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Agnes Sorel

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<h4>CHAPTER XLIV.</h4> The power of the mind to accommodate itself to all things is curiously displayed in the zest and carelessness with which soldiers, in the busy time of war, enjoy all short intervals of repose. The whole morning had been passed in skirmishing in the streets of Bourges, in strengthening every defense of the castle, and in collecting whatever provisions could be found in the neighboring houses, so long as the smallness of the force in the town permitted parties to issue forth from the citadel. But in the course of the day, the troops of the Count of La Marche and of the Count of Clermont entered Bourges, and joined the Count of Richmond. A strong party was posted across the river opposite to the gate of the castle, another occupied the bridge, and the blockade of the citadel was complete. Weary, however, with the long march and a morning's skirmishing, the troops of the revolted lords did not press the siege during the rest of the day. The defenders of the citadel, too, had but little opportunity of annoying the enemy or serving themselves; and, from three o'clock till nightfall, nothing occurred but an occasional shot of a cannon or a culverine, directed at any group of the enemy who might appear in the castle street, or at the parties on the opposite side of the river. True, the citadel was surrounded on every side by a strong force; true, the siege was likely to commence on the following day with vigor and determination; but still a sort of tacit truce was established for the time; and could any one have seen the little party of superior officers seated together in the castle of Bourges that night at supper, they would have seemed but a gay assembly of thoughtless men met together on some occasion of merry-making. They laughed, they talked, and some of them drank deep; but none of them seemed to give one thought to their perilous situation, trusting confidently to the precautions they had taken for defense, and to the care and faith of those who had been left upon guard. Jean Charost, though perhaps the gravest of the party, seemed for the time as indifferent to the fate of the citadel as the rest; and, seated next to Juvenel de Royans, conversed upon any subject on earth but the state of Bourges, dwelling upon former times and past-by occurrences, the days they had spent together in the household of the Duke of Orleans, their after meetings, and the fatal events of Monterreau. "What a strange thing life is, De Brecy!" said his companion. "Here you and I meet, first as enemies, and are ready to cut each others throats; then as young friends and brothers-in-arms, ready to sacrifice our lives for one another; and then here we are, beleaguered in this fusty old château of Bourges, with Richmond, who never spares an enemy, and La Marche, who seldom spares a friend, ready to dig us out of our hole, as they would a badger on the side of a hill. I forgot to mention our short meeting at Monterreau, for, by my faith! I was too ill at that time even to do the honors of my quarters." "You seem wonderfully improved in health, De Royans," said Jean Charost. "You look younger by four or five years than you did then." "But a poor, battered old soldier, after all," replied De Royans, tossing up with his fingers one of the curls that hung at the back of his neck. "You see I am as gray as a wild goose. However, I am much better. A year's idleness on the banks of the Garonne, a little music, and a great deal of physic, cured my wounds, loosened my stiff joints, and enabled me to keep my horses back almost as well as ever. I have got on in the world, too, De Brecy, have made some very nice little captures, paid off many old debts, and got two companies of arquebusiers under my command instead of one. I wish to Heaven I had them all here. Had they been in the town, Richmond would never have got in by the northwest gate." "I marvel much that he did, I will confess," replied Jean Charost. "Two days ago I sent Monsieur de Blondel there intimation that Bourges was in danger. I thought fit, indeed, to tell him the source from which I received the intelligence; but still it might have kept him on his guard." "Oh, I heard all about that," replied De Royans, laughing; "and we were all more or less in fault. When Blondel got your letter, he held it in his hand, after reading it, and cried out, in his jeering way, 'What's a hermit? and what does a hermit know of war?' Then said Gaucourt, 'As much as the pig does of the bagpipe; and why should he not?' and then they all laughed, and the matter passed by. But who is this hermit who has got such good intelligence? On my life! De Brecy, it would be well to have him in pay." "That you could hardly have," replied De Brecy. "He was once a famous soldier, my friend, but has met with many disasters in life. I went to see him upon other matters; but the intelligence he gave me, transmitted from mouth to mouth, I believe, all the way from Chatellerault to St. Florent, seemed so important that I left him without even touching upon my object. He is looked upon as a saint by all the country round, and the peasantry tell him every thing they hear." "But what, in Fortune's name, took you to a saint?" asked Juvenel de Royans, laughing "Was it to ask for absolution for wandering about the land with that lovely little creature you brought hither?" Jean Charost looked grave, but answered calmly, "That was no sin, I trust, De Royans, for I may call her my adopted daughter. She had, indeed, something to do with my going to see him, for he has great knowledge of her fate and history; and I wished to learn more than he has ever yet told me. It is time that she herself should know all. She will, it is true, have all I die possessed of; but still I could wish the mystery of her birth cleared up." "Why, surely this is not the infant you brought out of the wood near Beauté sur Marne--the child we had so many jests upon?" exclaimed De Royans. "The very same," replied Jean Charost. "She has been as a child to me ever since." "We thought she was