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
C[oe]ur, 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.