The town and the castle were quiet; the hateful sound of the rattling
cannon was heard no more; _pierrier_, _veuglaire_,[4] and culverin
were still, and the drum and the trumpet sounded not. When Agnes
looked out of the high window of the great round tower, after a sleep
which had remained unbroken by the clang of war longer than usual, she
could almost have supposed that every thing was peaceful around. The
morning sun shone brightly, the morning air was sweet and fresh, few
soldiers appeared upon the walls of the castle, there was no strife
seen going on in the streets, and it was only the sight of a barricade
immediately below the town gate of the citadel, and a breast-work of
earth some way further down, with half a dozen soldiers loitering
about each, that kept up the memory of a struggle.
Although she knew not the cause, Agnes was well pleased; for the very
quiet stillness was a relief, restoring to the mind calmness and hope.
But Agnes's hopes had now taken one particular direction, and her
first thought was, "As there is no active struggle going on, dear Jean
will be with us soon this morning."
But Jean Charost came not. An hour passed--an hour beyond the usual
time of his coming--and both his mother and Agnes began to feel alarm.
At length they sent down to inquire; but the answer brought up was, he
had gone out on the preceding night, and had not yet returned.
Had the wars and contentions which had raged through the rest of
France prevailed in the neighborhood of Bourges--had Madame da Brecy
and Agnes been accustomed to the scenes of strife and confusion which
reigned in the rest of the country--had they been drilled, as it were,
and disciplined to hourly uncertainty, they might have felt little or
no alarm. But Berri had been nearly free from the evils that scourged
the rest of France, and a wandering troop of Royalist cavalry, or the
sudden inroad of a small band of English or Burgundians, causing them
to raise the draw-bridge and drop the portcullis, was all they knew of
the dangers of the times. Even during the short period they had spent
in the citadel of Bourges, however, Jean Charost had always found
means to spend a short part of each day with them; and although his
not coming at the usual hour might not have caused much apprehension,
the reply that he had gone forth from the castle, and not returned,
agitated them both.
The alarm of Agnes, however, was much more than that of Madame De
Brecy. The aged feel this kind of apprehension, from many causes, much
less than the young. Cares and griefs harden the spirit to endure.
Each sorrow has its stiffening influence. Besides, as we approach the
extreme term of life, we are led to value it less highly--to estimate
it properly. When we contemplate it from the flowery beginning of our
days, oh, what a rich treasury of golden hours it seems! and we think
every one like us has the same dower. But as we look back at it when
our portion is nearly spent, we see how little really serviceable to
happiness it has procured, and we judge of others as ourselves. A
friend dies; and, though we may grieve, we think that we may soon meet
again. A friend is in danger, and we feel the less alarm, from a
knowledge that in losing life he loses little--that a few years more
or less are hardly dust in the balance, and that if he be taken away,
it is but that he goes from an inn somewhat near us to his home
further off.
Agnes was very anxious. Her's was a quick imagination, active either
in the service of joy or sorrow; and she fancied all that might have
occurred, and much that was not likely. At one time she was inclined
to believe that the commander of the castle was deceiving Madame De
Brecy and herself, anxious to save them pain--that Jean Charost had
been killed, and that De Blondel would not tell them. She little knew
how lightly a hardened soldier could deal with such a matter. Then,
reasoning against her fears, she thought that De Brecy must have gone
forth upon a sally, and been made prisoner, and memory brought back
all the sorrows that had followed Azincourt. But worst of all was the
uncertainty, the toilsome laboring of thought after some definite
conclusion--the ever-changing battle between hope and fear, in which
fear was generally triumphant. She sat at the high window, gazing over
the country round, and watching the different roads within sight. Now
she saw a group coming along toward the gates; but after eager
scanning, it proved nothing but some peasants bringing in provisions
for the soldiery. Then an indistinct mass was seen at a distance; but
long ere it reached Bourges, it turned away in a different direction.
Each moment increased her anxiety and alarm. One hour--two, went by.
