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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h4> Who has not heard of the beautiful Allier? Who has not heard of the magnificent Auvergne? But the horseman stopped not to gaze at the mountains round him. He lingered not upon the banks of the stream; he hardly gave more than a glance at the rich Limagne. At Clermont, indeed, he halted for two whole hours, but it was an enforced halt, for his horse broke down with hard riding, and all the time was spent in purchasing another. A crust of bread and a cup of wine afforded the only refreshment he himself took, and on he went through the vineyards and the orchards, loaded with the last fruits of autumn. At Issoire he gave his horse hay and water, and then rode on at great speed to Lempole, but passed by its mighty basaltic rock, crowned with its castle, though he looked up with feelings of interest and regret as he connected it with the memory of Louis of Orleans. At Brioude he was forced to pause for a while; but his horse fed readily, and on he went again, out of the narrow streets of that straggling, disagreeable town, over the mountains, through the valleys, with vast volcanic forms all around him, and hamlets and villages built of the dark gray lava, hardly distinguishable from the rocks on which they stood. More than seventy miles he rode on straight from Clermont, and drew not a rein between Brioude and Puy, which burst upon his sight suddenly on the eastern declivity of the mountains, with its rich, unrivaled amphitheatre, and its three rivers flowing away at the foot. The sun was within a hand's breadth of the horizon. All the valleys seen from that elevation were flooded with light; the old cathedral itself looked like a resplendent amethyst, and devout pilgrims to the miraculous shrine still crowded the streets, some turning on their way homeward, some mounting the innumerable steps to say one prayer more at the feet of the Virgin. Jean Charost rode straight up to the little old inn--small and miserable as compared with many of the vast buildings appropriated in those days to the reception of the traveler in France, and still smaller in proportion to the number of devout persons who daily flocked into the city. But then the landlord argued that the pilgrims came for grace, and not for good living, and that therefore the body must put up with what it could get, if the soul was taken care of. Jean passed under the archway into the court-yard, gave his horse to an hostler of precisely the same stamp as the man who afforded a type to Shakspeare, and then, turning back toward the street, met the host in the doorway, prepared to tell him that he must wait long for supper, and put up with a garret. "I want nothing at present, my good friend," replied Jean Charost, "but a cup of wine, which is ready at all times, and some one to show me my way on foot to Espaly. Indeed, I should not have turned in here at all, but that my horse could go no further." "Ah, sir," cried the host, with his civility and curiosity both awakened together; "so you are going to see Monseigneur le Dauphin? News now, I warrant, and good, I hope--pray, what is it?" "Excellent good," replied Jean Charost. "First, that a thirsty man talks ill with a dry mouth; and, secondly, that a wise man never gives his message except to the person it is sent to. The dauphin will be delighted with these tidings; and so now give me a cup of wine, and some one to show me the way." "Ha, you are a wag!" said the landlord; "but harkee, sir; you had better take my mule. It will be ready while I am drawing the wine, and you drinking it. Though they say, 'Espaly, near Puy,' it is not so near as they call it. My boy shall go with you on a quick-trotting ass to bring back the mule." "And the news," said Jean Charost, "if he can get it. So be it, however; for, good sooth! I am tired. I have not slept a wink for six-and-thirty hours; but let them make all haste." "As quick as an avalanche, sir," said the landlord; "and God speed you, if you bring good news to our noble prince. He loves wine and women, and is exceedingly devout to the blessed Virgin of Puy; so all men should wish him well, and all ladies too." The landlord did really make haste, and in less than ten minutes Jean Charost was on his way to Espaly, along a sort of natural volcanic causeway which paves the bottom of the deep valley. The sun was behind the hills, but still a cool and pleasant light was spread over the sky, and the towers of the old castle, with their many weather-cocks, and a banner displayed on the top of the donjon, rising high above the little village at the foot of the