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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h4> A few brief glimpses, if you please, dear reader--quiet, and calm, and cool, like the early sunshine of a clear autumn day--a few brief glimpses, to throw some light upon a lapse of several years. It may be asked why are not the events of those years recorded? Why are we not carried through the details of a history in which the writer, at least, must have some interest? In every life, as in every country which one passes through, there come spots of dull monotony, where the waters stagnate on the heavy flats, and to linger among them is dangerous to active existence. I say, in every life there are these flats at some period or another; for I can recall none in memory or in history, where they have not been found--none where all has been mountain and valley. Take the most active life that ever was, that of Napoleon Bonaparte; carry him from the military school to the command of armies; go with him along his comet-like career, from glory to glory up to the zenith of his power, and then on his course down to the horizon with fierce rapidity. You come to the rock in the Atlantic, and the dull lapse of impotence and captivity at last! In a cell, in the small priory of St. George of Hesdin, and on the pallet bed of one of the monks, lay a young gentleman pale and wan, but still with the light of reviving life in his eyes. By his side was seated a tall, thin old man, or if not very old in years, old in the experience of sorrows. 'Tis a strange thing, this life, and all connected with it--time, and joy, and grief, and fear, and hope, and appetite, and satiety! Very, very strange! The wise Eastern people have said that at the root of the Tree of Life lie two worms continually preying on it: the one black, the other white. But alas, alas! there is many another maggot, piercing the bark, eating into the core, drying up the sap, bringing on decay and instruction. I have named a few of them. One of the most blessed conceptions of the soul is, that in its immortality none of these things can touch it. He seemed an old man, though probably he had not yet seen near sixty years of age; but there were upon his face many harsh lines--not such as are drawn by hard carking cares and petty anxieties--not such as are imprinted on the face by the claws of grasping, mercenary selfishness; but the deep strong brands of burning passions, fierce griefs, fierce joys, and strong unruly thoughts. Yet the eye was subdued. There was not the light in it that had once been there--the wild, eager light, too intense to be fully sane. There was sadness enough, but little fire. It would seem that the two--they were the only tenants of the cell--had been talking for some time, and that one of those pauses had taken place in which each man continues for himself the train of thought suggested by what has gone before. The old man looked down upon the ground, with his shaggy eyebrows overhanging his eyes. The young man looked up, as if catching inspiration from above. It was Hope and Memory. At length the old man spoke. "When one looks back," he said, "upon the path of life, we lose in the mistiness of the distance a thousand objects which have influenced its course. We see it turn hither and thither, and wonder that we took not a course more direct to our end. We perceive that we have gone far out of the way; but the obstacles are not seen that were, or seemed insurmountable--the stream, too deep to be forded--the rock, too high to be scaled--the thicket, too dense to be penetrated; and the mists and darkness too--the mists and darkness of the mind, forever blinding us to the right way. Oh, my son, my son, beware of the eyesight of passion; for you know not how false and distorting it is. The things as plain as day become all dim and obscure, false lights glare around us, and nothing is real but our own sensations." Jean Charost smiled. "I have escaped as yet, father," he said. "It is true, indeed, that when I look back on some passages of my life--on the actions of other men, and on my own--I sometimes wonder how I could view the things around me as I did at the time, and all seems to me as if I had been acting in a dream." "Passion, passion," said the monk--"the dream of passion!" "Happily, I have had no cause to regret that I did not see more clearly," replied Jean Charost; "but let me turn to other matters, good father. There are many things that I would wish to ask you--many that are necessary for me to know." "Ask me nothing," replied the monk, quickly; then laying his hand upon Jean Charost's arm, he said, in a low, stern voice, "There is a space in memory on which I dare not tread. By struggle and by labor I have reached firm ground, and can stand upon the rock of my salvation; but behind me there is a gulf of madness--You would not drag me back into it, young man?" "God forbid," replied Jean Charost. "But yet--" The monk waved his hand; and an instant after, the door of the cell opened, and Martin Grille appeared, booted and spurred, with his dress covered with dust, and every sign about him of long riding over parched and sandy roads. "Well Martin," exclaimed the young man, as soon as he saw him, "what says the Lord Willoughby?" "But little, and not pleasant," replied Martin Grille. "However, he has written. Here is his letter." Jean Charost took the paper which the man held out to him, and tore it open eagerly; but his face turned pale as he read, and he exclaimed, "Fifteen thousand crowns for a baron's ransom! This is ruin." "I think he can not help himself," said Martin Grille; "for he seemed very much vexed when he wrote. Indeed, he told me that the ransoms had been fixed by higher power." "Ay, ay! A mere excuse," exclaimed Jean Charost. "This greedy Englishman is resolved to make the most of the capture of a wounded man." "Passion, my son, passion!" said the monk. "What the good lord says is true, I do believe. 