Again she saw some one coming, and again was disappointed, and the
long-repressed tears rose in her eyes, the sobs with which she could
struggle no longer burst from her lips.
"Agnes, Agnes my child, come hither," cried Madame De Brecy; and
rising from her seat, Agnes cast herself upon her knees beside Jean
Charost's mother, and hid her streaming eyes upon her lap.
"What is it, my dear Agnes?" asked Madame De Brecy, much moved. "Tell
me, my child; what agitates you thus? Tell me your feelings--all your
feelings, my Agnes. Surely I have been to you ever as a mother:
conceal nothing from me."
"Why does he not come?" asked Agnes, in a voice hardly audible. "Oh,
dear mother, I fear he is ill--he is hurt--perhaps he is--"
"Nay, nay," replied Madame De Brecy, "you have no cause for such
agitation, Agnes. A soldier can not command his own time, nor can he,
amid many important tasks, always find the opportunity of letting
those he loves best know his movements, even to relieve their anxiety.
A soldier's wife, my child," she added, putting her arm gently round
the kneeling girl, "must learn to bear such things with patience and
hope--nay, more, must learn to conceal even the anxiety she must feel,
in order to cast no damp upon her husband's spirits, to shackle none
of his energies, and to add nothing to his sorrow of parting even with
herself. Would you like to be a soldier's wife, my Agnes?"
"I know not what I should like," answered Agnes, without raising her
head; but then she added quickly, as if her heart reproached her for
some little insincerity, "Yes, yes, I should; but then I should like
him to be a soldier no longer."
A faint smile came upon Madame De Brecy's lip, and she was devising
another question to bring forth some further confession, when through
the open window came the sound of a trumpet, and Agnes, starting up,
darted back to her place of watching.
Oh, how eagerly she dashed away the tears that dimmed her eyes; and
the next instant she exclaimed, with a radiant, rosy look of joy,
which rendered all further confession needless, "It is he--it is he!
There are a great number with him--some twenty or thirty; but I can
see him quite plainly. It is he!"
Hardly five minutes elapsed, and Agnes had barely time to clear her
face of the traces of emotion it displayed, when Jean Charost's step
sounded on the stairs, and the next moment he was in the room.
Very strange, Agnes did not fly to meet him. Agnes uttered no word of
gratulation. But she stood and trembled; for there are sometimes
things as full of awe discovered, within the heart, as any which can
strike our outward senses, and a vail had been withdrawn which exposed
to her sight things which, when first seen, were fearful as well as
dazzling.
"Joy, dear mother--joy, dearest Agnes," said De Brecy, holding out a
hand to each. "Your prison hours are over. A truce is proclaimed,
negotiations for reconciliation going on, and you have nothing to do
but mount and ride away with me. Quick with your preparations, dearest
mother--quick, my sweet Agnes!"
"Do not hurry her, my son," said Madame De Brecy, kindly. "She has
been very much terrified by your long absence, and has hardly yet
recovered. She shall go in the litter with me, and I will tell Suzette
to get all ready for her."
"Terrified for me, dearest Agnes!" said Jean Charost, as his mother
left the room; and he took her hand in his, and gazed into her face.
"Did they not give you the message I sent last night?"
"No," answered Agnes, in a low tone. "They only told us this morning,
when we sent to inquire, that you had gone forth, and had not
returned. How could they be so cruel. One word from you would have
saved us hours of pain."
"You are trembling now," said Jean Charost, still holding her hand.
"What would you do, dear Agnes, if you were a soldier's wife?"
"Your mother asked me the same," answered Agnes, with a faint smile,
"and I told her I did not know. I can but make you the same answer,
Jean. I suppose all a woman can do is to love and tremble."
"And could you love a soldier?" asked De Brecy, in a very earnest
tone.
"Oh that I could." murmured Agnes, trembling more than ever.
Jean Charost led her toward a seat, and as she trembled still, and he
feared she would fall, he put his arm around her waist, merely to
support her. It had been there a thousand times before, in years long
past, when she had stood by his side or sat upon his knee; but the
touch was different now to both of them. It made his heart thrill and
beat; it made hers nearly stop altogether.
