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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER XXX.</h4> A week, a fortnight, a month; what are they in the long, long, boundless lapse of time? A point--a mere point on which the eye of memory hardly rests in the look-back of a lifetime, unless some of those marking facts which stamp particular periods indelibly upon the heart have given it a durable significance. Yet, even in so brief a space, how much may be done. Circumscribe it as you will--make it a single hour--tie down the passing of that hour to one particular spot; and in that hour, and on that spot, deeds may be written on eternity affecting the whole earth at the time, affecting the whole human race forever. No man can ever overestimate the value of the actions of an hour. Within the period of Jean Charost's sickness and recovery, up to the time when he fully regained his consciousness, events had been going on around him which greatly influenced, not only his fate, but the fate of mighty nations. The operation, indeed, was not immediate; but it was direct and clear; and we must pause for a moment in the more domestic history which we are giving, to dwell upon occurrences of general importance, without a knowledge of which our tale could hardly be understood. In confusion and dismay, accompanied by few attendants, and in a somewhat stealthy manner, John of Burgundy fled from Paris, after making his strange and daring confession of the murder of his near kinsman, and the brother of his king. When informed of the avowal, the Duke of Bourbon, his uncle, and many other members of the king's council, expressed high displeasure that the Duke of Berri and the King of Sicily had suffered him to quit the door of the council-chamber, except as a prisoner; and perhaps those two princes themselves saw the error they had committed. Had they acted boldly and decidedly upon the mere sense of justice and right, France would have been spared many a bloody hour, a disastrous defeat, and a long subjugation. But when the time of repentance came, repentance was too late. The Duke of Burgundy was gone, and the tools of his revenge, though he had boldly named them, had followed their lord. All had gone, as criminals flying from justice, and such was their terror and apprehension of pursuit, that they threw down spiked balls in the snow behind them as they went, to lame the horses of those who might follow. In the course of his flight, however, the Duke of Burgundy recovered in part his courage and a sense of his dignity. His situation was still perilous indeed; for he had raised enmity and indignation against him in the hearts of all the princes of the blood royal, and of many of the noblest men in France. Nay more, he had alienated the most sincere and the most honorable of his own followers, while the king himself, just recovered from one of his lamentable fits of insanity, was moved by every feeling of affection, and by the sense of justice and of honor, to punish the shameless murderer of his brother. No preparation of any importance had been made to meet this peril; and the Duke of Burgundy was saved alone by the hesitating counsels of old and timid men, who still procrastinated till is was too late to act. In the mean time, the murderer determined upon his course. He not only avowed, but attempted to justify the act upon motives so wild, so irrational, so destitute of every real and substantial foundation, that they could not deceive a child, and no one even pretended to be deceived. He accused his unhappy victim of crimes that Louis of Orleans never dreamed of--of aiming at the crown--of practicing upon the health and striking at the life of the king, his brother, by magical arts and devices. He did all, in short, to calumniate his memory, and to represent his assassination as an act necessary to the safety of the crown and the country. At the same time, he sent messengers to his good citizens of Flanders, to his vassals of Artois, to all his near relations, to all whom he could persuade or could command, to demand immediate aid and assistance against the vengeful sword which he fancied might pursue him, and he soon found himself at the head of a force with which he might set the power of his king at defiance. Lille, Ghent, Amiens, bristled with armed men, and John of Burgundy soon felt that the murder of his cousin had put the destinies of France into his hands. While this was taking place in the north and west, a different scene was being enacted in Paris; a scene which, if the popular heart was not the basest thing that ever God created, the popular mind the lightest and most unreasonable, should have roused the whole citizens to grief for him whom they had lost, to indignation against his daring murderer. The Duchess of Orleans, accompanied by her youngest son, entered Paris as a mourner, and threw herself at the feet of her brother and her king, praying for simple justice. The will of the murdered prince was opened; and, though his faults were many and glaring, that paper showed, the frank and generous character of the man, and was refutation enough of the vile calumnies circulated against him. So firm and strong had been his confidence, so full and clear his intention of maintaining in every respect the agreement of pacification lately signed between himself and the Duke of Burgundy, that he left the guardianship of his children to the very man who had so treacherously caused his assassination. None of his friends, none who had ever served him, were forgotten, and the tenacity of his affection was shown by his remembering many whom he had not seen for years. It was not wonderful, then, that those who knew and loved him clung to his memory with strong attachment, and with a reverence