It gives one a curious sensation to stand on the spot where great
deeds have been enacted: to tread the halls where true tragedies have
been performed: to fancy one sees the bloody stains upon the floor: to
fill the air with the grim faces of the actors: to imagine one's self
surrounded with the fierce passions of other days, like midnight
ghosts emitted from the grave. I have stood in the small chamber where
the most brutal murder that ever stained the name of a great nation
was devised and ordered by the counselors of John of Bedford. I have
stood where an act of justice took the form of assassination against
Henry of Guise. I have beheld the prison of the guilty and the unhappy
Mary, and the lingering death-chamber of the innocent and luckless
Arabella Stuart. But, although these sights were full of deep
interest, and even awe, the effect was not so strange as that produced
by passing through ancient places of more domestic interest, where
courts and kings, the brave, the fair, the good, the wise, or their
opposite, had lived and loved, enjoyed and suffered, reveled and wept,
in times long, long gone by. Often, when I have read some glowing
description of mask or pageant, or scene of courtly splendor, and have
visited the place where it occurred, I have asked myself, with wonder,
"Could it have been here, in this mean and poor-looking place?" and
have been led from an actual comparison of the scene with that
described in the past, to conclude that in those earlier days men were
satisfied with much less, and that the splendor of those times would
be no splendor to ourselves.
The great hall of Jacques C[oe]ur, the wealthiest merchant in France,
now holding high office at the court, and, in fact, the royal
treasurer--a hall celebrated throughout all Berri--was indeed a large
and well-shaped apartment, but still very simple in all its
decorations. It was, perhaps, more than forty feet in length, and four
or five and twenty feet in width: was vaulted above with a
semicircular arch, ceiled with long planks, finely jointed together,
of some dark, unpolished wood. The same material lined the whole hall;
but on the walls the wood was polished and paneled, and four
pilasters, in the Italian fashion, ornamented each corner of the wall,
and seemed, but only seemed, to support the roof.
Many candles were required to give light to that large dark room; but
it was very insufficiently illuminated. What little light there was
fell principally upon the figure of the young king, as, seated at a
small table in the midst, he leaned his head upon his hand in a
somewhat melancholy attitude, and bent his eyes down toward the floor.
"Will she come?" he said to himself; "will she come? And if she will
not, how must I act? This good merchant says she will? but I doubt
it--I doubt it much. Hers is a determined spirit; and once she has
chosen her part, she abides by it obstinately. Well, it is no use
asking myself if she will come, or thinking what I must do if she
refuse. Kings were made to command men, I suppose, and women to
command them;" and a faint smile came upon his lips at the conceit.
While it still hung there, a door opened hard by--not the great door
of the hall, but a smaller one on the right--and a sweet voice said,
"Your majesty sent for me."
"Agnes!" said the king, rising and taking her hand, "Agnes! why have
you left me so long?"
"Because I have been ill and miserable," she answered; and the tears
rose in her beautiful eyes.
"And I have been ill and miserable too," said Charles, leading her to
a seat close by his own. "Do you not know," he continued, in an
earnest and sad voice, "that, from time to time, a moody, evil spirit
seems to take possession of me, making me sicken at all the toil and
pomp of state, at all the splendor, and even all the gayety of a
court? His visits are becoming more frequent and more long. There is
no one can drive him from me but you, Agnes."
"Can I drive him from you always?" she asked. "Has he not resisted me
lately, very lately, till I lost hope, lost courage, and was repelled,
to take counsel with my own heart, and listen to all its bitter
self-reproach. Charles, Charles! oh, my king and lord! there is
nothing can console--nothing can comfort--under the weight of my own
thoughts, but to believe and know that you are worthy of better love
than mine--the love of your whole people. Take not that comfort from
me. Let me, let me believe that passion, nor moodiness, nor any evil
spirit will lead you to do an act of injustice to any of your
subjects."
