long conversation on the subject when he gallantly threw himself into the citadel of this place, to aid us in defending it for your majesty."
"Silence! silence!" said the king; and taking up a paper, he held it out toward De Brecy, saying, "Did you sign that paper, sir?"
"No, sire," replied De Brecy; "I never saw it before."
"Then whose is it?" cried the king.
"Mine," replied the voice of an old man, in somewhat antiquated garments, standing a step or two behind Agnes Sorel. "I signed that paper, of right;" and advancing with a feeble step, he placed himself opposite the king.
"And who may you be, reverend sir?" demanded Charles, gazing at him with much surprise.
"The man whose name is there written," replied the stranger. "William, count of St. Florent; the only lawful guardian of the girl you wrangle for. You took my property and gave it to another. I heeded not, because I have no such needs now. But when you sought to take away the guardianship of this poor girl from him to whom I intrusted her, and to bestow her hand upon a knave, I came forward to declare and to maintain my rights. They have been dormant long; but they are not extinct. Each year have I seen her since she was an infant; each year have I performed some act of lordship in the fief of St. Florent; and I claim my right in the King's Court--my right to my estates--my right in my--" He paused for an instant, and seemed to hesitate; but then added, quickly, and in a tremulous voice, "in my child."
The king looked confounded, and turned toward the chancellor, who was at that moment speaking eagerly to Agnes Sorel, with the fell eyes of Jeanne of Vendôme fixed meaningly upon them both.
"Monsieur Des Ursins," said the king, "you hear what he says."
"I do, sire," answered the chancellor, coming forward. "You have made your appeal, sir," he continued, addressing the old man, "and perhaps, if you can prove your statements, his majesty may graciously admit your rights without the trouble of carrying your claim before the courts. You have to show, first, that you are really the Count of St. Florent; secondly, that the young lady in question is legally to be looked upon as the daughter of that nobleman. Her birth, at present, is not at all established. None of these letters but one prove any thing, and that proves only a vague belief on the part of a prince long since dead."
The old man drew himself sternly up to his full height, which was very great, and said, "You ask me for bitter proofs, chancellor. Methinks you might know me yourself, for I first gave you a sword."
"I can be no witness in my own court," said the chancellor; "and the cause, if it be tried, must come before me."
"Stand forward, then, Jacques Cœur," cried the other. "Do you know your old friend?"
"Right well," answered Jacques Cœur, advancing from behind De Brecy. "This, please your majesty, is William, count of St. Florent. I have seen him at intervals of not more than two or three years ever since he disappeared from the court and army of France, and have received for him, and paid to him, the very small sum he has drawn from the revenues of St. Florent. If my testimony is not enough, I can bring forward twenty persons to prove his identity."
There was a dead silence for several moments; but then the chancellor said, addressing the king, "This may be, perhaps, admitted, sire. I have no doubt of the count's identity. But there is nothing to show any connection whatever between him and this young lady, whom the Duke of Orleans, in this letter, seems to have claimed as his daughter."
At these words, a fierce, eager fire seemed lighted up in the old man's eyes, and taking a step forward, he exclaimed, "Ay, such claim as a robber has to the gold of him whom he has murdered!" Then, suddenly stopping, he clasped his hands together, let his eyes fall thoughtfully, and murmured, "Forgive me, Heaven! Sire, I have forgot myself," he said, in a milder tone. "My right to the child is easy to prove. I was her mother's husband. She was born in marriage. I myself gave her into the arms of this young man," and he laid his hand upon De Brecy's shoulder. "With him she has ever been till the time you took her from him. Let him speak for himself. Did he not receive her from me?"
"Most assuredly I did," replied De Brecy; "and never even dreamed for a moment, at the time, that any one had a claim to her but yourself."
"Nor had they--nor have they," replied St Florent, sternly.
"But it is strange, good sir," said Charles, "that you should trust your child to the guardianship of another; that other a mere youth, and, from what I have heard, well-nigh a stranger to you."
"There are wrongs, King of France, which will drive men mad," said St. Florent, fixing his eyes full upon the king's face. "Mine were such wrongs, and I was so driven mad. But yet in this act, which you call strange, I was more sane than in aught else. This young man's father I knew and loved, before he ruined himself for his king, and died for his country. Of the youth himself I had heard high and noble report from this good merchant here. I had seen him once, too, in the convent of the Celestins, and what I saw was good. I knew that I could trust her to none better, and I trusted her to him."