rock, seemed to catch some of the last rays of the sun, and <div style="margin-left:10%; font-size:10pt"> "Flash back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light." </div> The ascent was steep, however, and longer than the young gentleman had expected. It was dim twilight when he approached the gates, but there was little guard kept around this last place of refuge of the son of France. Nested in the mountains of Auvergne, with a long, expanse of country between him and his enemies, Charles had no fear of attack. The gates were wide open, not a solitary sentinel guarded the way, and Jean Charost rode into the court-yard, looking round in vain for some one to address. Not a soul was visible. He heard the sound of a lute, and a voice singing from one of the towers, and a merry peal of laughter from a long, low building on the right of the great court; but besides this there was nothing to show that the castle was inhabited, till, just as he was dismounting, a page, gayly tricked out in blue and silver, crossed from one tower toward another, with a bird-cage in his hand. "Ho, boy!" cried Jean Charost; "can you tell me where I shall find the servant of Mademoiselle De St. Geran; or can you tell her yourself that the Seigneur de Brecy wishes to speak with her?" "Come with me, come with me, Beau Sire," said the boy, with all the flippant gayety of a page. "I am going to her with this bird from his highness; and this castle is the abode of liberty and joy. All iron coats and stiff habitudes have been cast down in the chapel, and a vow against idle ceremony is made by every one under the great gate." "Well, then, lead on," said Jean Charost "My business might well abridge ceremony, if any did exist. Wait here till I return," he continued, speaking to the innkeeper's son; and then followed the page upon his way. The tower to which the boy led him was a building of considerable size, although it looked diminutive by the side of the great donjon, which towered above, and with which it was connected by a long gallery, in a sort of traverse commanding the entrance of the outer gate. The door stood open, as most of the other doors throughout the place, leading into an old vaulted passage, from the middle of which rose a narrow and steep stair-case of gray stone. A rope was twisted round the pillar on which the stair-case turned; and it was somewhat necessary at that moment, for, to say sooth, both passage and stair-case were as dark as Acheron. Feeling his way, the boy ascended till he came to a door on the first floor of the tower, which he opened without ceremony. The interior of the room which this sudden movement displayed, though darkness was fast falling over the earth, was clear and light compared with the shadowy air of the stair-case, and Jean Charost could see, seated thoughtfully at the window, that lovely and never-to-be-forgotten form which he had last beheld at Monterreau. Agnes Sorel either did not hear the opening of the door, or judged that the comer was one of the ordinary attendants of the place, for she remained motionless, plunged in deep meditation, with her eyes raised to a solitary star, the vanward leader of the host of heaven, which was becoming brighter and brighter every moment, as it rose high above the black masses of the Anis Mountains. "Madam, here is a bird for you which his highness has sent," said the page, abruptly. "Some say it is a nightingale; and, though his coat is not fine, he sings deliciously." Agnes Sorel turned as the boy spoke, but she looked not at him, or the cage, or the bird, for her eyes instantly rested upon the figure of Jean Charost, as he advanced toward her, apologizing for his intrusion. Though what light there was fell full upon him through the open window, it was too dark for her to distinguish his features; but his voice she knew as soon as he spoke, though she had heard it but rarely. Yet there are some sounds which linger in the ear of memory--echoes of the past, as it were--which instantly carry us back to other days, and recall circumstances, thoughts, and feelings long gone by, with a brightness which needs no eye to see them but the eye of the mind. The voice of Jean Charost was a very peculiar voice--soft, and full, and mellow, but rounded and distinct, like the tones of an organ, possessing--if such a thing be permitted me to say--a melody in itself. "Monsieur de Brecy!" she exclaimed, "I am rejoiced to see you here--no longer a prisoner, I hope--no longer seeking ransom, but a free man. But what brings you to this remote corner of the earth? Some generous motive, doubtless. Patriotism, perhaps, and love of your prince. Alas! De Brecy, patriotism