which some of his acts might not altogether warrant. It would not have been wonderful if the generous closing of his life had taught the populace of Paris to forget his faults and to revere his character. But the herd of all great cities is but as a pack of hounds, to be cried on by the voice of the huntsman against any prey that is in view; and the herd of Paris is more reckless in its fierceness than any other on all the earth. Fortune was with the Duke of Burgundy, and alas! boldness, decision, and skill likewise. He held a conference with the Duke of Berri, and the King of Sicily in his own city of Amiens, swarming with his armed men. He placed over the door of the humble house in which he lodged two lances crossed, the one armed with its steel head, the other unarmed, ungarlanded--a significant indication that he was ready for peace or war. The reproaches of the princes he repelled with insolence, and treated their counsels and remonstrances with contempt. Instead of coming to Paris and submitting himself humbly to the king, as they advised, he marched to St. Denis with a large force, and then, after a day's hesitation, entered the capital, armed cap-à-pie, amid the acclamations of the populace. The Hôtel d'Artois, already a place of considerable strength, received additional fortifications, and all the houses round about it were filled with his armed men; but especial care was taken that the soldiery should commit no excess upon the citizens, and though he bearded his king upon the throne, and overawed the royal council, with the true art of a demagogue he was humble and courteous toward the lowest citizens, flattered those whom he despised, and eagerly sought to make converts to his party in every class of society, partly by corruption, and partly by terror. Wherever he went the people followed at his heels, shouting his name, and vociferating, "Noël, noël!" and gradually the unhappy king, oppressed by his own vassal, though adored by his people, fell back into that lamentable state from which he had but lately recovered. Such was the state of Paris when Jean Charost raised his head, and gazed around the room in which he was lying. His sight was somewhat dim, his brain was somewhat dizzy; feeble he felt as infancy; but yet it was a pleasure to him to feel himself in that little room again, to fancy himself moving in plain mediocrity, to believe that his experience of courtly life was all a dream. What a satire upon all those objects which form so many men's vain aspirations! When he had gazed at the window, and at the door, and at all the little objects that were scattered directly before his eyes, he turned feebly to look at things nearer to him. He thought he heard a sigh close to his bedside; but a plain curtain was drawn round the head of the bed, and he could only see from behind it part of a woman's black robe falling in large folds over the knee. The little rustle that he made in turning seemed to attract the attention of the watcher. The curtain was gently drawn back, and he beheld his mother's face gazing at him earnestly. Oh, it was a pleasant sight; and he smiled upon her with the love that a son can only feel for a mother. "My son--my dear son," she cried; "you are better. Oh yes, you are better?" And, darting to the door, she called to him who had just gone out, "Messire Jacques, Messire Jacques. He is awake now; and he knows me!" "Gently, gently, dear lady," said Jacques Cœur, returning to the room. "We must have great quiet, and all will go well." The widow sat down and wept, and the good merchant placed himself by the young man's side, looked down upon him with a fatherly smile, and pressed his fingers on the wrist, saying, "Ay, the Syrian drug has done marvels. Canst thou speak, my son?" Jean Charost replied in a voice much stronger than might have been expected; but Jacques Cœur fell into a fit of thought even while he spoke, which lasted some two or three minutes, and the young man was turning toward his mother again, when the good merchant murmured, as if speaking to himself, "I know not well how to act--there are dangers every way. Listen to me, my son, but with perfect calmness, and let me have an answer from your own lips, which I can send to the great man whose messenger waits below. Two days ago we heard that the Duke of Burgundy had caused inquiries to be made concerning you, as where you were to be found, and when you had left the Hôtel d'Orleans. To-day he has sent a gentleman to inquire if you will take service with him. He offers you the post of second squire of his body, and promises knighthood on the first occasion. What do you answer, Jean?" Jean Charost thought for a moment, and then laid his hand upon his brow; but at length he said, "'Twere better to tell him that I am too ill to answer, or even to think, but that I will either wait upon him or send him my reply in a few days." "Wisely decided," said Jacques Cœur, rising. "That answer will do right well;" and, quitting the room, he left the door open behind him, so that the young man could hear him deliver the message word for word, merely prefacing it by saying, "He sends his humble duty to his highness, and begs to say--" A rough voice, in a somewhat haughty tone, replied, "Is he so very ill, then, sir merchant? His highness is determined to know in all cases who is for him and who is against him. I trust you tell me true, therefore." "You can go up, fair sir, and see," replied Jacques Cœur; "but I must beg you not to disturb him with any talk." The other voice made no reply, but the moment after Jean Charost could hear a heavy step coming up the stairs, and a good-looking man, of a somewhat heavy countenance, completely armed, but with his beaver up, appeared in the doorway. He merely looked