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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur; 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 C[oe]ur."
"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 C[oe]ur," 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 C[oe]ur 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 C[oe]ur
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."