CHAPTER VIII.
It may be necessary here to go back a little, in order to show more fully what had really been that conversation between Thibalt d'Auvergne and the fair Agnes de Meranie, of which but a few words have yet reached the reader's ears.
The Count d'Auvergne had come to the castle of Compiègne, as we have shown, upon the direct invitation of the king himself; and, indeed, Philip had taken more than one occasion to court his powerful vassal; not alone, perhaps, from political motives, but because he felt within himself, without any defined cause, a kind of doubt and dislike towards him, which he believed to be unjust, and knew to be impolitic; and which, he was continually afraid, might become apparent, unless he stretched his courtesy to its utmost extent.
D'Auvergne made no return. The frozen rigidity of his manner was never relaxed for an instant; and whatever warmth the king assumed, it could never thaw him even to a smile. Nor was this wholly the offspring of that personal dislike which he might well be supposed to feel to a happy and successful rival; but he felt that, bound by his promise to the old duke of Istria, he had a task to perform, which Philip would consider that of an enemy, and therefore D'Auvergne resolved never to bear towards him, for a moment, the semblance of a friend.
Having, after his return to Paris, once more accepted Philip's invitation to Compiègne; which, being made upon the plea of consulting him respecting the conquest of Constantinople, was complied with, without obligation. D'Auvergne proceeded on the evening appointed to the castle; but, finding that Philip had not returned from the siege of Gournay, he lodged himself and his followers, as he best might, in the village. He felt, however, that he must seize the moment which presented itself, of conveying to Agnes her father's message; and convinced, by bitter experience, of the quick and mortal nature of opportunity, the morning after his arrival he proceeded to the castle, and demanded an audience of the queen.
No sensation on earth, perhaps, can be conceived more bitter than that of seeing the object of one's love in the possession of another; and Thibalt d'Auvergne's heart beat painfully--his very lip grew pale, as he passed into the castle hall, and bade one of the pages announce him to the queen. A few moments passed, after the boy's departure, in sad expectation; the memory of former days contrasting their bright fancies with the dark and gloomy hopelessness of the present. The page speedily returned, and informed the count that his lady, the queen, would see him with pleasure if he would follow to the garden. D'Auvergne summoned all his courage; for there is more real valour in meeting and conquering our own feelings, when armed against us, than in overthrowing the best paladin that ever mounted horse. He followed the boy towards the garden with a firm step, and, on entering, soon perceived the queen advancing to meet him.
She was no longer the gay, bright girl that he had known in Istria, on whose rosy cheek the touch of care had withered not a flower, whose step was buoyancy, whose eyes looked youth, and whose arching lip breathed the very spirit of gladness. She was no longer the same fair girl we have seen, dreaming with her beloved husband overjoys and hopes that royal stations must not know--with the substantial happiness of the present, and the fanciful delights of the future, forming a beamy wreath of smiles around her brow.--No; she was still fair and lovely, but with a sadder kind of loveliness. The same sweet features remained,--the same bland soul, shining from within--the same heavenly eyes--the same enchanting lip; but those eyes had an expression of pensive languor, far different from former days; and that lip, though it beamed with a sweet welcoming smile, as her father's and her brother's friend approached, seemed as if chained down by some power of melancholy, so that the smile itself was sad. The rose too had left her cheek; and though a very, very lovely colour of a different hue had supplied its place, still it was not the colour of the rose. It was something more delicate, more tender, more akin to the last blush of the sinking sun before he stoops into the darkness.
Two of the queen's ladies were at some distance behind, and, with good discretion, after the count d'Auvergne had joined their royal mistress, they made that distance greater. D'Auvergne advanced, and, as was the custom of the day, bent his lips to the queen's hand. The one he raised it in, trembled as if it were palsied; but there was feverish heat in that of Agnes, as he pressed his lip upon it, still more fearful.
"Welcome to the court, beau sire D'Auvergne!" said the queen with a sweet and unembarrassed smile. "You have heard that my truant husband, Philip, has not yet returned, though he promised me, with all a lover's vows, to be back by yester-even. They tell me, you men are all false with us women, and, in good truth, I begin to think it."
"May you never find it too bitterly, madam," replied the count.
"Nay, you spoke that in sad earnest, my lord," said Agnes, now striving with effort for the same playful gaiety that was once natural to her. "You are no longer what you were in Istria, beau sire. But we must make you merrier before you leave our court. Come, you know, before the absolution, must still go confession;" and as she spoke, with a certain sort of restlessness that had lately seized her, she led the way round the garden, adding, "Confess, beau sire, what makes you sad--every one must have something to make them sad--so I will be your confessor. Confess, and you shall have remission."
