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Agnes Sorel

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<h4>CHAPTER XXIX.</h4> There are moments in life when even kindness and tenderness have no balm--when all streams are bitter because the bitterness is in us--when the heart is hardened to the nether millstone by the Gorgon look of despair--when happiness is so utterly lost that unhappiness has no degrees. There are such moments; but, thank God, they are few. Heavy in heart and spirit, indignant at the treatment he had received, with his mind full of grief and horror at the dreadful death of a prince he had well loved, and with a body weary and broken with the torture he had undergone, still Jean Charost found comfort and relief in the soothing tenderness of Agnes Sorel, and of two or three girls somewhat older than herself, who lavished kindness and attention upon him as soon as they learned what had just befallen him. Some wine was brought, and fair hands gave it to him, and all that woman's pity could do was done. But Agnes had that morning learned the power of music, and, running away into an ante-room, she exclaimed, "Where is our sweet musician? Here, boy--here! Bring your instrument, and try and comfort him for whom you pleaded so hard just now. He needs it much." Petit Jean rose instantly, paused for one moment to screw up a little one of the strings of his violin, and then followed into the inner room, giving a timid glance around over the fair young faces which were gathered about Jean Charost. But his eyes soon settled upon the sufferer with an inquiring look, which put the question as plainly as in words, "What is the matter with him?" "They have put him to the torture," whispered Agnes; and the boy, after a moment's pause, raised his instrument to his shoulder and drew from it those sweet tones which the Duke of Anjou had heard. A short time before, he had played a dirge for the Duke of Orleans in the presence of the Queen of Sicily--I can hardly call it one of his own compositions, but rather one of his inspirations. It had been deep, solemn, almost terrible; but now the music was very different, sweet, plaintive, and yet with a mingling of cheerfulness every now and then, as if it would fain have been gay, but that something like memory oppressed the melody. It was like a spring day in the country--a day of early spring--when winter is still near at hand, though summer lies on before. To enjoy fine and elaborate music aright, we require some learning, a disciplined and practiced ear; but those, I believe, who have heard the least music are more deeply affected by simple melodies. The sensations which Jean Charost experienced are hardly to be described, and when the boy ceased, he held out his hand to him, saying, "Thank you, thank you, my young friend. You have done me more good than ever did leech to sick man." "You have more to thank him for than that," said Agnes, with a smile, which brought out upon her face, not then peculiarly handsome, that latent, all-captivating beauty which was afterward her peril and her power. "Had it not been for him, neither the Queen of Sicily nor I would ever have heard of your danger." "How can that be?" asked Jean Charost. "I do not know him--I never saw him." "Nor I you," replied the boy; "but 'tis the story of the lion and the mouse that my grandmother told me. You have a lackey called Martin Grille. He is my cousin. You have been kind to him; he has been kind to me; and so the whole has gone in a round. He gave me the first crown he could spare; that helped me to buy this thing that speaks so sweetly when I tell it. It said to that young lady, and to the queen, to have pity; and they had pity on you; and so that went in a round too. But I must go now, for I have to meet Martin on the parvis, and I shall be too late." "Stay a moment," said Agnes. "You have had no reward." "Oh yes, I have," replied the boy. "Reward enough in setting him free." "Nay, that was but justice," she answered. "Stay but a moment, and I will tell the queen you are going." One of the other girls accompanied her, and two more dropped away before she returned. Another, who was elder, remained talking with Petit Jean, and asking him many questions as to how he had acquired such skill in music. The boy said, God sent it; that from his infancy he had always played upon any instrument he could get; that one of the chanters of Nôtre Dame had taught him a little, and a blind man, who played on the cornemuse, had given him some instruction. That was all that he could tell; but yet, though he showed no learning, he spoke of his beautiful art with a wild confidence and enthusiasm that the young denizen of an artificial court could not at all comprehend. At length Agnes returned alone, bearing a small silk purse in her hand, which she gave to the boy, saying, "The queen thanks you, Petit Jean; and bids you come to her again on Sunday night. To-day she can hear nothing that is not sad; but she would fain hear some of your