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Agnes Sorel

<h4>CHAPTER XLI.</h4> What a wild whirlpool is history, and how strange it is to gaze upon it, and to see the multitudes of atoms that every instant are rushing forward upon the whirling and struggling waters of Time, borne fiercely along by causes that they know not, but obey--now catching the light, now plunged into darkness, agitated, tossed to and fro, turned round in giddy dance, and at length swallowed up in the deep centre of the vortex where all things disappear! It is a strange, a terrible, but a salutary contemplation. No sermon that was ever preached, no funeral oration ever spoken, shows so plainly, brings home to the heart so closely, the emptiness of all human things, the idleness of ambition, the folly of avarice, the weakness of vanity, and the meanness of pride, as the sad and solemn aspect of history--the record of deeds that have produced nothing, and passions that have been all in vain. But there is a Book from which all these things will at one time be read; and then, how awful will be the final results disclosed! To men who make history, however, while floating round in that vortex, and tending onward, amid all their struggles, to the one inevitable doom, how light and easy is the transition, how imperceptible the diminution of the circle, as onward, onward they are carried--how rapid, especially in times of great activity, is the passage of event into event. Time seems to stop in the heat of action, and energy, like the prophet, exclaims, "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon!" It seemed to Jean Charost--after several years had passed--but as a day and a night since he had left Agnes and his mother in the château of Brecy, near Bourges. Each day had had its occupation, each hour its thought: the one had glided into the other, and one deed trod so hastily upon the steps of another that there was no opportunity to count the time. And yet so many great events had happened that one would have thought the hours upon the dial were marked sufficiently. He had taken part in battles, he had been employed in negotiations, he had navigated one of the many armed vessels, now belonging to Jacques Cœur, upon the Mediterranean, in search of fresh resources for his king; and one of those lulls had taken place at the court of France--those periods of idle inactivity which occasionally intervened between fierce struggles against the foreign enemy, or factious cabals among the courtiers themselves. He took his way from Poictiers toward Bourges, to fulfill the promise he had often made to himself of returning, at least for a time, to those he loved with unabated fondness; and as he went, he thought with joy of his dear mother just as he left her--not knowing that her hair was now as white as snow; and his dear little Agnes--forgetting that she was no longer a mere bright girl of fourteen years of age. But Jean Charost now no longer appeared as a poor youth struggling to redeem his father's encumbered estates, nor as a soldier followed to battle by a mere handful of followers. His train was strong and numerous. The lands of St. Florent, so near his own castle and the town of Bourges as to be under easy control of an intendant, had furnished not only ample revenues but hardy soldiers, and with a troop of some sixty mounted men, all joyful, like himself, to return for a period to their homes, he rode gladly onward, a powerful man in full maturity, with a scarred brow and sun-burned face, but, with the rich brown curls of his hair hardly streaked with gray, except where the casque had somewhat pressed upon it, and brought the wintery mark before its time. But it was in the expression of his countenance that youth was most strongly apparent still. There were no hard lines, no heavy wrinkles. There was gravity, for he had never been of what is called a very merry disposition, but it was--if I may be allowed an expression which, at first sight, seems to imply a contradiction--it was a cheerful gravity, more cheerful than it had been in years long past. Success had brightened him; experience of the world and the world's things had rubbed off the rust that seclusion, and study, and hard application had engendered; and a kind, a generous, and an upright heart gave sunshine to his look. The country through which he passed was all peaceful: the troops of England had not yet passed the Loire; the Duke of Bedford was in England, and his lieutenants showed themselves somewhat negligent during his absence. After the fiercest struggle, the spirit of the Frenchman soon recovers breath; and in riding from Poictiers to Bourges, one might have fancied that the land had never known strife and contention--that all was peace, prosperity, and joy. There was the village dance upon the green; there was the gay inn, with its well-fed host, and his quips, and jests, and merry tales; the marriage-bells rang out; the procession of the clergy moved along the streets, and there was song in the vineyard and the field. It was an evening in the bright, warm summer, when the last day's march but one came toward an end; and on a small height rising from the banks of the Cher, with a beautiful village at its foot, and woods sweeping round it on three sides, appeared the old castle of St. Florent, where Jean Charost was to halt for the night, and journey on to De Brecy the following day. It was a pleasant