CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Sometimes very small and insignificant occurrences, even when anticipated and prepared for, produce mighty and unforeseen consequences; sometimes great and startling events the least expected, and the least provided against, pass away quietly without producing any immediate result.
Henry the Fifth of England had returned to France in high health, had triumphed over all enemies, and had used the very storms and tempests of passion and faction as instruments of his will. All yielded before him; victory seemed his right; health and long life his privilege; and success the obedient servant of his will. No one contemplated a change--no one even dreamed of a reverse; defeat was never thought of; death was never mentioned. There was no expectation, no preparation. But in the midst of triumph, and activity, and energetic power, he was touched by the transforming wand of sickness. Few hours were allowed him to set his house in order; and in the prime of life and the midst of glory, the successful general, the gallant knight, the wise statesman, the ambitious king closed his eyes upon the world, and nothing but a mighty name remained.
What changes might have been expected to follow an event so little contemplated! Yet very few, if any, occurred. His last hours, while writhing on a bed of pain, sufficed to regulate all the affairs of two great kingdoms, and his wisdom and foresight, as well as his energy and resolution, were never more strongly displayed than on the bed of death. All remained quiet; the sceptre of England passed from the hand of the hero to the hand of the child; and in France no popular movement of any importance showed that the people were awakened to the value of the chances before them. All remained quiescent; the vigorous and unsparing hand of Bedford seemed no less strong than had been that of his departed brother; and, reduced to a few remote provinces, the party of the dauphin was powerless and inert.
It was while this state continued, that three persons entered the old hall of the château of Brecy just as the sun was going down. The elder lady leaned with a feeble and fatigued air upon the arm of Jean Charost; Agnes had both her hands clasped upon his other arm, and all three paused at the door, and looked round with an expression, if not somewhat sad, somewhat anxious. All were very glad to be there again; all were very glad to be even in France once more. But three years make a great difference in men, in countries, and in places; and when we return to an ancient dwelling-place, we are more conscious, perhaps, of the workings of time than at any other period. We feel within ourselves that we are changed, and we expect to find a change in external objects also--we look to see a stone fallen from the walls, the moss or mildew upon the paneling, the monitory dust creeping over the floor, the symptoms of alteration and decay apparent in the place of cherished memories.
There was nothing of the kind, however, to be seen in the old hall of the château of De Brecy. The evening rays of sunshine gliding through the windows shone cheerfully against the wall; the room was swept and garnished. All was neat and in good array; and it seemed as if, from that little circumstance alone, Hope relighted her lamp for their somewhat despondent hearts.
"There may be bright days before us yet, my son," said Madame de Brecy, in a calm, grave tone.
"Oh, yes, there will be bright days," said Agnes, warmly and enthusiastically. "We are back in France--fair bright France; we are back, safe and well, and there must be happy days for us yet."
"I wonder," said Jean Charost, thoughtfully, "who has kept up the place so carefully. We left but poor old Augustine, incapable of much exertion. The friendly offices of Jacques Cœur must have had a hand in this."
"Not much, sir," said a voice behind him; "if that very excellent gentleman will permit me to say so."
Jean Charost turned round, and perceived Jacques Cœur himself entering the hall with a stout little man in a gardener's habit. I say a gardener's habit, because in those blessed days, called the good old times, which had their excellences as well as their defects, you could tell a man's trade, calling, profession, or degree--at least usually--by his dress. It was a good habit, it was a beneficial habit, was an honest habit. You could never mistake a priest for a life-guardsman, nor a shop-boy for a prime minister--nor the reverse. In our own times, alas--in our days of liberty (approaching license), equality (founded upon the grossest delusion), and fraternity (which, as far as we have seen it carried, is the fraternity of Cain), we are allowed to disguise ourselves as we will, to sail under any false colors that may suit us, to cheat, and swindle, and lie, and deceive in whatever garb may seem best fitted for our purpose. The vanity and hypocrisy of the multitude have triumphed not only altogether over sumptuary laws, but, in a great part, over custom itself and I know nothing that a man may not assume, except the queen's crown, and God protect that for her, and for her race forever!