She touched the count's wound to the quick, and he replied in a tone of sadness bordering on reproach: "Oh! madam! I fear me, confession would come too late!"
How a single word--a single tone--a single look, will sometimes give the key to a mystery. There are moments when conception, awakened we know not how, flashes like the lightning through all space, illumining at once a world that was before all darkness. That single sentence, with the tone in which it was said, touched the "electric chain" of memory, and ran brightening along over a thousand links in the past, which connected those words with the days long gone by. It all flashed upon Agnes's mind at once. She had been loved--deeply, powerfully loved; and, unknowing then what love was, she had not seen it. But now, that love was the constant food of her mind, from morning until night, her eyes were opened at once, and that, with no small pain to herself. The change in her manner, however, was instant; and she felt, that one light word, one gay jest, after that discovery, would render her culpable, both to her husband and to Thibalt d'Auvergne. Her eye lost the light it had for a moment assumed--the smile died away upon her lip, and she became calm and cold as some fair statue.
The Count d'Auvergne saw the change, and felt perhaps why; but as he did feel it, firm in the noble rectitude of his intentions, he lost the embarrassment of his manner, and took up the conversation which the queen had dropped entirely.
"To quit a most painful subject, madam," he said calmly and firmly, "allow me to say that I should never have returned to Europe, had not duties called me; those duties are over, and I shall soon go back to wear out the frail rest of life amidst the soldiers of the cross. I may fall before some Saracen lance,--I may taste the cup of the mortal plague; but my bones shall whiten on a distant shore, after fighting under the sign of our salvation. There still, however, remains one task to be performed, which, however wringing to my heart, must be completed. As I returned to France, madam, I know not what desire of giving myself pain made me visit Istria; I there saw your noble father, who bound me by a knightly vow to bear a message to his child."
"Indeed, sir!" said Agnes: "let me beg you would deliver it.--But first tell me, how is my father?" she aided anxiously,--"how looks he? Have age, and the wearing cares of this world, made any inroad on his vigorous strength? Speak, sir count!"
"I should say falsely, lady," replied D'Auvergne, "if I said that, since I saw him before, he had not become, when last we met, an altered man. But I was told by those about him, that 'tis within the last year this change has principally taken place."
"Indeed!" said Agnes thoughtfully: "and has it been very great? Stoops he now? He was as upright as a mountain pine, when I left him? Goes he forth to hunt as formerly?"
"He often seeks the chase, lady," answered the count, "as a diversion to his somewhat gloomy thoughts; but I am grieved to say, that age has bent the pine."
Agnes mused for several minutes; and the count remained silent.
"Well, sir," said she at length, "the message--what is it? Gave he no letter?
"None, madam," said the count; "he thought that a message by one who had seen him, and one whose wishes for your welfare were undoubted, might be more serviceable to the purpose he desired."
"My lord, your wishes for my welfare are as undoubted by me as they are by my father," replied the queen, noticing a slight emphasis which D'Auvergne had placed upon the word undoubted; "and therefore I am happy to receive his message from the lips of his friend."
The queen's words were courteous and kind, but her manner was as cold and distant as if she had spoken to a stranger; and D'Auvergne felt hurt that it should be so, though he well knew that her conduct was perhaps the wisest for both.
After a moment's thought, however, he proceeded, to deliver the message wherewith he had been charged by the duke of Istria and Meranie. "Your father, lady," he said, "charged me to give you the following message;--and let me beg you to remember, that, as far as memory serves, I use his own words; for what might be bold, presumptuous, or even unfeeling, in your brother's poor companion in arms, becomes kind counsel and affectionate anxiety when urged by a parent. Your father, lady, bade me say, that he had received a letter from the common father of the Christian church, informing him that your marriage with the noble king Philip was not, and could not be valid, because----"
"Spare the reasons, sir," said Agnes, with a calm voice, indeed, but walking on, at the same time, with that increased rapidity of pace which showed too well her internal agitation,--"spare the reasons, sir! I have heard them before--Indeed, too, too often!--What said my father, more?"
"He said, madam, that as the pope assured him, on his apostolic truth, that the marriage never could be rendered valid," continued the count; "and farther, that the realm of France must be put in interdict--for the interdict, madam, had not been then pronounced; and Celestin, a far milder judge than the present, sat in the chair of St. Peter;--he said, that as this was the case, and as the daughter of the duke of Meranie was not formed to be an object of discord between a king and a Christian prelate, he begged, and conjured, and commanded you to withdraw yourself from an alliance that he now considered as disgraceful as it had formerly appeared honourable; and to return to your father's court, and the arms of your family, where, you well know, he said, that domestic love and parental affection would endeavour to wipe out from your heart the memory of disappointments and sorrows brought on you by no fault of your own."