in, however, and the pale countenance and emaciated frame of the young gentleman seemed to remove his doubts at once. "That will do," he said. "I can now tell what I have seen. The duke will expect an answer in a few days. If he dies, let him know, for there are plenty eager for the post, I can tell you." Thus saying, he turned away and closed the door; and Madame De Brecy exclaimed, "God forbid that you should die, my son, or serve that bad man either." "So say I too," replied Jean Charost. "I know not why you should feel so regarding him, dear mother, but I can not divest my mind of a suspicion that he countenanced, if he did not prompt, the death of the Duke of Orleans." "Do you not know that he has avowed it?" exclaimed Madame De Brecy; but her son's face turned so deadly pale, even to the very lips, that Jacques Cœur interposed, saying gently, "Beware--beware, dear lady. He can not bear any such tidings now. He will soon be well enough to hear all." His judgment proved right. From that moment every hour gave Jean Charost some additional strength; and that very day, before nightfall, he heard much that imported him greatly to know. He now learned that the Duchess of Orleans, after a brief visit to the capital to demand justice upon the murderers of her husband, had judged it prudent to retire to Blois, and to withdraw all the retainers of the late duke. Jean Charost, being in no situation to bear so long a journey, she had commended him especially to the care of Jacques Cœur, who had ridden in haste to Paris on the news of assassination. He now learned, also, that one of the last acts of the duke had been to leave him a pension of three hundred crowns--then a large sum--charged upon the county of Vertus, and that a packet addressed to him, sealed with the duke's private signet, and marked, "To be read by his own eye alone," had been found among the papers at the château of Beauté. He would have fain heard more, and prolonged the conversation upon subjects so interesting to him, but Jacques Cœur wisely refused to gratify him, and contrived to dole out his information piece by piece, avoiding, as far as possible, all that could excite or agitate him. A pleasant interlude, toward the fall of evening, was afforded by the arrival of Martin Grille, whose joy at seeing his young master roused from a stupor which he had fancied would only end in death was touching in itself, although it assumed somewhat ludicrous forms. He capered about the room as if he had been bit by a tarantula, and in the midst of his dancing he fell upon his knees, and thanked God and the blessed Virgin for the miraculous cure of his young lord, which he attributed entirely to his having vowed a wax candle of three pounds' weight to burn in the Lady Chapel of the Nôtre Dame in case of Jean Charost's recovery. It seems that since the arrival of Madame de Brecy in Paris, she and Martin Grille had equally divided the task of sitting up all night with her son; and well had the faithful valet performed his duty, for, without an effort, or any knowledge on his part, Jean Charost had won the enthusiastic love and respect of one who had entered his service with a high contempt for his want of experience, and perhaps some intention of making the best of a good place. Well has it been said that force of character is the most powerful of moral engines, for it works silently, and even without the consciousness of those who are subject to its influence, upon all that approaches it. How often is it that we see a man of no particular brilliance of thought, of manner, or of expression, come into the midst of turbulent and unruly spirits, and bend them like osiers to his will. Some people will have it that it is the clearness with which his thoughts are expressed, or the clearness with which they are conceived, the definiteness of his directions, the promptness of his decisions, which gives him this power; but if we look closely, we shall find that it is force of character--a quality of the mind which men feel in others rather than perceive, and which they yield to often without knowing why. The following morning rose like a wayward child, dull and sobbing; but Jean Charost woke refreshed and reinvigorated, after a long, calm night of sweet and natural sleep. His mother was again by his bedside, and she took a pleasure in telling him how carefully Martin Grille had preserved all his little treasures in the Hôtel d'Orleans, at a time when the assassination of the duke had thrown all the better members of the household into dismay and confusion, and left the house itself, for a considerable time, at the mercy of the knaves and scoundrels that are never wanting in a large establishment. She was interrupted in her details by the entrance of the very person of whom she spoke, and at the same time loud cries and shouts and hurras rose up from the street, inducing Jean Charost to inquire if the king were passing along. "No, fair sir," answered Martin Grille. "It is the king's king. But, on my life, my lord of Burgundy does not much fear rusting his armor, or he would not ride through the streets on such a day as this." "Does he go armed, then?" asked Jean Charost. "From head to foot," answered his mother; and Martin Grille added, "He is seldom without four or five hundred men-at-arms with him. Such a sight was never seen in Paris. But I must go my ways, and get the news of the day, for these are times when every man should know whatever his neighbor is doing." "I fear your intelligence must stop somewhat short of that," said Jean Charost. "I shall get all the intelligence I want," replied the valet, with a sapient nod of the head. "I have a singing bird in the court cage that always sings me truly;" and away he went in search of news. During his