The gardener's habit, however, with the blue cloth stockings bound on with leathern straps, was so apparent in the present instance, that Jean Charost, who was unconscious of having a gardener, could not for an instant conceive who the personage was, till the face of Martin Grille, waxen like that of the moon at the end of the second quarter, grew distinct to recollection.
"He says true, my good friend, Monsieur de Brecy," said Jacques Cœur, "and right glad I am, his care should have so provided that your first sight of your own house, on your return from captivity should be a pleasant one. The only share I have had in this, as your agent, has been to let him do what he would."
"'Tis explained in a word, sir," said Martin Grille. "You told me you could not afford to keep me while you were a prisoner; and I thought I could afford to keep myself, out of the waste ground about the castle, and keep the castle in good order too. I had always a fancy for gardening when I was a boy, and had once a whole crop of beans in an old sauce-pan, on the top of the garret where my mother lived in Paris. The first five sous I ever had in my life was for an ounce of onion seed which I raised in a cracked pitcher. I was intended by nature for digging the earth, and not for digging holes in other people's bodies; and the town of Bourges owes me some of the best cabbages that ever were grown, when I am quite sure I should have reaped any thing but a crop of glory if I had cultivated the fields of war. However, here I am, ready to take up the trade of valet again, if you will let me; and, to show that I have not forgotten the mystery, I rubbed up all your old arms last night, brushed coats, mantles, jerkins, houseaux, and every thing else I could find, and swept up every room in the house to save poor old Augustine's unbendable back."
In more ways than one, the house was well prepared for the return of its lord, and, thanks to the care of good Martin Grille, a very comfortable supper had not been forgotten. It was a strange sensation, however, for Jean Charost, when the sun had gone down and the sconces were lighted, to sit once more in his own hall, a free man, with friendly faces all about him--a pleasant sensation, and yet somewhat overpowering. The tears stood in Madame De Brecy's eyes more than once during that evening; but Agnes, whose spirits were light, and who had fewer memories, was full of gay joyfulness.
Jean Charost himself was very calm; but he often thought, had he been alone, he could have wept too.
Thus some thought and some feeling was given to personal things; but the fate, the state, the history of his country during his absence occupied no small portion of his attention. In those days news traveled slowly. Great facts were probably more accurately stated and known than even now; for there was no complicated machinery for the dissemination of falsehood, no public press wielded by party spirit for the purpose of adulterating the true with the false. A certain generosity, too, had survived the pure chivalrous ages, and men, even during life, could attribute high and noble qualities to an enemy; but details were generally lost. Jean Charost was anxious to hear those details, and when they gathered round the great chimney and the blazing hearth--for it was now October, and the nights were frosty--Jacques Cœur undertook to give his young friend some account of all that had taken place in France since the battle of Azincourt, somewhat to the following effect.
"You remember well, my friend," he said, "that, after the fall of Harfleur, John of Burgundy only escaped the name of traitor by a lukewarm offer to join his troops to those of France in defense of the realm. But he was distrusted, and probably not without cause. You were already a prisoner in England when the Orleanist party obtained entire preponderance at the court, and the young duke being in captivity like yourself, the leading of that faction was assumed by his father-in-law, the Count of Armagnac. Rapid, great, and perilous was his rise, and fearless, bold, and bloody he showed himself. The sword of constable placed the whole military power of France at his disposal, and the death of the dauphin Louis left him no rival in authority or favor. Happy had it been for him had he contented himself with military authority; but he must grasp the finances too; and in the disastrous state of the revenues of the crown, the imposts, only justified by a hard necessity, raised him up daily enemies. His rude and merciless severity, too, irritated even more than it alarmed, and it was not long before all those who had been long indifferent went to swell the ranks of his adversaries. True, his party was strong; true, hatred of the Burgundian faction was intense in a multitude of Frenchmen. But the great lords, and many of the princes attached to the house of Orleans, were absent and powerless in English prisons. By every means that policy and duplicity could suggest, John of Burgundy strove to augment the number of his friends. All those who fled from the persecution of Armagnac were received by him with joy and treated with distinction. He increased his forces; he hovered about Paris; he treated the orders of the court to retire, if not with contempt, with disobedience. At length, however, he seemed to give up the hope of making himself master of the capital, and retreated suddenly into Artois.
