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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER V.</h4> To retrace one's steps is always difficult; and it may be as well, whenever the urgency of action will permit it, in life, as in a tale that is told, to pause a little upon the present, and not to hurry on too rapidly to the future, lest the stern Irrevocable follow us too closely. I know nothing more difficult, or more necessary to impress upon the mind of youth, than the great and important fact, that every thing, once done, is irrevocable; that Fate sets its seal upon the deed and upon the word; that it is a bond to good or evil; that though sometimes we may alter the conditions in a degree, the weightier obligations of that bond can never be changed; that there is something recorded in the great Book against us, a balance for, or adverse to us, which speeds us lightly onward, or hampers all our after efforts. No, no. There is no going back. As in the fairy tale, the forest closes up behind us as we pass through, and in the great adventure of life our only way is forward. Life, in some of its phases, should always be the model of a book, and to avoid the necessity of even trying to go far back, it may be as well to pause here, and tell some events which had occurred even within the space of time which our tale has already occupied. In a chamber, furnished with fantastic splendor, and in a house not far from the palace of the Duke of Orleans, stood a richly-decorated bed. It was none of those scanty, parsimonious, modern contrivances, in which space to turn seems grudged to the unhappy inmate, but a large, stately, elaborate structure, almost a room in itself. The four posts, at the four corners, were carved, and gilt, and ornamented with ivory and gold. Groups of cupids, or cherubim, I know not well which, supported the pillars, treading gayly upon flowers; and, as people were not very considerate of harmony in those days, the sculptor of this bed, for so I suppose we must call him, had added Corinthian capitals to the posts, and crowned the acanthus of dark wood with large plumes of real ostrich feathers. Round the valance, and on many parts of the draperies, which were of a light crimson velvet, appeared numerous inscriptions, embroidered in gold. Some were lines from poets of the day, or old romances of the Langue d'oc, or Langue d'oil, while, strange to say, others were verses from the Psalms of David. On this bed lay a lady sweetly asleep, beautiful but pale, and bearing traces of recent illness on her face; and beside her lay a babe which seemed ten days or a fortnight old, swathed up according to the abominable custom of the day, in what was then called en mailotin. A lamp was on a table near, a vacant chair by the bedside, from which a heedless nurse had just escaped to take a little recreation during her lady's slumbers. All was still and silent in the room and throughout the house. The long and narrow corridors were vacant; the lower hall was far off. The silver bell, which was placed nigh at hand, might have rang long and loud without calling any one to that bedside; but the nurse trusted to the first calm slumber of the night, and doubtless promised herself that her absence would not be long. It proved long enough--somewhat too long, however. The door opened almost without a sound, and a tall, gray figure entered, which could hardly have been seen from the bed, in the twilight obscurity of that side of the room, even had any eyes been open there. It advanced stealthily to the side of the bed, with the right hand hidden in the breast; but there, for a moment, whatever was the intent, the figure paused, and the eyes gazed down upon the sleeping woman and the babe by her side. Oh, what changes of expression came, driven like storm-clouds, over that countenance, by some tempest of passions within, and what a contrast did the man's face present to that of the sleeping girl. It might be that the wronger and the wronged were there in presence, and that calm, peaceful sleep reigned quietly, where remorse, and anguish, and repentance should have held their sway; while agony, and rage, and revenge were busy in the heart which had done no evil. Whether it was doubt, or hesitation, or a feeling of pity which produced the pause, I can not tell; but whatever was the man's purpose--and it could hardly be good--he stopped, and gazed for more than one minute ere he made the intent a deed. At length, however, he withdrew the right hand from his bosom, and something gleamed in the lamp-light. It is strange: the lady moved a little in her sleep, as if the gleam of the iron had made itself felt, and she murmured a name. Her hand and arm were cast carelessly over the bed-clothes; her left side and breast exposed. The name she murmured seemed to act like a command; for instantly one hand was pressed upon her lips, and the other struck violently her side. The cry was smothered; the hands clutched the air in vain: a slight convulsive effort to rise, an aguish shudder, and all was still. The assassin withdrew his hand, but left the dagger in the wound. Oh, with what bitter skill he had done the deed! The steel had pierced through and through her heart! There he stood for a moment, and contemplated his handiwork. What was in his breast--who can tell? But suddenly he seemed to start from his dark revery, took the hand he had made lifeless in his own, and withdrew a wedding ring from the unresisting finger. Though passion is fond of soliloquy, he uttered but few words. "Now let him come and look," he murmured; and then going rapidly round to the other side of the bed, he snatched up the infant, cast part of his robe around it, and departed. Oh, what an awful, dreadful thing was the stillness which reigned in that terrible chamber after the murderer was gone. It seemed as if there were something more than silence there--a thick