'Tis the ambition and policy of his master, not his own greed. I have heard something of this, and feared the result. King Henry is resolved that all those who might serve France best against him should either pay the expenses of his next campaign by their ransoms, or linger out their time in English prisons, while he goes forth to conquer France." "Shame be upon him," cried Jean Charost. "Wouldst thou not do the same wert thou the King of England?" asked the monk. Jean Charost mused for several minutes. "Then there is naught for me but a prison," he said, at length. "I will not impoverish my poor mother, nor my sweet little Agnes. It has cost enough to furnish me forth for this fatal battle. Oh, that Frenchmen had coolness as well as courage, discipline as well as activity! Oh, that they had won the day: I would not have treated my prisoners so. Well, God's will be done--I will cross the seas, and give myself up to captivity. Let me have things for writing, Martin Grille." "Nay, my son, you are not fit," said the monk. "It must be done," answered Jean Charost. "What matters it to any one if I die? He can not coin my clay into golden pieces. I will not pay this ransom so long as my mother lives. Let me have ink and paper." Jean Charost wrote; but he was soon obliged to abandon the task, for he was still too feeble. The next day he wrote again, however, and two letters were accomplished. The one was sent off to his mother, the other to the Lord Willoughby. To the latter he received an answer courteous and kind, desiring him not to hurry his departure for England, but to wait till he was well able to bear the journey. There was one sentence somewhat confused in expression, intended to convey a regret that the ransom fixed upon prisoners of his rank was so high; but Jean Charost was irritated, and threw the letter from him. The other letter conjured his mother to his side with all speed, and she brought his little Agnes with her; for she had a notion that the presence of the child would be balmy to him. Let us pass over her remonstrances, and how she urged him to sell all and pay his ransom. For her sake, he was firm. He would not impoverish his mother; and though there were bitter tears, he departed from his native land. Now let us change the scene. Between three and four years had passed since the field of Azincourt had received some of the best blood of France, and thinned the ranks of French chivalry. Every city, every village, almost every family was full of trouble, and the place that was at one day in the hands of England was another day in the hands of France, and a third in the hands of Burgundy. All regular warfare might be said to have come to an end. Each powerful noble made war on his own hand, and linked himself by very slender ties to this faction or that. His enterprises were his own, though they were directed, in some degree, to the benefit of his party; but if he owned in any one a right to command him, it was only with the reservation that he should obey or not as he pleased. Armed bands traversed the country in every direction. Hardly a field between the Loire and the Somme was not at some time a scene of strife. None knew, when they sowed the ground, who would reap the harvest; and the goods of the merchant were as often exposed to pillage as the crop of the husbandman. Yet it is extraordinary how soon the mind of man, and especially the gay, volatile mind of the Frenchman, accommodates itself to circumstances. Here was a state almost intolerable, it would seem, to any but savages; but yet, in France, the skillful cook plied his busy trade, and the reeking kitchen sent up fragrant fumes. The auberge, the cabaret, the gite, the repue, all the places of public, entertainment, in short, were constantly filled with gay guests. The tailor's needle was never more employed, and as much ornament as ever was bestowed upon fair forms which might be destined a few days after to meet with a bloody death. The village bells called people to prayer and praise as usual, and rang out merrily for the wedding, even when hostile spears were within sight of the steeple. Such was the state of the country, when, one day in the latter part of the summer of one thousand four hundred and nineteen, a young man, dressed in the garb of a monk, entered a small town near the city of Bourges. His feet were sandaled; he carried the pilgrim staff in his hand, and he was evidently wayworn and fatigued. The greater part of the peasantry were in the fields; and the street of the little place, running up the side of a small hill, lay almost solitary in the bright sunshine. The master of