"Well, well," said Charles, kissing her hand, "it shall be as you
will, my Agnes. You shall decide De Brecy's fate yourself, of however
rebellious a spirit he may be--however insolent his tone. I will
forgive him for your sake. It shall be as you will."
"Nay, not so," answered Agnes, gently, "I ask you not to forgive
insolence or rebellion. All I beseech you is, to inquire unprejudiced,
and judge without favor. De Brecy is somewhat bold, and free of
speech. He always was so, even from his boyhood; but he is faithful
and true in all things. I saw him peril his life rather than give up a
letter to the Duke of Burgundy. I saw him submit to the torture rather
than betray to the Council the secrets of your uncle, the Duke of
Orleans. It is his nature to speak fearlessly, but it is his nature to
speak truly; and all I ask of you is to judge of him as he is,
untinged by the yellow counsels of Trimouille, or the black falsehoods
of that woman of Vendôme. I hear that some paper he has sent you has
excited your anger, and that you have ordered his arrest. Before
you judge, investigate, my dear lord. Remember that he has many
enemies--that he has offended Trimouille, who never forgives; and that
the love of my bright little namesake for him is an obstacle in the
way of Jeanne of Vendôme, than whom a more poisonous viper does not
crawl upon the earth."
"I will investigate," answered Charles. "I will judge unprejudiced;
and my better angel shall be by my side to see whether I keep my word
with her."
"Not alone, not alone," said Agnes, "or they will say, in their
malice, that favor for me, not sense of justice, has swayed the king.
Have your chancellor here. He is a noble man, and true of heart. Nay,
let all who will be present, to see you act, as I know you will act,
justly and nobly--sternly, if you will; for I would not even have love
pleading for love affect you in this matter. Oh, think only, my noble
Charles, of how you may have been deceived against this young
gentleman, how Trimouille's enmity may have read an evil gloss upon
his actions, how Jeanne of Vendôme and her false nephew may have
distorted the truth. Take the whole course of his life to witness in
his favor; and then, if you assoil him of any fault--then Agnes,
perhaps, may plead for favor to him."
"She shall not plead in vain," said Charles embracing her. "Some time
to-morrow probably, the sergeant will be back, and I will hear and
judge his cause at once, for we are lingering in Bourges too long.
There is, moreover," he continued, holding her hand in his, and gazing
into her eyes with a smile, "there is another cause for speedy
decision. The king's authority, till this is all concluded, suffers
some contempt. A daring act has been committed against our state and
dignity, and hints have reached us that the traitor is above our
power. 'Tis policy, in such a case, not to investigate too closely,
but to remove all cause of contest as soon as possible."
Agnes sank upon her knees, with a glowing cheek, and bent down her
fair forehead on his hand, murmuring, "Forgive me--oh, forgive me!"
Charles threw his arm round her fondly, saying, "Thank thee, my
Agnes--thank thee for letting me have something to forgive."
She was still at his feet, when some one knocked at the door, and,
raising her gently, Charles said aloud, "Come in."
"May it please your majesty," said a page, entering, "Monsieur De
Brecy waits below to know your pleasure concerning him."
A slight flush passed over the king's cheek. "This is quick, indeed,"
said Charles. "Why does not the sergeant whom I sent present himself?"
"There is no sergeant there, your majesty. Monsieur De Brecy, with a
few attendants, came but a moment ago, and is in the vestibule below
with Messire Jacques C[oe]ur."
"Let him wait," said Charles; "and, in the mean time, summon Monsieur
Des Ursins hither. Wait; I will give you a list of names."
"Now, Agnes," continued the king, when he had dispatched the boy, "I
will act as you would have me. We must have other ladies here. Go call
some, love--some who will best support you."
About an hour after, in that same hall, Charles was seated at the
table in the midst, with his bonnet on his head, and some papers
before him. The queen was placed near, and some fifteen or sixteen
ladies and gentlemen, members of the court, stood in a semicircle
round. The door opened, and, ushered in by one of the attendants, Jean
Charost, followed close by Jacques C[oe]ur, advanced up the hall with
a bold, free step. When within two paces of the table, he paused, and
bowed his head to the king, but without speaking.