dull, motionless air of death and guilt. It lasted a long while--more than half an hour; and then, walking on tip-toe, came back the nurse. For a moment or two she did not perceive that any thing had happened. All was so quiet, so much as she had left it, that she fancied no change had taken place. She moved about stealthily, arranged some silver cups and tankards upon a dressoir, and smoothed out the damask covering with its fringe of lace. Presently there was a light tap at the door, and going thither on tip-toe, she found one of the Duke of Orleans's chief servants come to inquire after the lady's health. "Hush!" said the nurse, lifting up her finger, "she is sleeping like an angel." "And the baby?" asked the man. "She is asleep too," replied the nurse; "she has not given a cry for an hour." "That's strange!" said the man. "I thought babies cried every five minutes." Upon second thoughts, the nurse judged it strange too; and a certain sort of cold dread came upon her as she remembered her long absence, and combined it with the perfect stillness. "Stay a moment: I'll just take a peep and tell you more;" and she advanced noiselessly to the side of the bed. The moment she gazed in, she uttered a fearful shriek. Nature was too strong for art or policy. There lay the mother dead; the infant gone; and she screamed aloud, though she knew that the whole must be told, and her own negligence exposed. The man darted in from the door, and rushed to the side of the bed. The bloody evidences of the deed which had been done were plain before him, and catching the nurse by the arm, he questioned her vehemently. She was a friend of his, however--indeed, I believe, a relation--and first came a confession, and then a consultation. She declared she had not been absent five minutes, and that the deed must have been done within that short time; that somebody must have been concealed in the room at the time she left, for she had been so close at hand that she must have seen any one pass. She went on to declare that she believed it must have been done by sorcery; and as sorcery was in great repute at that time, the man might have been of her opinion, if the gore and the wound had not plainly shown a mortal agency. Then came the question of what was to be done. The duke must be told--that was clear; and it was agreed by both the man and the woman that it would be better for them to bear their own tale. "Do not let us tell him all at once," said the good lady, for horror and grief had by this time been swallowed up in more personal considerations; "he would kill us both on the spot, I do believe. Tell him, at first, that she is very ill; then, when he is going to see her, that she is dying; then that she is dead. And then--and then--let him find out himself that she has been murdered. Good gracious! I should not wonder if the murderer was still in the room. Did you not think you saw the curtain move?" and she gave a fearful glance toward the bed. The man unsheathed his sword, and for the first time they searched the room, which they had never thought of before. Nothing, however, could be found--not a vestige of the murderer--the very dagger that had done the deed was now gone; and after some further consultation, and some expressions of horror and regret, they set out to bear the intelligence to the Duke of Orleans, neglecting, in the fear of any one forestalling them, to give any directions for pursuit of the murderer. The house lay close to the Orleans palace, with an entrance from it into the gardens of the latter. Through that door they passed, walked down a short avenue of trees and vases, crossed a walk, and entered the palace by a side door. The man made his way straight toward the little hall, closely followed by the woman, and found the duke, as I have shown, in conversation with Jacques Cœur and Jean Charost. As had been agreed, the prince was at first informed that the lady was very ill, and even that intelligence caused the agitation which I have depicted. But how can I describe his state of mind when the whole truth was known, the fire of his rage, the abyss of his sorrow, and more, far more than all, the depth--the poignancy of his remorse? When he looked upon that beautiful and placid face, lying there in the cold, dull sleep of death--when he saw the fair bosom deluged in purple gore--when he remembered that, for the gratification of his light love, he had torn her from the arms of a husband who doted on her, from peaceful happiness and tranquil innocence, if not from joy and splendor--when he thought he had made her an adulteress--had brought disgrace upon her name--that he had been even, as he felt at that moment, accessory to her death, the worm that never dies seemed to fix itself upon his heart, and, casting himself down beside the bed, he cursed the day that he was born, and invoked bitterer maledictions on his own head than his worst enemy would have dared to pile upon him. True, in his anguish he did not altogether forget his energy. Instant orders were given to search for and pursue the murderer; and especial directions to beset all the doors of a small hotel in the neighborhood of the Temple, and to mark well who went out or came in. But this done, he fell again into the dark apathy of despair, and, seated in the chamber of death, slept not, took no refreshment throughout the livelong night. Priests came in, tall tapers were set in order, vases of holy water, and silver censers, and solemn voices were raised in holy song. But the duke sat there unmoved; his arms crossed upon his chest; his eyes fixed with a stony glare upon the floor. No one dared to speak to him or to disturb him; and the dark, long night of winter waned away, and the gray morning sunlight entered the chamber, ere he quitted the side of her he had loved and ruined. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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