the gite, or small inn, however, was sitting at his own door, with an ancient companion, feeble and white-bearded, and they made some comments to one another upon the young stranger as he approached, which were not very favorable to monks in general. "Oh, he is going to the Gray Friar's monastery, doubtless," said the host to his companion, "and doubtless they fare well there. He will have a jovial night of it after his journey, especially as this is Thursday." "Ay, that's the time they always appoint for the women to come to confess," said the other; "and I dare say they talk over all the sins they hear pleasantly enough. See, he seems tending this way." "Not he," replied the landlord; "we have but little custom from the brethren, though they can pay well when they will. Upon my life, I believe he is coming hither; but perhaps 'tis but to ask his way." The stranger, however, did walk straight up to mine host of the inn, and instead of asking his way, inquired whether he could lodge there for the night. "Assuredly, good father," replied the landlord, in a very altered tone; "this is a public gite, though the prices are rather higher than they used to be, because the country has been so run down." "That matters not," answered the stranger; "when can I sup?" "In an hour, father, supper will be on the table." answered the host. "Would you like to go and wash your feet; they are mighty dusty?" "Not yet," replied the stranger; "if I knew where to place my wallet in safety, I would go on a little further to see the sun setting from the hill." "Come with me--come with me," said the host; "I will show you your chamber, where you will have as good a bed as a baron could wish for, and a room, not much bigger than a cell, it is true; but you will not mind that, for it is fresh and airy, and, moreover, it has a lock and key, which is more than many rooms have." The stranger followed in silence, was admitted to his room, and laid down the wallet. Then, taking the key--almost as big as that of a church door of modern times--he issued forth from the inn again, and, saying he would be back soon, he walked on to the other end of the street, where it opened out through a low mud wall upon the brow of the hill upon which the town was built. When clear of all houses, with his foot upon the green turf, and the rocky descent below him, the young stranger crossed his arms upon his chest, and stood gazing upon the scene around with more of the air of a warrior than of a monk. He held his head high, and seemed to expand his chest to receive fully the evening breeze, looking like a fine horse when first turned forth from a close stable, snuffing the free air before he takes his wild, headlong career around the meadow. But the expression soon changed. Casting his eyes to the eastward, he just caught sight, from behind the shoulder of the hill, of the towers and battlements of Bourges; and a little further on, but more to the north, on the other side of the river, he perceived a wooded hill, with a large, square tower and some other buildings, crowning the summit. A look of deep melancholy came upon his countenance. After gazing for several minutes, he turned his eyes toward the ground, and fell into a deep fit of thought, as if debating some important question with himself. "It will be a painful pleasure," said he, at length; "but I will go, let it cost what it may." Once more he gazed over the prospect all round, and then turning on his steps, he retraced his way back to the inn, where he found the landlord still seated at the door. "Can you tell me," he said, "if Messire Jacques Cœur is now in Bourges?" "No, that he is not, sir," answered the landlord, with great respect, dropping the title of father, which he had previously bestowed upon his guest, in favor of the gray gown; "he is away somewhere about Monterreau with his highness the dauphin." "That is unlucky," said the other, just remarking, and no more, the landlord's change of manner toward him, and the substitution of the words sir and father. "Well, I will sup, and go on upon my way." "Had you not better sleep here, sir?" asked the landlord, again avoiding the word father; "perhaps they are not prepared for you, and you must have traveled far, I suppose." The other held to his resolution, however, with out taking any outward notice of the great alteration in the man's demeanor; but when he retired to his chamber to wash his feet before supper, he found confirmation of a suspicion that the vaunted lock of his door had more keys than one. Nothing was abstracted, indeed, from his wallet; but the contents had been evidently examined carefully since he left the house. Small as was the amount of baggage it contained, there were several articles which bore the name of "Jean Charost de Brecy." Night had fallen by the time that supper was over, and the stars shone out bright and clear when the young wanderer once more resumed his journey, and took his way direct toward the castle he had seen upon the hill. Onward he went at an unflagging pace, descended from the higher ground into the valley, crossed the little river by its stone bridge, and approached the foot of the eminence where the tower stood. Large dogs bayed loudly as he came near the entrance of the castle, and one or two men were seated under