"Monsieur De Brecy," said Charles, "I sent one of the sergeants of our
court to bring you hither."
"So I have heard, sire," replied De Brecy; "but, learning beforehand
that your majesty required my presence, I set out at once to place
myself at your disposal."
"You have done well," said the king; "and we would fain believe that
there is no contempt of our authority, nor disloyalty toward our
person, at the bottom of your heart."
"I have proved my loyalty and my reverence, sire," replied De Brecy,
"by shedding my blood for you in the field against your enemies, at
all times, and on all occasions, and by lingering in inactivity for
long months at Briare in obedience to your commands."
"Well," said the king, "it is well. But there be special
circumstances, when men's own interests or passions will lead them to
forget the general line of duty, and cancel good services by great
faults. Charges of this kind are made against you."
"My lord, they are false," replied De Brecy; "and I will prove them
so, either in your royal court, by evidence good and true, or in the
lists against my accuser, my body against his, and God to judge
between us."
He glanced, as he spoke, toward a slight young man standing beside La
Trimouille; and the king, mistaking his look, replied, with a light
laugh, "Our ministers are not challenged to the field for their
actions, Monsieur De Brecy. La Trimouille is a flight above you."
"I thought not of Monsieur La Trimouille, sire," replied De Brecy. "I
know not that I have offended him; and, moreover, I hold him to be the
best minister your majesty ever had, because the one who has made your
authority the most respected. I spoke generally of any accuser."
"Well, then," said the king, "in the first place, tell me, with that
truth and freedom of speech for which you have a somewhat rough
reputation, have you, or have you not just cause to think that a young
lady who has been brought up under your charge from infancy, and
lately at our court, is the daughter of our late uncle, the Duke of
Orleans?"
"I have, sire," answered De Brecy.
"Then how did you presume to claim the guardianship of her against our
power?" said the king, sternly. "As our first cousin, legitimate or
illegitimate, she is our ward."
"My answer is simple, sire," replied De Brecy. "I have never done what
your majesty says; and if I had, when last I stood before you, I
should have done it in ignorance; for it is but three days since I
received from one Lomelini, abbot of Briare, then upon his death-bed,
any certain information regarding her birth. These packets should have
been delivered to me long before, but they were retained through
malice. I now lay them before you, to judge of them as may seem meet."
"Look at them, Des Ursins," said the king; and the chancellor took
them up.
"I can prove, my lord the king," said Juvenel de Royans, stepping
forward, "that when last in Berri, Monsieur De Brecy was quite
uncertain whose child the young lady was; for we had a long
conversation on the subject when he gallantly threw himself into the
citadel of this place, to aid us in defending it for your majesty."
"Silence! silence!" said the king; and taking up a paper, he held it
out toward De Brecy, saying, "Did you sign that paper, sir?"
"No, sire," replied De Brecy; "I never saw it before."
"Then whose is it?" cried the king.
"Mine," replied the voice of an old man, in somewhat antiquated
garments, standing a step or two behind Agnes Sorel. "I signed that
paper, of right;" and advancing with a feeble step, he placed himself
opposite the king.
"And who may you be, reverend sir?" demanded Charles, gazing at him
with much surprise.
"The man whose name is there written," replied the stranger. "William,
count of St. Florent; the only lawful guardian of the girl you wrangle
for. You took my property and gave it to another. I heeded not,
because I have no such needs now. But when you sought to take away the
guardianship of this poor girl from him to whom I intrusted her, and
to bestow her hand upon a knave, I came forward to declare and to
maintain my rights. They have been dormant long; but they are not
extinct. Each year have I seen her since she was an infant; each year
have I performed some act of lordship in the fief of St. Florent; and
I claim my right in the King's Court--my right to my estates--my right
in my--" He paused for an instant, and seemed to hesitate; but then
added, quickly, and in a tremulous voice, "in my child."