finds cold welcome where pleasure reigns alone; and as to love--would to God your prince loved himself as others love him!" "What shall I say to his highness, madam?" asked the boy, whom she had hardly noticed; "what shall I say about the bird?" "Tell him," replied Agnes, rising quickly from her seat--"tell him that if I am a good instructor, I will teach that bird to sing a song which shall rouse all France in arms--Ay, little as it is, and feeble as may be its voice, I am not more powerful, my voice is not more strong; and yet--I hope--I hope--Get thee gone, boy. Tell his highness what I have said--tell him what you will--say I am half mad, if it please you; for so I am, to sit here idly looking at that mountain and that star, and to think that the banners of England are waving triumphant over the bloody fields of France. Well, De Brecy--well," she continued, as the boy retired and closed the door. "What news from the court of the conquerors? What news from the proud city of London? We have lost our Henry; but we have got a John in exchange. What matters Christian names in these unchristian times? A Plantagenet is a Plantagenet; and they are an iron race to deal with, which requires more steel, I fear, than we have left in France." "My news, dear lady," replied Jean Charost, "is not from London, but from Paris." "Well, what of Paris, then?" asked Agnes Sorel, in an indifferent tone, taking another seat partly turned from the window. "Let me ask you to ring that bell upon the table. It is growing dark--we must have lights. One star is not enough, bright as it may be--even the star of love--one star is not enough to give us light in this darksome world." Jean Charost rang the bell; but ere any attendant could appear, he said, hurriedly, "Dear lady, listen to me for one moment: I bring important news." "Good or bad?" asked Agnes Sorel, quickly. "One half is unmingled good," answered Jean Charost; "the other is of a mixed nature, full of hope, yet alloyed with sorrow." "Even that is better than any we have lately had," replied Agnes. "Nevertheless, I am a woman, De Brecy, and fond of joy. Give me the unmingled first: we will temper it hereafter." "Well, then, dear lady, I am sent to tell his highness, from our good friend Jacques Cœur, that a hundred thousand crowns of the sun are by this time waiting his pleasure at Moulins, and that two hundred thousand more will be there in one month." "Joy, joy," cried Agnes, clasping her hands; "oh, this is joyful indeed! But then," she added, "Heaven send that it be used aright. I fear--oh, I fear--Nay, nay, I will fear no more! It is undeserved misfortune crushes the noble heart, bows the brave spirit, and takes its energy away from greatness. Have you told him, De Brecy? What did he say? How did he look? Not with light joy, I hope; but with grave, expectant satisfaction, as a prince should look who finds his people's deliverance nigher than he thought." "I have not seen him," replied De Brecy, "first, because I knew not well how to gain admission, and, secondly, because I wished that you should have the opportunity of telling him of a change of fortunes, hoping--knowing that you would direct his first impulses aright." "I--I?" exclaimed Agnes. "Oh, De Brecy, De Brecy, I am unworthy of such a task! How should I direct any one aright? Yet it matters not what I be--Weak, frail, faulty as I am--the courage and resolution, the energy and purpose, which once possessed me solely, shall, all that is left, be given to him and to France. One error shall not blot out all that is good in my nature. Ha! here come the lights--" She paused for a moment or two, while the servant entered, placed lights upon the table, and retired; and then, in a much calmer tone, resumed the discourse. "I have been much moved to-day," she said, "but even this brief pause of thought has been sufficient to show me the right way--Lights, you have done me service," she added, with a graceful smile. "Come, De Brecy, I will lead you to her who alone is worthy, and fitted to give these good tidings--to my friend--to my dear good friend--the princess, his wife." "But you have forgotten," replied Jean Charost. "I have other tidings to tell." "Ha!" she said, "and those mingled--I did forget, indeed. Say what it is, De Brecy. We must not raise up hopes to dash them down again." "That will not be the effect," said De Brecy. "The news I have is sad, yet full of hope. That which has been wanting on the side of his highness and of France, in this terrible struggle against foreign enemies and internal traitors, has been the king's name. In his powerless incapacity, the mighty influence of the monarch's