the arch of the barbican; but Jean Charost's impatience had been growing with every step, and, without pausing to put any questions or to ask permission, he passed the draw-bridge, crossed the little court, and mounted the steps leading into the great hall. One of the men had followed him from the barbican, but did not attempt to stop him. Two of the dogs ran by his side, looking up in his face, and a third gamboled wildly before him, whining with a sort of anxious joy. The great hall was quite dark; but he found his way across it easily enough, mounted a little flight of five steps, and opened the door just above. There were lights in that room, and Madame De Brecy was there seated embroidering: while little Agnes, now greatly expanded both in form and beauty, sat beside his mother, sorting the various colored silks. His feet were shod with sandals; but his mother knew the tread. She started up and gazed at him. The instant after, her arms were round his neck, and Agnes was clinging to his hand and covering it with kisses. "Welcome--welcome home, my son!" cried Madame De Brecy; "has this hard lord then relented? We heard that you were ill--very ill; and ere three days more had passed, Agnes and I would have set off to join you in England. We waited but for safe-conducts to depart." "I have been ill, dear mother," replied the young man; "and that obtained me leave to return for a time. But do not deceive yourself; I have not come back to stay. Indeed, so brief must be my absence from my prison, so hopeless is the errand on which I came, that I had doubts whether I ought to pause even here to give you the pang of parting with me again. I have only obtained leave upon parole, to absent myself from London for three months, in order to seek a ransom. My only hope is in Jacques Cœur; he, perhaps, may help us on easier terms than any one else will consent to. I find, however, that he is not in Bourges, and I must go on to-morrow to Monterreau to seek him; for well-nigh three weeks of my time is already expired; 'tis a long journey from England hither on foot." "Ah, my poor son!" cried Madame De Brecy; "our fate has been a sad one, indeed. But yet, why should we complain? We share but the unhappy fate of France, and, Heaven knows, she has deserved chastisement, were it for nothing else but the bloody and unchristian feuds which have brought this evil upon her." "Let us hope yet, mother--let us hope yet," said Jean Charost. "The very feeling of being once more at home--in this dear home, where so many sunny days have passed--rekindles the nearly extinguished fire, and makes me hope again, in despite of probability." "But why did you come on foot, dear Jean?" cried Agnes, clinging to him. "It was not for want of money, was it? Oh, I would gladly have sold all those pretty things you gave me long ago, to have bought a horse for you, though our dear mother says we must save every thing we can in order to pay your ransom." "No, dear child, no," replied Jean Charost. "There were other reasons for my coming on foot. I could not come with my lance in my hand, and my pennon and my band behind me; and for a solitary traveler, well dressed, and mounted on a good horse, it is dangerous to cross the country between Harfleur and Bourges. But it is vain to think of saving my ransom. My only hope is to get it diminished, and then to obtain the means of paying it--both through Jacques Cœur." "Diminished!" said Madame De Brecy, eagerly. "Is there a chance of that?" Her son explained to her that a conference had already taken place between the dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy, with a view to arrange the terms of peace. "Jacques Cœur," he said, "has great influence with our own royal prince, and I believe that I myself stand not ill with his highness of Burgundy, although, Heaven knows, I have never sought his favor. If the dauphin will condescend--as perhaps he ought--to make the liberation, upon moderate ransom, of several gentlemen taken at Azincourt a stipulation in the treaty, I think I have a fair claim to be among them. There is another interview, I find, to take place in a few days, and I must not miss the opportunity. I bear his highness letters from his cousin the young Duke of Orleans, and several other gentlemen of high repute. Let us hope then, my mother, at least till hope proves vain. Here will I rest to-night, and speed onward again to-morrow. Perhaps I may lose my labor, and have to travel back--to England and to captivity." "Then we will go with you, Jean," said Madame De Brecy. "You shall stay no more alone in a prison." "Yes, yes, let us go with you," cried Agnes, eagerly, drowning Jean Charost's reply. "We can all be as happy there as here. It is not the walls, or the earth, that make a cheerful home. It is the spirits that are in it." "Thou art a young philosopher." said Jean Charost, with a smile; "but we will see." The next morning Jean Charost was upon his way toward Monterreau, still dressed in his monkish garb--for the proverb proved true in his case--but now mounted on an old mule, the very beast that had carried the Duke of Orleans on the night of his assassination. It had been given to him by the duchess when last he saw her, and when she felt the hand of death pressing heavily upon her. The journey was too