feeling to his heart that he was coming once more upon his own land; and there above, upon the great round tower--for it was a very ancient building even then--floated a flag which bore, he doubted not, the arms of De Brecy. Just as he was passing one of the curious old bridges over the Cher, with its narrow, pointed arches, and massy, ivy-covered piers, a flash broke from the walls of the tower, and a moment after the report of a cannon was heard. "They see us coming, and are giving us welcome, De Bigny," said Jean Charost, turning to one of his companions who rode near. "Oh, 'tis pleasant to enjoy one's own in peace. Would to Heaven these wars were over! I am well weary of them." They rode on toward the slope, and entered a sort of elbow of the wood, where the dark oak-trees, somewhat browned by the summer sun, stretched their long branches overhead, and made a pleasant shade. It was a sweet, refreshing scene, where the eye could pierce far through the bolls of the old trees, catching here and there a mass of gray rock, a piece of rich green sward, a sparkling rivulet dashing down to meet the Cher, a low hermitate, with a stone cross raised in front, and two old men, with their long, snowy beards, retreating beneath the shady archway at the sight of a troop of armed men. "This is pleasant," said De Brecy, still speaking to his companion; "but to-morrow will afford things still pleasanter. The face of Nature is very beautiful, but not so beautiful as the faces of those we love." A hundred steps further, and the gates of the old castle appeared in view, crenelated and machicolated, with its two large flanking-towers, and the walls running off and losing themselves behind the trees. But there was the flutter of women's garments under the arch, as well as the gleam of arms. The heart of De Brecy beat high, and, dashing on before the rest, he was soon upon the draw-bridge. It is rarely that Fortune comes to meet our hopes. Hard school-mistress! She lessons man's impatience by delay. But there they were--his mother and little Agnes, as he still called her. The change in both was that which time usually makes in the old and in the young; and with old Madame De Brecy we will pass it over, for it had no consequences. But upon the changes in Agnes it may be necessary to pause somewhat longer. From the elderly to the old woman, the transition is easy, and presents nothing remarkable. From the child to the young woman the step is more rapid--more distinct and strange. There is something in us which makes us comprehend decay better than development. Agnes, who, up to the period when Jean Charost last beheld her, had been low of stature, though beautifully formed, seemed to have grown up like a lily in a night, and was now taller than Madame De Brecy. But it was not only in height that she had gained: her whole form had altered, and assumed a symmetry as delicate, but very different from that which it had displayed before. Previously, she had looked what Jean Charost had been fond to call her--a little fairy; but now, though she might have a fairy's likeness, still there was no doubting that she was a woman. Beautiful, wonderfully beautiful, she was to the eyes of Jean Charost; but yet there was something sorrowful in the change. The dear being of his memory was gone forever, and he had not yet had time to become reconciled to the change. He felt he could not caress, he could not fondle her as he had done before--that he could be to her no longer what he had been; and he dreamed not of ever becoming aught else. Strange to say, Agnes seemed to feel the change far less than he did. Indeed, she saw no change in him. His cheek might be a little browner; the scar upon his brow was new; but yet he was the same Jean Charost whom she had loved from infancy, and she perceived no trace of Time's hand upon his face or person. She had not yet learned to turn her eyes upon herself, and the alteration in him was so slight, she did not mark it. She sprang to meet him, even before his mother, held up her cheek for his first kiss, and gazed at him with a look of affection and tenderness, while he pressed Madame De Brecy to his heart, which might have misled any beholder who knew not the course of their former lives. But Jean Charost was very happy. Between the two whom he loved best on all the earth, he entered the old château; was led by them from room to room which he had never seen; heard how, as soon as they had received news of his proposed return, they had come on from De Brecy to meet him; how the hands of Agnes herself had decked the hall; and how the tidy care of good Martin Grille had seen that every thing was in due order for the reception of his lord. Joyfully the evening passed away, with a thousand little occurrences, all pleasant at the time, but upon which I must not dwell now. The supper was served in the great hall, and after it was over, and generous wine had given a welcome to De Brecy's chief followers, he himself retired, with his mother and his fair young charge, to talk over the present and the past. During that evening the conversation was rambling and desultory--a broken, ill-ordered chat, full of memories, and hardly to be detailed in a history like this. Jean Charost heard all the little incidents which had occurred in the neighborhood of Bourges; how Agnes had become an accomplished horse-woman; how she had learned from a musician expelled from Paris