authority has been arrayed against the friends, and for the foes of France. Dear lady, it will be so no more!" "No more!" exclaimed Agnes, eagerly, and with her whole face lighting up. "Has he been snatched from their hands, then? Tell me, De Brecy, how? when? where? But you look grave, nay, sad. Is the king dead?" "Charles the Sixth is dead," answered De Brecy. "But Charles the Seventh lives to deliver France." "Stay--stay," said Agnes Sorel, seating herself again, and putting her hand thoughtfully to her brow. "Poor king--poor man! May the grave give him peace! Oh, what a life was his, De Brecy! Full of high qualities and kindly feelings, born to the throne of the finest realm in all the world, adored by his people, how bright were once his prospects! and who would ever have thought that the life thus begun would be passed in misery, madness, sickness, and neglect--that his power should be used for his own destruction--his name lead his enemies to battle against his son--his wife contemn, despise, and ill treat him, and his daughter wed his bitterest foe--that he should only wake from his insane trances to see his kinsmen murder and be murdered before his face, all his sons but one passing to the tomb before him--perchance by poison--and that he himself should follow before he reached old age, without that tendance in his lingering sickness that a common mechanic receives from tenderness, the beggar from charity? Oh, what a destiny!" "We might well weep for his life," said De Brecy; "but we can not mourn his death. To him it was a blessing; to France it may be deliverance. This news, however, you have now to carry to the king." "True, true," cried Agnes; but then she paused a moment, and repeated his last words with a thoughtful and anxious look. "To the king!" she said; "to the king! No, I will take it to the queen, De Brecy. Come you with me, in case of question, and to receive those honors and rewards which are meet for him who brings such tidings. Ay, let us speak it plainly--such good tidings. For on these few words, 'Charles the Sixth is dead,' depends, I do believe, the salvation of our France." As she spoke, she rose and moved toward the door, and De Brecy followed her down the stair-case, and through the long passage which connected the tower with the donjon. The yellow autumn moon peeped up above the hills, and poured its light upon them through the tall windows as they went. There was a solemn feeling in their hearts which prevented them from uttering a word. The way was somewhat lengthy, but at last Agnes stopped before a door and knocked. The sweet voice of Marie of Anjou bade them come in, and Agnes opened the door. "Ah, my Agnes," cried the princess, "have you come to cheer me? I know not how it is, but I have felt very sad to-night. I have been moralizing, dear girl, and thinking how much happier I should have been had we possessed nothing but this castle and the demesne around, mere lords of a little patrimony, instead of seeing kingdoms called our own, but to be snatched away from us. France seems going the way of Sicily, my Agnes. But who is this you have with you? His face seems known to me." "You have seen him once before, madam," said Agnes. "He is the bringer of great tidings; but no lips but mine must give them to my queen;" and, advancing gracefully, she knelt at the feet of Marie of Anjou, and kissed her hand, saying, "Madam, you are Queen of France. His majesty, Charles the Sixth, has departed." The queen stood as one stupefied; for so often had the unfortunate king been reported ill, and then recovered, so little was known of his real state beyond the walls of the Hôtel St. Pol, and so slow was the progress of information in that part of France, that not a suspicion of the impending event had been entertained in the château of Espaly. After gazing in the face of Agnes for a moment, she cast down her eyes to the ground, remained for a brief space in deep thought, and then exclaimed, "But, after all, what is he? A king almost without provisions, a general without an army, a ruler without power or means. Rise, rise, dear Agnes;" and, casting her arms round her neck, Marie of Anjou shed tears. They were certainly not tears of sorrow for the departed, for she knew little of the late king; we do not even know from history that she had ever seen him; but all sudden emotions must have voice, generally in laughter, or in tears. It has been very generally remarked that joy has its tears as well as sorrow; but few have ever scanned deeply the fountain-source from which those drops arise. Is it not that, like those of a sealed fountain unconsciously opened, they burst forth at once, to