"But can you prove that she is your wife's daughter?" asked La Trimouille; "for these papers in the hands of the chancellor seem to show, and Monsieur De Brecy himself admits there is cause to believe, that she is the child of the late Duke of Orleans, and consequently a ward of the king."
He spoke in a mild, sweet tone; but his words seemed almost to drive St. Florent to madness. His whole face worked, his eyes flashed, and the veins in his temple swelled. "Man, would you tear my heart out?" he exclaimed, in a fearful tone. "Would you drag forth the dead from the grave to desecrate their memory?" and snatching up the other packet which De Brecy had laid upon the table, he tore off the cover, exclaiming, "Ha! these are trinkets. Poor, lost, unhappy girl!" and, laying his finger upon the cover, he looked sternly at La Trimouille, saying, "Whose are these arms? Mine! Whose are these initials? Hers--Marie de St. Florent!"
As he spoke, he opened the case and gazed upon the diamonds. "Oh, Marie, Marie," he said, "when I clasped these round thy neck, little did I think--But no more of that. My lord the king, what does your majesty say to my just claim? I gave my daughter's guardianship to this young man: I now give him her hand. I ratify your gift of the lands and lordships of St. Florent. What says your majesty?"
"In sooth, I know not what to say or think," answered Charles.
"I think I see my way, sire," said the chancellor; "although the case is somewhat complicated. If Monsieur De St. Florent can prove that this young lady is the daughter of his wife, he is undoubtedly, by the law of France, her lawful guardian, and all opposition to his claim grounded on other facts is vain. So much for that view of the case. But even supposing he can not prove the fact, here is a letter from his highness the Duke of Orleans, whose handwriting I well know, which, though somewhat informal, contains matter which clearly conveys the whole of his authority over the young lady, if he had any, to Monsieur De Brecy. In either case, then, your majesty can not err, nor violate any of your own edicts, or those of your predecessors, by restoring the guardianship to him from whom it has been taken under a misapprehension. Any other course, I think, would be dangerous, and form a very evil precedent."
Trimouille bit his lip, and Jeanne de Vendôme slowly nodded her head, with a bitter smile, toward Agnes Sorel.
"So be it, then," said the king, with a gracious look toward Jean Charost. "Take her back, De Brecy, if you can find her, which we doubt not; and if you bestow her hand on any one else but yourself, he shall have our favor for your sake. If you wed her yourself, we will dance at the wedding, seeing that you have submitted with patience and obedience to a sentence which we sternly pronounced, and sternly executed against you, in order to teach all our court and subjects that not even those whom we most highly esteem, and who have served us best, will be permitted to oppose our expressed will, or show disobedience to our commands. Your sentence of exile from our court is recalled, and we shall expect, not only your attendance, but your service also; for, wedded or unwedded, we can spare no good sword from the cause of France."
He spoke gayly and gracefully, and then looking round with a smile, he said, "Is there no wise and pitiful person who, in charity, can give us some information of where our fair fugitive is?"
"In my castle of St. Florent," said the old count, who had now sunk down again into the appearance of age and decrepitude; "and there De Brecy will find her to-morrow. Let him take her, and let him take her inheritance also; for I go back to my own living tomb, to work out the penance of deeds done in madness and despair."
"Methinks, sire," said Jean Charost, who had marked some facts which created suspicion, "it were well that I should go to-night. St. Florent is very insufficiently guarded, and these are strange times."
"Nay, nay, this is lovers' haste," said Charles. "But, as you say, there may be danger of rash enterprises on the part of rivals, now that her abode is known. We will therefore, to spare all scandal, entreat some fair lady to undertake the task of bringing her back to the court this very night, which is not yet far advanced. Who will undertake it? She shall have good escort, commanded by this gallant knight himself."
"I am ready, sire," said Jeanne de Vendôme.
"Then, I beseech your majesty, let me go also," exclaimed Agnes Sorel, eagerly.
Charles looked from the one to the other, and replied, somewhat jestingly, "Both go. A litter shall be prepared at once; and as a moderator between you--ladies not always well agreeing when too closely confined--I will ask our good friend Messire Jacques Cœur to accompany you. Quick, ladies! prepare. De Brecy, see for your horses; and on your return you shall sup with us, and we will forget all but what is pleasant in the dream that is past."