gayer music." "Tell Martin that I will be home soon," said Jean Charost. "Indeed, I see not why I should not go with you now. Methinks I could walk to the hotel." "Nay," said Agnes, kindly; "you shall not go yet. The king has given me charge of you, and I will be obeyed. It will be better that he tell your servant to come hither, and inquire for Madame De Busserole, our superintendent. Then, when you have somebody with you, you can go in more safety. Tell him so, Petit Jean. I must let Madame De Busserole know, however, lest the young man be sent away." "I will tell her," said the other maid of honor. "You stay with your friend, Agnes; for I have got that rose in my embroidery to finish. Farewell, Monsieur De Brecy. If I were a king, I would hang all the torturers and burn all the racks, with the man who first invented them in the middle of them." And she tripped gayly out of the room. The boy took his departure at the same time; and Jean Charost and Agnes were left alone together, or nearly so--for various people came and went--during well-nigh an hour. The light soon began to fade, and a considerable portion of their interview passed in twilight; but their conversation was not such as to require any help from the looks. It was very calm and quiet. Vain were it, indeed, to say that they did not take much interest in each other. But both were very young, and there are different ways of being young. Some are young in years--some in mind--some in heart. Agnes and Jean Charost were both older than their years in mind, but perhaps younger than their years in heart; and nothing even like a dream of love came over the thoughts of either. They talked much of the late Duke of Orleans, and Jean Charost told her a good deal of the duchess. They talked, too, of Madame De Giac; and Agnes related to him all the particulars of that lady's visit to her in the morning. "Why she came, I really do not know," said the young girl. "Although she is a distant cousin of my late father's, there was never any great love between us, and we parted with no great tenderness two days after I saw you at Pithiviers. Her principal object seemed to be to tell me of your having visited her yesterday night, and to mention the foolish trick she played upon you. That she seemed very eager to explain--I know not why." Jean Charost mused somewhat gloomily. There were suspicions in his breast he did not like to mention; and the conduct and demeanor of Madame De Giac toward himself were not what he could tell to her beside him. "I love not that Madame De Giac," he said, at length. "I never loved her," answered Agnes. "I can remember her before her marriage, and I loved her not then; but still less do I esteem her now, after having been more than ten days in her company. It is strange, Monsieur De Brecy, is it not, what it can be that gives children a sort of feeling of people's characters, even before they have any real knowledge of them. She was always very kind to me, even as a child; but I thought of her then just as I think of her now, though perhaps I ought to think worse; for since then she has said many things to me which I wish I had never heard." "How so!" asked Jean Charost, eagerly. "What has she said?" "Oh, much that I can not tell--that I forget," answered Agnes, with the color mounting in her cheek. "But her general conversation, with me at least, does not please me. She speaks of right and wrong, honesty and dishonesty, as if there were no distinctions between them but those made by priests and lawyers. Every thing, to her mind, depends upon what is most advantageous in the end; and that is the most advantageous, in her mind, which gives the most pleasure." "She may be right," answered Jean Charost, "if she takes the next world into account as well as this. But still I think her doctrines dangerous ones, and would not have any one to whom I wish well listen to them." "I never do," answered Agnes; "but she laughs at me when I tell her I would rather not hear; and tells me that all these things, and indeed the whole world, will appear to me as differently ten years hence as the world now does compared with what it seemed to me as an infant. I do not think it; do you?" "I can not tell," replied Jean Charost, gravely; "but I hope not; for I believe it would be better for us all could we always see the world with the eyes of childhood. True, it has changed much to my own view within the last few months; but it has changed sadly, and I wish I could look upon it as I did before. That can not be, however; and I suppose we are all--though men more than women--destined to see these changes, and to pass through them." "Men can bear them better than women," answered Agnes. "A storm that breaks a flower or kills a butterfly, does not bend an oak or scare an eagle. Well, we must endure whatever be our lot; but I often think, Monsieur De Brecy, that, had the choice been mine, I would rather have been a peasant girl--not a serf, but a free farmer's daughter--with a tall, white cap, and