sparkle, perhaps, in the sunshine of the hour, but yet bear with them a certain chilliness from the depths out of which they arise? Marie of Anjou recovered herself speedily, and Agnes Sorel, rising from her knee, held out her hand to Jean Charost, and presented him to the queen, saying, "He brings you happier tidings, madam--tidings which, I trust, may give power to the sceptre just fallen into his majesty's hand; ay, and edge his sword to smite his enemies when they least expect it. By the skill and by the zeal of one I may venture to call your friend as well as mine--noble Jacques Cœur--the means which have been so long wanting to make at least one generous effort on behalf of France, are now secured. Speak, De Brecy--speak, and tell her majesty the joyful news you bear." The young gentleman told his tale simply and well; and when he had concluded, the queen, with all traces of sorrow passed away, exclaimed, "Let us hasten quick, dear Agnes, and carry the news to my husband! There be some men fitted for prosperity, and he is one. Misfortune depresses him; but this news will restore him all his energies. Oh, this castle of Espaly! It has seemed to me a dungeon of the spirit, where chains were cast around the soul, and the fair daylight of hope came but as a ray through the loophole of a cell. Come with me--come with me, my friends! I need no attendants but you two." Jean Charost raised a light from the table and opened the door, then followed along the dark passages till they reached a small hall upon the ground-floor, which the queen entered without waiting for announcement or permission. Her light step roused no one within from his occupation, and the whole scene was before her eyes ere any one engaged in it was aware of her presence. She might, perhaps, have seen another, less tranquil to look upon. At a table under a sconce, in one corner of the room, sat a young man reading the contents of a book richly illuminated. His cap and plume were thrown down by his side, his sword was cast upon a bench near, and his head was bent over the volume, with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the page, deciphering, probably with difficulty, the words which it presented. In another corner of the room, far removed from the light, and with his shoulders supported by the angle of the building, sat Tanneguy du Châtel, sound asleep, but with his heavy sword resting on his knees, and his left hand lying upon the scabbard. Nearer to the windows--some seven paces probably in advance--stood a boy dressed as a page, looking at what was going on at a table before him, but not venturing to approach too near. At that table, with a large candelabra in the centre, sat a young gentleman of powerful frame, though still a mere lad, with a slight mustache on the upper lip, and his strong black hair curling round his forehead and temples. On the opposite side of the table, nearest to the page, was Charles the Seventh himself. He was the only one in the room who wore his cap and plume, and to the eyes of Jean Charost--whether from prepossession or not, I can not tell--there seemed an air of dignity and grace about his youthful figure which well befitted the monarch. The thoughts of France, however, were evidently far away, and his whole attention seemed directed to the narrow board before him, on which he was playing at chess with his cousin, the after-celebrated Dunois. Still the step of the queen and her companions did not rouse him: his whole soul seemed in the move he was about to make, and it was not till they were close by that he even looked round. Even then he did not speak, but turned his eyes upon the game again, and in the end moved his knight so as to protect the king. "That is a good move," said his wife, taking a step forward; "but some such move must be made speedily, my lord, upon a wider board." Then, bending her knee, she added, "God save his majesty, King Charles the Seventh!" Charles started up, nearly overturning the board, and deranging all the pieces. "What is it, Marie?" he asked, looking almost aghast; but Agnes Sorel and Jean Charost knelt at the same time, saying, "God save your majesty! He has done his will with your late father." Up started Dunois, and waved his hand in the air, exclaiming, "God save the king!" and the other three in the chamber pressed around, repeating the same cry. Charles stood in the midst, gazing gravely on the different faces about him, then slowly drew his sword from the scabbard, and laid it on the table, saying, in a calm, thoughtful, resolute tone, "Once more!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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