She was so pale, he thought she would faint; and instinct prompted
that the safest way was that of the proverb--to speak true words in
jest. So, in a gay tone, he said, as he seated himself beside her,
still holding his arm round her waist, "Well, I'll tell you, dearest
Agnes, how it shall be. When you have refused some half a dozen other
soldiers, you shall marry Jean Charost; and I will give you leave to
love as much as you like, and to tremble as little as possible."
Agnes suddenly raised her eyes to his face with a look of earnest
inquiry, and then her cheek became covered with crimson, and she
leaned her head upon his bosom.
She said nothing, however, and he asked, in a low and gentle tone,
"Shall it be so, dearest Agnes?"
"No," she answered, wiping away some tears. "I do not wish to refuse
any one else."
"Ah, then I must make haste," said Jean Charost, "for fear you should
accept any one else. Will you be my wife, my own sweetest love?"
Again she answered not; but her small, soft fingers pressed gently on
his hand.
"Nay, but I must have a word," said Jean Charost, drawing her closer
to him; "but one word, dear girl. That little hand can not speak so
clearly as those dear lips."
"Oh, do not tease me," said Agnes, raising her head for a moment, and
taking a glance at his face. "I hardly know whether you are bantering
me or not."
"Bantering you!" said Jean Charost, in a graver tone. "No, no, my
love. I am not one to banter with your happiness or my own; and mine,
at least, is staked upon this issue. For all that the world contains
of joyful or of fortunate, I would not peril yours, Agnes. For this,
when Monsieur De Brives sought your hand, I hid my love for you in my
own heart, lest ancient regard and youthful fondness for an old dear
friend, should bias your judgment toward one unsuited to you. For
this, I would fain have let you see a little more of life before I
bound you by any tie to one much older than yourself. But I can
refrain no longer, Agnes; and, having spoken, I must know my fate.
Will you be mine, sweet love?"
"Yes, yes--yes!" said Agnes, throwing her arm round his neck. "I am
yours. I ever have been yours. I ever will be yours. You can not make
me otherwise, do as you will."
"I will never try," replied Jean Charost, kissing her. "Dear mother,"
he continued, as Madame De Brecy re-entered the room, "here is now
your daughter, indeed. I know you can not love her more than you do;
but you will love her now for my sake, as well as her own."
Madame De Brecy held wide her arms, and Agnes flew to her bosom. "My
child, my dear child," said the old lady. "But calm yourself, Agnes;
here is Martin Grille, come to say the litter is ready. Let us go."
"Ah, I thought how it would be," said Martin Grille to himself. "I
never saw dear friendships between a man under forty and a girl under
sixty end otherwise. My lord, the litter is ready, and all the
men-at-arms you named. The rest, however, seem somewhat surly at being
left behind; for I think they have had enough of being besieged. I am
sure I have. I shall not get that big gun out of my head for the next
month."
"Tell them there is a truce for three days," said Jean Charost; "and
if, at the end of that time, war is not at an end, I will return and
join them. We must not strip the castle of its defenders."
In a few minutes Jean Charost and his little cavalcade were beyond the
walls of Bourges; but Madame De Brecy remarked that they did not take
the way toward their own well-loved home, but, passing the River
Langis, directed their course toward Pressavoix. "Where are you taking
us, Jean?" she said to her son, who was riding beside the litter.
"To the castle of Felard, my dear mother," replied Jean Charost. "I
promised the queen that I would bring you and Agnes thither for a day.
I am in great favor at court now," he added, gayly, "for having had
some share in bringing about this negotiation. The king, indeed, seems
somewhat moody and irritable, but not with me; and he insists that I
shall take part in the conferences to be held this night at
Pressavoix. Nay, dearest mother; no objections on the score of dress
and equipment; for, let me tell you, the court is in traveling guise
as well as we are, and you will find more soiled and dusty apparel
there than we bring into it."