a milk-pail on my arm, than a lady of the court, with all these gauds and jewels about me. If my poor mother had lived, I should never have been here." Thus they rambled on for some time, till at length it was announced that Martin Grille was in waiting; and Jean Charost took his leave of his fair companion, pouring forth upon her at the last moment his thanks for all she had done to serve and save him. He was still stiff and weak, feeling as if every bone in his body had been crushed, and every muscle riven; but he contrived to reach the Hôtel d'Orleans, with the assistance of Martin Grille. It was now quite dark; but in the vestibule, which has been often mentioned, a number of the unfortunate duke's servants and retainers were assembled, among whom Jean Charost perceived at once, by the dim light of the lanterns, the faces of the chaplain and Seigneur André. As soon as the latter saw him leaning feebly on his servant, he cried out, with an exulting laugh, "Ah, here comes the lame sparrow who was once so pert." "Silence, fool!" cried a loud voice, "or I will break your head for you." And Juvenel de Royans came forward, holding out his hand to Jean Charost. "Let us be friends, De Brecy," he said. "I have done you some wrong--I have acted foolishly--like a boy; but this last fatal night, and this day, have made a man of me, and I trust a wiser one than I have ever shown myself. Forget the past, and let us be friends." "Most willingly," replied Jean Charost. "But I must get to my chamber, De Royans, for, to say the truth, I can hardly drag my limbs along." "Curses upon them!" replied De Royans "the cruel monsters, to torture a man for faithfulness to his lord! Let me help you, De Brecy." And, putting his strong arm through that of Jean Charost, he aided him to ascend the stairs, and with rough kindness laid him down upon his bed. Here, during the evening, the young secretary was visited by various members of the household, though, to say truth, he was in no very fit state to entertain them. Lomelini came, with his soft and somewhat cunning courtesy, to ask what he could do for the young gentleman--doubting not that he would take a high place in the favor of the duchess. The chaplain came to excuse himself for having suggested certain questions to the king's counsel, and did it somewhat lamely. Old Monsieur Blaize visited him, to express warm and hearty applause of the young man's conduct in all respects. "Do your devoir; as knightly in the field, my young friend," he said, "as you have done it before the council, and you will win your golden spurs in the first battle that is stricken." Several of the late duke's knights, with whom Jean Charost had formed no acquaintance, came also to express their approbation; but praise fell upon a faint and heavy ear; for all he had passed through was not without consequences more serious than were at first apparent. Martin Grille overflowed with joy and satisfaction so sincere and radiant at the escape of his master, that Jean Charost could not help being touched by the good valet's attachment. But, as a true Frenchman, he was full of his own part in the young gentleman's deliverance, attributing to himself and his own dexterity all honor and praise for the result which had been attained. He perceived not, for some time, in his self-gratulations, that Jean Charost could neither smile nor listen; that a red spot came in his cheek; that his eyes grew blood-shot, and his lip parched. At length, however, a few incoherent words alarmed him, and he determined to sit by his master's bedside and watch. Before morning he had to seek a physician; and then began all the follies of the medical art, common in those times. For fourteen days, however, Jean Charost was utterly unconscious of whether he was treated well or ill, kindly or the reverse; and at the end of that time, when the light of reason returned, it was but faint and feeble. When first he became fully conscious, he found himself lying in a small room, of which he thought he recollected something. The light of an early spring day was streaming in through an open window, with the fresh air, sweet and balmy; and the figure of a middle-aged man, in a black velvet gown, was seen going out of the door. The eyes of the young man turned from one object around him to another. There was a little writing-table, two or three wooden settles, a brazen sconce upon the wall, a well-polished floor of brick, an ebony crucifix, with a small fountain of holy water beneath it--all objects to which his eyes had been accustomed five or six months before. The figure he had seen going out, with its quiet, firm carriage, and easy dignity, was one that he recollected well; and he asked himself, "Was he really still in the house of Jacques Cœur, and was the whole episode of Agnes, and Juvenel de Royans, and the imprisonment, and the torture, and the Duke of Orleans nothing but a dream?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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