your child then," replied De Royans. "Heaven help us! I have learned to think differently since of many things, and would gladly have wished you joy of your babe, if you had acknowledged her, right or wrong; but, as it was, we all vowed she was yours, and only called you the sanctified young sinner. Two or three times I went down to good Dame Moulinet's to see if I could not get the truth out of her; but; though she seemed to know much, she would say little." "Do you know if Dame Moulinet be still living, and where she is?" asked Jean Charost. "She was living a year ago, and not ten miles from Bourges," replied De Royans. "In the village of Solier, hard by the Cher. I had one of her sons in my troop. She and her husband are well to do now, for they have got her father's inheritance. They were tenants of that old Monsieur de Solier whose daughter our dear lord and master, the Duke of Orleans, carried off by force from her husband." Jean Charost started, and exclaimed, "Merciful Heaven!" "Ay, it was bad enough," said De Royans. "Our noble lord had his little faults and his great ones; and some of them. I have a notion, imbittered his last hours. This, above all others, I believe, affected him, for it had a terrible termination, as I dare say you remember." "No--no," answered Jean Charost; "I never heard of it before. How did it end?" "Why, the lady died," said De Royans, gravely. "No one of the household very well knew how, unless it was Lomelini. Some say that she was poisoned--some, that she was stabbed in her sleep." "Not by the duke!" exclaimed Jean Charost, with a look of horror. "God forbid!" cried Juvenel de Royans, eagerly. "He only loved her too well. No; there were strange tales going; but certain it is she died, and her death nearly deprived the duke of reason, they thought. Now, I recollect, you first came about that very time. The lady had been ill some months; but, as there was the cry of a babe in the house--one might hear it from the garden--we thought that natural enough. Her death, however, surprised us all. Hypocritical Lomelini would have us believe that it was remorse that killed her; but there were a great many strange things took place just then. One of the judges of the Châtelet was brought to the palace--there were secret investigations, and I know not what. Your coming about that time made us think you had something to do with the affair. Some said you were her younger brother. But what makes you look so sad, De Brecy?" "The subject is a sad one," answered Jean Charost; "and, moreover, new lights are breaking upon me, De Royans. Do you think, if Lomelini is still living, he could give me information upon those events?" "He could, if he would," answered his companion. "He is living, and as sleek as ever, and Abbot of Briare; but I can tell you, I think, all that remains to be told. Poor old Monsieur De Solier died of grief. I shall never forget his coming to the Palais d'Orleans, to persuade the duke to give his daughter up, nor the despair of his countenance when the duke would not see him. The husband made away with himself, I believe, which was a pity, for they say this Count De St. Florent was as good a soldier as any of his day, and had fought in many a battle under Charles the Fifth. However, he never was heard of more, from the time the duke carried off his wife, during his absence. That is all that is to tell. One--two--three, died miserably for a prince's pleasures; and he himself had his heart wrung with remorse, which is better, perhaps, than could be said of most princes. It is a sad history, though a brief one." "And the child?" said De Brecy. Juvenel de Royans looked suddenly up with an inquiring glance. "I do not know," he said. "But do you think--do you really believe--" "I know nothing," replied Jean Charost. "The duke told me nothing of all this. I had fancied he might have something of importance to communicate; and, indeed, something was said about giving me some papers; but he was murdered, and--" "Did you never get the packet Lomelini had for you?" asked De Royans. Before Jean Charost could answer, a soldier came into the hall, saying, "Is there a Monsieur de Brecy here?" "He is here, young man; what do you want?" asked De Brecy. "A letter addressed to you, sir," answered the soldier, advancing toward him. All eyes turned at once upon the bearer of the letter and him to whom it was addressed; and De Blondel, who was in command, exclaimed, "A letter, by the Lord! Unless we have taken to writing letters to one another, the gates of the old château must be more open than we thought." "I found it on an arrow-head, sir, just within the east barbican," replied the soldier. "Well, well. What contains it?" asked the other, impatiently. "News, or no news, good or bad, Seigneur De Brecy?" "News, and good news," replied Jean Charost, who had by this time received the letter and unfolded it; "hear what he says;" and he proceeded to read from the somewhat crooked and irregular lines before him the following words: "FAITHFUL AND TRUE,--This is to have you know that King Charles is already on the march for your deliverance. Hold out to the last, and two days will see the royal banner before Bourges. Let not your companions slight this notice as they slighted the last; for the shameful loss of Bourges can only be repaired by the brave defense of the castle." "He touched us there pretty sharply," said Blondel; "and, 'pon my life, what he says is true; so I, for one, swear by this flagon of wine--and if I don't keep my vow may I never drink another--that I will bury myself under the ruins of the castle before I surrender it. What say you, gentlemen? Will you all touch the tankard, and take the vow?" They all swore accordingly; for the chivalrous custom of making such rash vows had not departed, though Chandos, one of the most remarkable of vow-makers, had laid his head in the grave nearly half a century before. It must be confessed, however, that Jean Charost took the oath unwillingly, for there were lives in that castle dearer to him than his own. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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