The king looked confounded, and turned toward the chancellor, who was
at that moment speaking eagerly to Agnes Sorel, with the fell eyes of
Jeanne of Vendôme fixed meaningly upon them both.
"Monsieur Des Ursins," said the king, "you hear what he says."
"I do, sire," answered the chancellor, coming forward. "You have made
your appeal, sir," he continued, addressing the old man, "and perhaps,
if you can prove your statements, his majesty may graciously admit
your rights without the trouble of carrying your claim before the
courts. You have to show, first, that you are really the Count of St.
Florent; secondly, that the young lady in question is legally to be
looked upon as the daughter of that nobleman. Her birth, at present,
is not at all established. None of these letters but one prove any
thing, and that proves only a vague belief on the part of a prince
long since dead."
The old man drew himself sternly up to his full height, which was very
great, and said, "You ask me for bitter proofs, chancellor. Methinks
you might know me yourself, for I first gave you a sword."
"I can be no witness in my own court," said the chancellor; "and the
cause, if it be tried, must come before me."
"Stand forward, then, Jacques C[oe]ur," cried the other. "Do you know
your old friend?"
"Right well," answered Jacques C[oe]ur, advancing from behind De
Brecy. "This, please your majesty, is William, count of St. Florent. I
have seen him at intervals of not more than two or three years ever
since he disappeared from the court and army of France, and have
received for him, and paid to him, the very small sum he has drawn
from the revenues of St. Florent. If my testimony is not enough, I can
bring forward twenty persons to prove his identity."
There was a dead silence for several moments; but then the chancellor
said, addressing the king, "This may be, perhaps, admitted, sire. I
have no doubt of the count's identity. But there is nothing to show
any connection whatever between him and this young lady, whom the Duke
of Orleans, in this letter, seems to have claimed as his daughter."
At these words, a fierce, eager fire seemed lighted up in the old
man's eyes, and taking a step forward, he exclaimed, "Ay, such claim
as a robber has to the gold of him whom he has murdered!" Then,
suddenly stopping, he clasped his hands together, let his eyes fall
thoughtfully, and murmured, "Forgive me, Heaven! Sire, I have forgot
myself," he said, in a milder tone. "My right to the child is easy to
prove. I was her mother's husband. She was born in marriage. I myself
gave her into the arms of this young man," and he laid his hand upon
De Brecy's shoulder. "With him she has ever been till the time you
took her from him. Let him speak for himself. Did he not receive her
from me?"
"Most assuredly I did," replied De Brecy; "and never even dreamed for
a moment, at the time, that any one had a claim to her but yourself."
"Nor had they--nor have they," replied St Florent, sternly.
"But it is strange, good sir," said Charles, "that you should trust
your child to the guardianship of another; that other a mere youth,
and, from what I have heard, well-nigh a stranger to you."
"There are wrongs, King of France, which will drive men mad," said St.
Florent, fixing his eyes full upon the king's face. "Mine were such
wrongs, and I was so driven mad. But yet in this act, which you call
strange, I was more sane than in aught else. This young man's father I
knew and loved, before he ruined himself for his king, and died for
his country. Of the youth himself I had heard high and noble report
from this good merchant here. I had seen him once, too, in the convent
of the Celestins, and what I saw was good. I knew that I could trust
her to none better, and I trusted her to him."
"But can you prove that she is your wife's daughter?" asked La
Trimouille; "for these papers in the hands of the chancellor seem to
show, and Monsieur De Brecy himself admits there is cause to believe,
that she is the child of the late Duke of Orleans, and consequently a
ward of the king."