absence, a consultation was held between Madame De Brecy, her son, and Jacques Cœur as to what was to be done in regard to the message of the Duke of Burgundy. "We have only put off the evil day," said Jacques Cœur, "and some reply must soon be given." "My reply can be but one," answered Jean Charost; "that I will never serve a murderer; still less serve the murderer of my dear lord." Madame De Brecy looked uneasy, and the face of Jacques Cœur was very grave. "You surely would not have me do so, my dear mother?" said the young gentleman, raising himself on his arm, and gazing in her face. "You could not wish me, my good and honorable friend?" "No, Jean, no," answered Jacques Cœur; "but yet such a reply is perilous; and before it is made, we must be beyond the reach of the strong arm that rules all things in this capital. You have had a taste, my son, of what great men will dare do to those who venture to oppose them, even in their most unjust commands. Depend upon it, the Duke of Burgundy will not scruple at acts which the king's council themselves would not venture to authorize. Why he should wish to engage you in his service I can not tell; but that he does so earnestly is evident, and refusal will be very dangerous, even in the mildest form." "Some fanciful connection between my fate and his was told him one night by an astrologer," said Jean Charost. "That is the only motive he can have." "Perhaps so," replied Jacques Cœur, thoughtfully; and then he added, the moment after, "and yet I do not know. His highness is not one to be influenced in his conduct by any visionary things; they may have weight with him in thought, but not in action. If he had been told that his death would follow the poor duke's as a natural consequence, he would have killed him notwithstanding. He must have seen something in you, my young friend, that he likes--that he thinks will suit some of his purposes." "He has seen little of me that should so prepossess him," answered the young gentleman; "he has seen me peremptorily refuse to obey his own commands, and obstinately deny the council the information they wanted, even though they tried to wring it out by torture." "Probably the very cause," answered Jacques Cœur; "he loves men of resolution. But let us return to the subject, my young friend. Your answer must be somewhat softened. We must say that you are still too ill to engage in any service; that you must have some months for repose, and that then you will willingly obey any of his highness's just commands." "Never, never!" answered Jean Charost, warmly; "I will never palter with my faith and duty toward the dead. If ever I can couch a lance against this duke's breast, I will aim it well, and the memory of my master will steady my arm; but serve him I will never, nor even lead him to expect it." Jacques Cœur and Madame De Brecy looked at each other in silence; but they urged him no more; and the only question in their minds now was, what course they could take not to suffer the young man's safety to be periled in consequence of a resolution which they dared not disapprove. In the midst of their consultation Martin Grille returned, evidently burdened with intelligence, and that not of a very pleasant character. "What is to be done, I know not," he said, with much trepidation; "I can not, and I will not leave you, sir, whatever may come of it." "What is the matter, Martin?" asked Jacques Cœur. "Be calm, be calm young man, and tell us plainly, whatever be the evil." "Listen, then, listen," said Martin Grille, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "An order is given out secretly to seize every Orleanist now remaining in Paris in his bed this night at twelve of the clock. It is true; it is true, beyond all doubt. I had it from my cousin Petit Jean, who got it from his father, old Caboche, now the Duke of Burgundy's right-hand man in Paris." "Then we must go at once," said Jacques Cœur "Whatever be the risk, we must try if you can bear the motion of a litter, Jean." "But all the gates are closed except two," said Martin Grille, "and they suffer no one to go out without a pass. News has got abroad of all this. The queen went yesterday to Melun. The King of Sicily, the Duke of Berri, the Duke of Britanny have fled this morning. The Duke of Bourbon has been long gone, and the Burgundians are resolved that no more shall escape." Jacques Cœur gazed sternly down upon the floor, and Madame De Brecy wrung her hands in despair. "Go, my friend, go," said Jean Charost; "you are not marked out as an Orleanist. Take my mother with you. God may protect me even here. If not, his will be done." "Stay," cried Martin Grille, "stay! I have thought of a way, perhaps. Many of these Burgundian nobles are poor. Can not you lend one of them a thousand crowns, Monsieur Jacques, and get a pass for yourself and your family. He will be glad enough to give it, to see a creditor's back turned, especially when he knows he can keep him at arm's length as long as he will. I am sure my young lord will repay you." "Repay me!" exclaimed Jacques Cœur, indignantly; "but your hint is a good one. I will act upon it, but not exactly as you propose. Some of them owe me enough already to wish me well out of Paris. Tell all my people to get ready for instant departure; and look for a litter that will hold two. I will away at once, and see what can be done." "Have plenty of men with you, Messire Jacques," said Martin Grille, eagerly; "men that can fight, for there are Burgundian bands patrolling all round the city. I am not good at fighting, and my young lord is as bad as I am now." "We must take our chance," said Jacques Cœur, and quitted the room. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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