Madame De Brecy was in some trepidation; for it was long, long since
she had moved in courts, and the retired and quiet life which she had
passed for years unfitted her for such scenes. She made no opposition,
however; and, in somewhat less than half an hour, the little cavalcade
began to fall in with the outposts of the king's army. There was no
difficulty in passing them, however; for, from the moment the truce
was proclaimed, the soldiers on both posts concluded that some
agreement would be arrived at between the different factions, and
began to mingle together with as much gayety and good-will as if they
had never drawn the sword against each other. Groups were seen
galloping about the fields in different directions, standing and
talking together upon the road, riding rapidly about to and fro
between Pressavoix and Bourges, and the scene presented all the gayety
and brilliancy of war, without any of its terrors.
Shortly after passing the second line of posts upon the high-road,
Jean Charost led the way down a narrow lane, which seemed to plunge
into a deep, heavy wood. All was now quiet and solitary, and nothing
but the waving branches of great old trees was seen around for nearly
half a mile. The undulations of the ground were so slight that no
eminence gave a view over the prospect, and all that varied their
course as they advanced were the strongly-contrasted lines of light
and shade that crossed the road from time to time. At length, however,
the lane turned sharply, an open space was presented to view, and the
ancient château of Felard, which has long since given place to the
present modern structure, rose upon the sight in the midst. It had
towers and turrets, walls, ditch, and draw-bridge, like most large
country houses at that time; but it was by no means defensible against
any regular force, and was only chosen for the residence of the court
on account of the accommodation it afforded. Charles VII. had not yet
learned to dread the approach of his subjects to his person, to see
poison in his food, and an enemy in every stranger, and the gates were
wide open, without guards, and nothing but a few pages in attendance,
lingering about.
Descending in the outer court, Jean Charost assisted his mother and
Agnes to alight, and then led them on to the principal entrance of the
building, where they were shown into a vacant chamber, to wait the
pleasure of the queen.
"Have the courtesy," said Jean Charost to the page, "to let Messire
Jacques C[oe]ur know that I am here, after you have informed the
queen;" and, turning to his mother, whose face brightened at the name
of her old friend, he added, "I only saw him for an instant last
night; but his presence was most serviceable in obtaining for me
speedy audience."
At the end of about five minutes, the door opened, and a lady entered
alone, the richness of whose apparel, and perhaps still more, the
brilliance of her beauty, made Madame De Brecy suppose that she beheld
the queen. Jean Charost, however, addressed her as Mademoiselle De St.
Geran, and introduced his mother and Agnes to her, not altogether
without some embarrassment in his manner.
Agnes Sorel did not seem to remark it, however, spoke frankly and
kindly to Madame De Brecy, and then, turning to Agnes, gazed upon her
with a look of deep interest. "So this is your Agnes," she said,
turning to Jean Charost. "Oh, De Brecy, do not bring her into courts.
They are not places for such a flower as this. Is not that a hard
speech, my dear young lady? Doubtless, your young imagination has
painted courts as very brilliant places; but I myself know, from sad
experience, that they are fields where little grows but sorrows,
disappointments, and regrets."
"I have no inclination, indeed, madam, ever to mingle with them,"
replied Agnes.
But Agnes Sorel was by this time in a deep fit of meditation, and
seemed not to hear the fair girl's reply. After a minute's silence,
however, she turned quickly to Jean Charost, and said, "Why did you
name her Agnes?"
"Youthful regard for yourself, I believe, was the chief motive," he
answered, frankly. "I had seen you, dear lady, in many a trying
situation. You had generously, nobly befriended me, even at that time,
and I wished this dear girl to be like you."
Agnes shook her head slowly and sorrowfully, with an air which seemed
to speak as plainly as words, "You wish so no longer." Suddenly,
however, she roused herself, and said, with a sweet smile, "I had
almost forgotten my duty. Her majesty has commanded me to bring you to
her apartments. If you will follow me, Madame De Brecy, I will show
you the way, and afterward will show you your lodging."