He spoke in a mild, sweet tone; but his words seemed almost to drive
St. Florent to madness. His whole face worked, his eyes flashed, and
the veins in his temple swelled. "Man, would you tear my heart out?"
he exclaimed, in a fearful tone. "Would you drag forth the dead from
the grave to desecrate their memory?" and snatching up the other
packet which De Brecy had laid upon the table, he tore off the cover,
exclaiming, "Ha! these are trinkets. Poor, lost, unhappy girl!" and,
laying his finger upon the cover, he looked sternly at La Trimouille,
saying, "Whose are these arms? Mine! Whose are these initials?
Hers--Marie de St. Florent!"
As he spoke, he opened the case and gazed upon the diamonds. "Oh,
Marie, Marie," he said, "when I clasped these round thy neck, little
did I think--But no more of that. My lord the king, what does your
majesty say to my just claim? I gave my daughter's guardianship to
this young man: I now give him her hand. I ratify your gift of the
lands and lordships of St. Florent. What says your majesty?"
"In sooth, I know not what to say or think," answered Charles.
"I think I see my way, sire," said the chancellor; "although the case
is somewhat complicated. If Monsieur De St. Florent can prove that
this young lady is the daughter of his wife, he is undoubtedly, by the
law of France, her lawful guardian, and all opposition to his claim
grounded on other facts is vain. So much for that view of the case.
But even supposing he can not prove the fact, here is a letter from
his highness the Duke of Orleans, whose handwriting I well know,
which, though somewhat informal, contains matter which clearly conveys
the whole of his authority over the young lady, if he had any, to
Monsieur De Brecy. In either case, then, your majesty can not err, nor
violate any of your own edicts, or those of your predecessors, by
restoring the guardianship to him from whom it has been taken under a
misapprehension. Any other course, I think, would be dangerous, and
form a very evil precedent."
Trimouille bit his lip, and Jeanne de Vendôme slowly nodded her head,
with a bitter smile, toward Agnes Sorel.
"So be it, then," said the king, with a gracious look toward Jean
Charost. "Take her back, De Brecy, if you can find her, which we doubt
not; and if you bestow her hand on any one else but yourself, he shall
have our favor for your sake. If you wed her yourself, we will dance
at the wedding, seeing that you have submitted with patience and
obedience to a sentence which we sternly pronounced, and sternly
executed against you, in order to teach all our court and subjects
that not even those whom we most highly esteem, and who have served us
best, will be permitted to oppose our expressed will, or show
disobedience to our commands. Your sentence of exile from our court is
recalled, and we shall expect, not only your attendance, but your
service also; for, wedded or unwedded, we can spare no good sword from
the cause of France."
He spoke gayly and gracefully, and then looking round with a smile, he
said, "Is there no wise and pitiful person who, in charity, can give
us some information of where our fair fugitive is?"
"In my castle of St. Florent," said the old count, who had now sunk
down again into the appearance of age and decrepitude; "and there De
Brecy will find her to-morrow. Let him take her, and let him take her
inheritance also; for I go back to my own living tomb, to work out the
penance of deeds done in madness and despair."
"Methinks, sire," said Jean Charost, who had marked some facts which
created suspicion, "it were well that I should go to-night. St.
Florent is very insufficiently guarded, and these are strange times."
"Nay, nay, this is lovers' haste," said Charles. "But, as you say,
there may be danger of rash enterprises on the part of rivals, now
that her abode is known. We will therefore, to spare all scandal,
entreat some fair lady to undertake the task of bringing her back to
the court this very night, which is not yet far advanced. Who will
undertake it? She shall have good escort, commanded by this gallant
knight himself."
"I am ready, sire," said Jeanne de Vendôme.
"Then, I beseech your majesty, let me go also," exclaimed Agnes Sorel,
eagerly.
Charles looked from the one to the other, and replied, somewhat
jestingly, "Both go. A litter shall be prepared at once; and as a
moderator between you--ladies not always well agreeing when too
closely confined--I will ask our good friend Messire Jacques C[oe]ur
to accompany you. Quick, ladies! prepare. De Brecy, see for your
horses; and on your return you shall sup with us, and we will forget
all but what is pleasant in the dream that is past."