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
"Flash back again the western blaze,
In lines of dazzling light."
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 C[oe]ur, 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 C[oe]ur--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!"