"Not judging his enemy rightly, the Count of Armagnac resolved to seize the opportunity of an open path, in order to strike a blow for the recovery of Harfleur; and, leaving a strong garrison in Paris, he set out upon his expedition. No sooner was he gone, than John of Burgundy hastened to profit by his absence, and rapid negotiations took place between him and his partisans within the walls of Paris. You know the turbulent and factious nature of the lower order of citizens in the capital. Many of them were animated with mistaken zeal for the house of Burgundy; more were eager for plunder, or thirsty for blood; and one of the darkest and most detestable plots that ever blackened the page of history was formed for the destruction of the whole Armagnac party, and that, too, with the full cognizance of the Duke of Burgundy. It was determined that, at a certain hour, the conspirators should appear in arms in the streets of Paris, seize upon the queen, the king, and the young dauphin, John, murder the-whole of the Armagnac faction, and, after having seized the Duke of Berri and the King of Sicily, load them with chains, and make a spectacle of them in the streets of Paris mounted on an ox, and then put them to death likewise.
"The plot was frustrated by the fears or remorse of a woman, within a few minutes of the hour appointed for its execution. Precautions were taken; the royal family placed in safety; and Tanneguy du Châtel, at the head of his troops, issued forth from the Bastile, and made himself master of the houses and the persons of the conspirators. There was no mercy, my friend, for any one who was found in arms. Some suffered by the cord or hatchet, some were drowned in the Seine; and Armagnac returning, added to the chastisement already inflicted on individuals, the punishment of the whole city of Paris. Suspicion was received as proof, indifference became a crime, the prisons were filled to overflowing, and the very name of Burgundian was proscribed. The troops of the Duke of Burgundy, which had approached the city of Paris, were attacked in the open field, and civil war, in its most desolating aspect, raged all around the metropolis.
"Every sort of evil seemed poured out upon France, as if all the fountains of Heaven's wrath were opened to rain woes upon the land. Another dauphin was snatched away from us, and rumors of poison were very general; but the death of one prince was very small in comparison with the treason of another. There is no doubt, De Brecy, that John of Burgundy, frustrated in his attempt upon Paris, entered into a league with the enemies of his country, and secretly recognized Henry of England as king of France. Dissensions arose between the queen and the Count of Armagnac, in which our present dauphin, Charles, was so far compromised as to incur the everlasting hatred of his mother. Burgundy, the queen, and England, united for the destruction of the dauphin and the Count of Armagnac, and vengeance and ambition combined for the final ruin of the country. The politic King of England took advantage of all, and marched on from conquest to conquest throughout Normandy, while, by slow degrees, the Duke of Burgundy approached nearer and nearer to the capital. The perils by which he was surrounded appeared to deprive Armagnac of judgment: he seemed possessed of the fury of a wild beast, and little doubt exists that he meditated a general massacre of the citizens of Paris. But his crimes were cut short by the crimes of others. The troops of Burgundy were in possession of Pontoise. A well-disposed and peaceable young man, insulted and injured by a follower of Armagnac, found means to introduce his enemies into the city of Paris. At the first cry of Burgundy, thousands rose to deliver themselves from the tyranny under which they groaned, and, headed by a man named Caboche, retaliated, in a most fearful manner, on the party of Armagnac, the evils which it had inflicted. The prisons were filled; the streets ran with blood; and the Count of Armagnac, himself forced to fly, was