much for one day--twenty-three leagues, as they counted them in those days, when leagues were leagues, and they had kings in France--but Jean Charost resolved to push on as fast as possible; and by night of the second day he had reached the small town of Moret, whence a short morning's ride would bring him to Monterreau. It was dark when he arrived; but the small village was full of armed men, and round the doors of many of the houses were assembled gay groups, some seated on the ground, some on benches, some on empty barrels, laughing, drinking, and singing, with all the careless merriment of soldiery in an hour of peace. Lights burned in the windows; lanterns, and sometimes torches, were out at the doors, and the yellow harvest moon was rolling along the sky, and shedding from her golden chariot-wheels a glorious flood of light. Doubtless there was a good deal of ribaldry in the words--doubtless there was a good deal of licentiousness in the hearts of those around; but yet there was a joyous exuberance of life--a careless, happy, thoughtless confidence--an infectious merriment, that was difficult to resist. The ringing laughter, the light song, the gay jest, the cheerful faces, all seemed to ask Jean Charost, as he passed along, "Why should you take thought for the morrow, when you can never tell that a morrow will be yours? Why should you have care for the future, when the future is disposed of by hands you can not see? Rejoice! rejoice in the present day! Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you die." Many a jest assailed the friar and his mule as they passed along; but Jean Charost was in no mood to suffer a jest to annoy him. His hopes had increased as he came near the spot where they were to be fulfilled or extinguished, and the scene around him was certainly not calculated to bid them depart too soon. At the door of a small inn, he stopped, and asked if he could find entertainment; but the landlord rolled out a fat laugh, and told him, No, not if he could make himself as small as the constable's dwarf. "We are all as full here," he said, "as we can hold, and running over, with the dauphin's men-at-arms. I doubt whether you will find a quarter of a bed in the whole place. At the great gite; there--that place which looks so dull and melancholy--you will have a better chance than any where else; for Maître Langrin has raised his prices above the tax, because he expects the lords and commanders to stay there; but I don't think they will prefer his bad wine to my good, and pay more for it." Thither, however, Jean Charost turned his mule; but here the answer was much the same as before, combined with the saucy intimation that they did not want any monks at that house; and the young gentleman was turning away, thinking, with some anxiety, how he could feed and stable his beast, when he saw a man, dressed apparently as a superior officer, examining somewhat closely the mule, which he had left tied to the tall post before the inn. He was not fully armed, although he had a haubergeon on; and his head was only covered with a plumed cap. Though tall and well formed, he stooped a little; and as he drew back a step or two when the young gentleman approached to mount, he seemed to move with some difficulty, and limped as he walked. Jean Charost put his foot into the stirrup, mounted, and was about to ride away, when the stranger called to him, somewhat roughly, saying, "Where got you that mule, monk?" "It was a gift," replied Jean Charost, in a quiet tone, turning his face full toward the speaker. "A gift--not from a palmer to a convent," cried the other, "but from a lady to a soldier!" and in a moment after his arms were thrown round Jean Charost, while he exclaimed, with a laugh, "Why, don't you know me, De Brecy? I am not so much metamorphosed as you, in all your monkery. In Heaven's name, what are you doing in this garb, and in this place? Where do you come from? What are you doing? Some said you were killed at Azincourt. One man swore to me he saw you die. Another told me you were a prisoner in England; and I have always supposed the latter was the case, for I have found in my own case how difficult it is to get killed. They have nearly chopped me to mincemeat, but here I am--what is left of me, that is to say." The young gentleman gave his old companion all the information he desired; telling him, moreover, not without some hopes of assistance, the difficulties under which he just then labored. "Oh, come with me, come with me," said Juvenel de Royans. "I am captain of a company of horse archers, and every one bows down in reverence to me here. You shall have half of my room, if they will give you none other;" and, leading him back into the inn, he called loudly for the host. "Here, Master Langrin," he exclaimed, when the uncivil functionary whom Jean Charost had before seen made his appearance again, "this gentleman is a friend of mine. He must have accommodation--there, I know what you would say. You must make it, if you have not got it." "I took the gentleman for a monk, sir," said the host, with all humility. "A monk!" cried De Royans. "The gown does not make the monk. Where were your eyes? I will answer for it, he has got a steel coat on under that gown. But he must have some rooms, at all events." "There are