to play upon the lute; how Madame De Brecy had ordered all things, both on their ancient estates and those of St. Florent, with care and prudence; and how there were a thousand beautiful rides and walks around, which Agnes could show him, on the banks of the Cher. Then again he told them all he himself had gone through, dwelling but lightly upon his own exploits, and acknowledging, with sincere humility, that he had been rewarded for his services more largely than they deserved. Many an anecdote of the court, too, he told, which did not give either of his hearers much inclination to mingle with it; how the adhesion of the Count of Richmond had been bought by the sword of Constable and other honors; how the somewhat unstable alliance of the Duke of Brittany had been gained by the concession of one half of the revenues of Guyenne; how Richmond had played the tyrant over his king, and forced him to receive ministers at his pleasure; how he had caused Beaulieu to be assassinated; and how, after a mock trial, he had tied Giac in a sack, and thrown him into the Loire. Happily, he added, La Trimouille, whom he had compelled the king to receive as his minister, had avenged his monarch by ingratitude toward his patron; how Richmond was kept in activity at a distance from the court, and all was quiet for a time during his absence. Thus passed more than one hour. The sun had gone down, and yet no lights were called for; for the large summer moon shone lustrous in at the window, harmonizing well with the feelings of those now met after a long parting. Madame De Brecy sat near the open casement; Agnes and Jean Charost stood near, with her hand resting quietly in his--I know not how it got there--and the fair valley of the Cher stretched out far below, till all lines were lost in the misty moonlight of the distance. Just then a solemn song rose up from the foot of the hill, between them and St. Florent, and Agnes, leaning her head familiarly on Jean Charost's shoulder, whispered, "Hark! The two hermits and the children of the village, whom they teach, are chanting before they part." Jean Charost listened attentively till the song was ended, and then remarked, in a quiet tone, "I saw two old men going into the hermitage. I hope their reputation is fair; for it is difficult to dispossess men who make a profession of sanctity; and yet their proximity is not always much to be coveted." "Oh yes, they are well spoken of," replied Madame De Brecy; "but one of them, at least, is very strange, and frightened us." "It was but for a moment," cried Agnes, eagerly. "He is a kind, good man, too. I will tell you how it all happened, dear Jean; and we will go down and see him to-morrow, for he and I are great friends now. The day after our arrival here, I had wandered out, as I do at De Brecy, thinking myself quite as safe here as there, when suddenly in the wood, just by the little waterfall, I came upon a tall old man, dressed in a gray gown, and walking with a staff. What it was he saw in me, I do not know; but the instant he beheld me he stopped suddenly, and seemed to reel as if he were going to fall. I started forward to help him; but he seized hold of my arms, and fixed his eyes so sternly in my face, he frightened me. His words terrified me still more; for he burst forth with the strangest, wildest language I ever heard, asking if I had come from the grave, and if his long years of penitence had been in vain; saying that he had forgiven me, and surely I might forgive him; that God had forgiven him, he knew; then why should I be more obdurate; and then he wept bitterly. I tried to soothe and calm him; but he still held me by the arm, and I could not get away. Gradually, however, he grew tranquil, and begged my pardon. He said he had been suffering under a delusion, asked my name, and made me sit down by him on the moss. There we remained, and talked for more than half an hour; for, whenever I wished to go, he begged me piteously to stay. All the time I remained, his conversation seemed to me to ramble a great deal, at least I could not understand one half of it. He told me, however, that he had once been a rich man, a courtier, and a soldier, and that many years ago he had been terribly wronged, and in a moment of passionate madness he had committed a great crime. He had wandered about, he said, for some years as a condemned spirit, not only half insane, but knowing that he was so. After that, he met with a good man who led him to better hopes, and thenceforth he had passed his whole time in penitence and prayer. When he let me go, he besought me eagerly to come and see him in his hermitage, and, taking Margiette, the maid with me, I have been down twice. I found him and his companion teaching the little children of the village, and he seemed always glad to see me, though at first he would give a sidelong glance, as if he almost feared me. But he seemed to know much of you, dear Jean, at least by name. He said you had always been faithful and true, and would be so to the end, and spoke of you as I loved to hear. So you must come down with me, and see him and his comrade." "I will see him," replied Jean Charost. He made no further remark upon her little narrative; but what she told him gave him matter for much thought, even after the whole household had retired to rest. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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