concealed for a few hours by a mason, only to be delivered up in the end. The queen and the Duke of Burgundy encouraged the massacre; the prisons were broken into, the prisoners murdered in cold blood; the Châtelet was set on fire, and the unhappy captives within its walls were driven back into the flames at the point of the pike; and the leaders of the Armagnac faction were dragged through the streets for days before they were torn to pieces by the people. Tanneguy du Châtel alone showed courage and discretion, and obtained safety, if not success. He rescued the dauphin in the midst of the tumult, placed him in safety at Melun, returned to the capital, fought gallantly for some hours against the insurgents and the troops of Burgundy, and then retired to counsel and support his prince. The queen and the Duke of Burgundy entered the city in triumph; flowers were strewed before her on the blood-stained streets; and a prince of the blood-royal of France was seen grasping familiarly the hands of low-born murderers. But the powers, which he had raised into active virulence, were soon found ungovernable by the Duke of Burgundy, and he determined first to weaken, and then to destroy them. The troops of assassins fancied themselves soldiers, because they were butchers, and demanded to be led against the enemy. The duke was right willing to gratify them, and sent forth two bands of many thousands each. The first was beaten and nearly cut to pieces by the Armagnac troops. The remnant murdered their leaders in their rage of disappointment, but did not profit by the experience they had gained. The second party were defeated with terrible loss, and fled in haste to Paris; but the gates were shut against them; and dispersing, they joined the numerous bands of plunderers that infested the country, and were pursued and slaughtered by the troops of Burgundy. Thus weakened, the insurgents, who had brought back the Duke of Burgundy to Paris, were easily subjugated by the duke himself: their leaders perished on the scaffold; and thousands of the inferior villains were swept away by various indirect means. A still more merciless scourge, however, than either Armagnac or Burgundy was about to smite the devoted city--a scourge that spared no party, respected no rank or station. The plague appeared in the capital, and, in the space of a few months, the grave received more than a hundred thousand persons of every age, class, and sex. In some of these events perished Caboche, the uncle of your servant Martin Grille, who, with the courage of a lion and the fierceness of a tiger, combined some talents, which, better employed, might have won him an honorable name in history."
"And what has become of his son?" asked Jean Charost. "He was attached, I think, to the court of the queen."
"He left her," answered Jacques Cœur, "and came hither to Bourges with Marie of Anjou, the wife of the dauphin, when that prince removed from Melun to Bourges. You know somewhat of what happened after--how his highness was driven hence to Poictiers, how negotiations took place to reunite the royal family; how divided counsels, ambitions, and jealousies prevented any thing like union against the real enemy of France; how, step by step, the English king made himself master of all the country, almost to the gates of Paris. You were present, I am told, at the death of the Duke of Burgundy--shall I, or shall I not call it murder? Well had he deserved punishment--well had he justified almost any means to deliver France from the blasting influence of his ambition. But at the very moment chosen for vengeance, he showed some repentance for his past crimes, some inclination to atone, and perhaps the very effects of his remorse placed his life in the hands of his adversaries. Would to God that act had not been committed."
"And what has followed?" asked Jean Charost. "I have heard but little since, except that at Arras a treaty was concluded by which the crown of France was virtually transferred to the King of England on his marriage with the Princess Catharine."