none empty but those reserved for Madame De Giac," replied the landlord; "and all the men are obliged to sleep four or five in a bed." "Well, put him in Madame De Giac's rooms," cried De Royans, with a laugh. "I dare say neither party will object to the arrangement. At all events, you must find him some place; I insist upon it. I will quarter all my archers upon you, if you don't; eat out all you have got in the house, and drink up all your wine. Take ten minutes to consider of it, and then come and tell me, in the den where you have put me. Bid some of my people look to Monsieur De Brecy's mule, and look to it well; for, before it carried him, it carried as noble a prince as France has seen, or ever will see. Come, old friend, I will show you the way." When Jean Charost was seated in the room of Juvenel de Royans, a lamp lighted, and his companion stretched out at ease, partly on his bed and partly on a settle, the latter assumed a graver tone, and De Brecy perceived with pain that he was both depressed in mind and sadly shattered in body. Twelve years of almost incessant campaigning had broken down his strength, and many wounds received had left him a suffering and enfeebled man. "God help me!" he said. "I try to bear up well, De Brecy, and can not make up my mind to quit the old trade. I must die in harness, I suppose; but I believe what I ought to do would be to betake me to my castle by the Garonne, adopt my sister's son--her husband fell at Azincourt--and feed upon bouillons and Medoc wine for the rest of my life. I am never without some ache. But now tell me what are your plans; for, as I am constantly on the spot, I can give you a map of the whole country." Jean Charost explained to him frankly his precise situation, and De Royans thought over it for some time in silence. "You must make powerful friends," he said, at length. "Don't you know Madame De Giac? Every one knows that, on that fatal night, you were sent to her by the duke our lord, and, if so, she must be under some obligations to you for your discretion." "I have remarked, De Royans," replied the other, "that ladies generally hate those who have the power to be discreet." "That could be soon seen," said De Royans. "We can test it readily." "I see no use," replied De Brecy. "She is the avowed mistress of the Duke of Burgundy, and of him I am going to ask no favor." "She may be his avowed mistress, and no less a dear friend of his highness the dauphin," answered De Royans. "She was the duke's avowed mistress, and no less a dear friend of his highness of Orleans." Jean Charost gave a shudder. "Heaven forgive me," he said, "if I lack charity. But there is a dark suspicion in my mind, De Royans, which would make me sooner seek a boon of the devil than of that woman." "Ha!" said De Royans, raising himself partly from the bed. "If I thought that--but no matter, no matter. We will talk of her no more." "What does she here?" asked Jean Charost. "I will tell you all about it," replied the other. "A conference took place some time ago in regard to the general pacification of the kingdom. The Duke of Burgundy promised great things, which he has never performed, nor ever will; and his highness the dauphin has summoned him to another conference here at Monterreau, hard by. The duke has hesitated for more than a month. Sometimes he would come, sometimes he would not. Often urged that the dauphin himself should come to Troyes, where he lay with his forces, and with the poor king and queen. The dauphin said nay, but promised all security if he would come hither. John-without-Fear has shown himself John-with-great-Fear, however, well considering that there are twenty thousand men with his prince in and around Monterreau. Nothing would serve him but he must have the castle given up to him for security; and, accordingly, I and my men, who kept it for his highness the dauphin, were turned out, to make way for--who do you think?" "Nay, I can not tell," replied Jean Charost. "Perhaps James de la Ligne, master of the crossbow men, who I hear is with the duke." "Nothing of the kind," answered De Royans. "For good Madame De Giac, her household and servants--not an armed man among them. She arrives here to-night; goes on early to-morrow; and the duke himself, they say, will arrive in the afternoon. He came as far as Bray sur Seine five or six days ago; but there he stopped and hesitated once more; and one can not tell whether he will come after all or not. If he does he will come well accompanied; for it is clear that his heart fails him." "Is there any reason for his fear, except that general doubt of all men which the wicked have from the pictures in their own heart?" asked Jean Charost. Juvenel de Royans raised himself completely, and sat upon the edge of the bed, bending slightly forward, and speaking in a lower tone. "I can not tell," he said, slowly and thoughtfully; "but there is a general feeling abroad--no one can tell why--that if to-morrow's interview does take place something extraordinary will happen. It is all vague and confused--no one knows what he expects, but every one expects something. We have no orders for extraordinary preparation. The side of the castle next to the fields is to be left quite free and open for the duke and his people to come and go at their pleasure, and