"The scene is confused and indistinct," said Jacques Cœur, "like the advance of a cloud overshadowing the land, and leaving all vague and misty behind it. Far from serving the cause of the dauphin, far from serving the cause of France, the death of the Duke of Burgundy has produced unmitigated evil to all. His son has considered vengeance rather than justice, the memory of his father, rather than the happiness of his country. Leagued with the queen, and with the King of England, he has sought nothing but the destruction of the dauphin, and has seen the people of France swear allegiance to a foreign conqueror whom his connivance enabled to triumph. From conquest to conquest the King of England has gone on, till almost all the northern part of France was his, and the River Loire is the boundary between two distinct kingdoms. Here and there, indeed, a large town and a strong fortress is possessed by one party in the districts where the other dominates, and a border warfare is carried on along the banks of the river. But for a long time previous to King Henry's death, fortune seemed to follow wherever he trod, and the whole western as well as northern parts of France were being gradually reduced beneath his sway. During a short absence in England, indeed, a false promise of success shone upon the arms of the dauphin. A re-enforcement of six thousand men from Scotland enabled him to keep the field with success, and the victory of Baugé, the death of the Duke of Clarence, and the relief of Angers, gave hope to every loyal heart in France. Money, indeed, was wanting, and I was straining every nerve to obtain for my prince the means of carrying on the war, when the return of Henry, and his rapid successes in Saintonge and the Limousin cut me off from a large part of the resources I had calculated upon, and once more plunged us all into despair. The last effort in arms was the siege of Cone, on the Loire, garrisoned by the Burgundian troops. The dauphin presented himself before its walls in person, and the Duke of Burgundy marched to its relief, calling on his English allies for aid. Henry was not slow to grant it, and set out from Senlis to show his readiness and his friendship. Death struck him, it is true, by the way; but even in death he seemed to conquer, and Cone was relieved as he breathed his last at Vincennes. Happily have you escaped, De Brecy; for had the Lord Willoughby received intimation of the king's dying commands before he freed you, you would have lingered many a long year in prison. Well knowing that the captives of Azincourt would afford formidable support to the party of the dauphin as soon as liberated, it has always been Henry's policy to detain them in London, and almost his last words were an order not to set them free till his infant son had attained his majority. You are the only one, I believe, above the rank of a simple esquire who has been permitted to return to France."
"I owe it all to this dear girl," answered Jean Charost, laying his hand upon the little hand of Agnes. "She went to plead for me at a happy moment. But where is the dauphin now? He needs the arm of every gentleman in France, and I will not be long absent from his army."
"Army!" said Jacques Cœur, with a melancholy shake of the head. "Alas! De Brecy, he has no army. Dispirited, defeated, almost penniless, seeing the fairest portions of his father's dominions in the hands of an enemy--that father's name and authority used against him--his own mother his most rancorous foe, the Duke of Burgundy at the head of one army in the field, and the Duke of Bedford, hardly inferior to the great Henry, leading another, he has retired, almost hopeless, to the lonely Castle of Polignac; and strives, I am told, but strives in vain, to forget the adversities of the past, and the menaces of the future, in empty pleasures. An attempt must be made to rouse him; but I can do nothing till I have obtained those means, without which all action would be hopeless. To Paris I dare not venture myself; but I have agents there, friends who will aid me, and wealth locked up in many enterprises. Diligently have I labored during the last month to gather all resources together; but still I linger on in Bourges without receiving any answer to my numerous letters."
"Can not I go to Paris?" asked Jean Charost. "You know, my friend of old, that I want no diligence, and had once some skill in such business as yours."
Jacques Cœur paused thoughtfully, and then answered, "It might, perhaps, be as well. You have been so long absent, your person would be unknown. When could you set out?"
Jean Charost replied that he would go the very next day; and the conversation was still proceeding upon these plans, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard in the castle court, and in a minute or two after, a tall, elderly weather-beaten man was brought in by Martin Grille. Jean Charost looked at him, thinking that he recognized the face of Armand Chauvin, the chevaucheur of the late Duke of Orleans; but the man walked straight up to Jacques Cœur, put a letter in his hand, and then turned his eyes to the ground, without giving one glance to those around.
"This is good news, indeed," said Jacques, who had read the letter by the light of a sconce. "A hundred thousand crowns, and two hundred thousand more in a month! What with the money from Marseilles we may do something yet. This is good news indeed!"
"I have more news yet," said Chauvin, gravely. "Hark, in your ear, Messire Jacques. I have hardly eaten or drank, and have not slept a wink from the gates of Paris to Bourges, and Bourges hither, all to bring you these tidings speedily. Hark in your ear!" and he whispered something to Jacques Cœur. The other listened attentively, gave a very slight start, and appeared somewhat, but not greatly moved.
"God rest his soul!" he said, at length. "He has had a troublous life--God rest his soul!"