every thing seems to indicate that his highness meditates nothing but peaceful conference. Yet I know that, as soon as I hear the duke is in the Castle of Monterreau, I will have every man in the saddle, and every horse out of the stable, in order to act as may be needed." "But you must have some reasons for such apprehensions," said Jean Charost. "None--none, upon my word," replied Juvenel de Royans. "The only way I can account for the general feeling is, that every man of our faction knows that John of Burgundy is an enemy to France; that his ambition is the great obstacle to the union of all Frenchmen against our English adversaries; and that it would be good for the whole country if he were dead or in prison. Perhaps what every one wishes, every one thinks may happen. But now, De Brecy, once more to your own affairs. Your plan is a good one. His highness, in consenting to any peace, ought to stipulate for the liberation of his friends upon a moderate ransom--and yours is certainly unreasonable. But how to get at him is the question, in order to insure that your name may be among those stipulated. You will not use Madame De Giac." "Nay, but I have two means of access," answered Jean Charost. "I have a letter for his highness from the young Duke of Orleans, my fellow-prisoner; and I hear that my good friend Jacques Cœur has very great influence with the royal prince." Juvenel de Royans mused before he answered. "The letter may not do what you want," he said, at length; "for you must see the prince before this interview takes place; and when you present the letter, a long-distant day may be appointed for your audience. Jacques Cœur can doubtless procure your admission at once, if he be in Monterreau. He was there, certainly, three days ago, and supplied his highness liberally, they say, to his great joy; for he was well-nigh penniless. But the rumor ran that he was to depart for Italy yesterday." "Then the case is hopeless," said Jean Charost, with a sigh. A silence of some minutes succeeded; but then De Royans looked up with a smile. "Not hopeless," he said, "not hopeless. I have just thought of a way more sure than any other. First, I will give you a letter to my friend and cousin Tanneguy du Châtel, who is high in the dauphin's confidence. There, however, you might be put off; but there is another means in your own hand. Do you remember Mademoiselle De St. Geran--the beautiful Agnes--people used to think that you were in love with her, and she with you, though she was but a girl, and you little more than a boy in those days." "I remember her well," replied Jean Charost, "and have a high regard for her." "So has the dauphin," answered Juvenel de Royans, with a meaning smile. "You do not mean to say," cried Jean Charost; but his companion interrupted him. "I mean to say nothing," replied De Royans "In fact, men know nothing but what I have said. It is clear his highness has a great regard for her, reverences her advice, follows it, even in affairs of war and policy; and, were it not that his wife reverences and loves her just as much, there would be no doubt of the matter; for her exquisite beauty--" "I never thought her very beautiful," said Jean Charost. "Her form was fine, and her face pretty; but that is all." "Oh, but there has been a change," answered De Royans. "She is the same, and yet another. It is impossible to describe how beautiful she has grown. Every line in her face has become fine and delicate. The colors have grown clear and pure; the roses blossom in her cheek; the morning star is sparkling in her eyes; warm as the summer, yet dewy as the daybreak. But that is not all. There is an inconceivable grace in her movements, unlike any thing I ever saw. Her quickest gesture is so easy that it seems slow, and her lightest change of attitude brings out some new perfection in her symmetry; and through the whole there seems a soul, a spirit shining like a light upon every thing around. Why, the old Bishop of Longres himself said, the other day, that, from the parting of her hair to the sole of her foot, she was all beauty. The good man, indeed, said he did not know whether it was the beauty of holiness; but he hoped so." "Why, you seem in love with her yourself, De Royans," answered Jean Charost. "Go and see--go and see," replied his companion. "She will greet you right willingly; for she is mild and humble, and ever glad to welcome an old acquaintance." "But where can I find her?" asked Jean Charost. "Oh, you will find her at the Strangers' Lodging at the abbey," answered De Royans. "The dauphin has his head-quarters there, with the dauphiness and two or three of her ladies. Were I you, I would go to her the first; for her influence is certain, however it comes. But you must change your monk's garb, man; for, though they lodge at the abbey, the court is not very fond of the friars. Ah, here comes our landlord. Now, Monsieur Langrin, what has made you so long?" "The arrival of Madame De Giac, sir," answered the host. "I can but give the gentleman a mere closet to sleep in, which I destined for another; but of course, as your friend, he must have it; and as for supper, it is on the table, with good wine to boot." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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