"And such, indeed, was my father's command and message?" said the queen, in a tone of deep affliction.
"Such, indeed, it was, lady," replied the count D'Auvergne, "and he bade me, farther, entreat and conjure you, by all that is dear and sacred between parent and child, not to neglect his counsel and disobey his commands. He said moreover that he knew----" and Thibalt d'Auvergne's lip quivered as if the agony of death was struggling in his heart--"he said that he knew how fondly you loved the noble king your husband, and how hard it would be to tear yourself from him. But he begged you to remember that your house's honour was at stake, and not to shrink from your duty."
"Sir count," said Agnes, in a voice that faltered with emotion, "he, nor no one else, can tell how I love my husband--how deeply--how fondly--how devotedly. Yet that should not stay me; for though I would as soon tear out my heart, and trample it under my own feet, as quit him, yet I would do it, if my honour and my duty bade me go. But my honour and my duty bid me stay----" She paused, and thoughtfully followed the direction of the walk, clasping her small hands together, and bending down her eyes, as one whose mind, unaccustomed to decide between contending arguments, is bewildered by number and reiteration, but not convinced. She thus advanced some way in the turn towards the castle, and then added--"Besides, even if I would, how could I quit my husband's house and territories? How could I return to Istria without his will?"
"That difficulty, madam, I would smooth for you or die," replied the count. "The troops of Auvergne could and should protect you."
"The troops of Auvergne against Philip of France!" exclaimed Agnes, raising her voice, while her eye flashed with an unwonted fire, and her lip curled with a touch of scorn. "And doubtless the Count d'Auvergne to head them, and defend the truant wife against her angry husband!"
"You do me wrong, lady," replied D'Auvergne calmly--"you do me wrong. The Count d'Auvergne is boon for other lands. Nor would he do one act for worlds, that could, even in the ill-judging eyes of men, cast a shade over the fame and honour of one----" He paused, and broke off his sentence, adding--"But no more of that--lady, you do me wrong. I did but deem, that, accompanied by your own holy confessor, and what other prelates or clergymen you would, a thousand of my armed vassals might convey you safely to the court of your father, while I, bound by a holy vow, should take shipping at Marseilles, and never set my foot on shore till I might plant it on the burning sands of Palestine.--Lady, may this be?"
"No, lord count, no!"--replied Agnes, her indignation at any one dreaming of opposing the god of her idolatry still unsubdued, "it cannot, nor it must not be! Did I seek Istria at all, I would rather don a pilgrim's weeds, and beg my way thither on foot. But I seek it not, my lord--I never will seek it. Philip is my husband--France is my land. The bishops of this realm have freed, by their united decree, their king from all other engagement than that to me; and so long as he himself shall look upon that engagement as valid, I will not doubt its firmness and its truth."
"I have then discharged me of my unpleasant duty, lady," said the Count d'Auvergne. "My task is accomplished, and my promise to your father fulfilled. Yet, that it may be well fulfilled, let me beg you once again to think of your father's commands; and knowing the nobleness of his nature, the clearness of his judgment, and the fearless integrity of his heart, think if he would have urged you to quit king Philip without he thought it your duty to do so."
"He judged as a father; I judge as a wife," replied Agnes. "I love my father--I would die for him; and, but to see him, I would sacrifice crown, and dignity, and wealth. Yet, once for all, beau sire d'Auvergne, urge me no more; for, notwithstanding all you can say--notwithstanding my own feelings in this respect, I must not--I cannot--I will not quit my husband. That name alone, my husband, were enough to bind me to him by every duty, and I will never quit him."
D'Auvergne was silent; for he saw, by the flushed cheek and disturbed look of Agnes de Meranie, that he had urged her as far as in honour and courtesy he dared to go. They had by this time turned towards the château, from which they beheld a page, habited in green, advancing rapidly towards them.
"Some one is coming. Count d'Auvergne," said Agnes hastily, fearful, although her women were at a little distance behind, that any stranger should see her discomposed look.--"Some one is coming,--Begone! Leave me!" And seeing the count about to speak again, though it was but to take his leave, she added--"Never let me hear of this again! Begone, sir, I beg!"
She then stooped down to trifle with some flowers, till such time as the stranger should be gone, or her own cheek lose the heated flush with which it was overspread.
In the meanwhile, the Count d'Auvergne bowed low, and turned towards the castle. Before he had reached it, however, he was encountered by De Coucy's page, who put a paper in his hand, one glance of which made him hasten forward; and passing directly through the hall of the château, he issued out at the other gate. From thence he proceeded to the lodging where he had passed the night before--called his retainers suddenly together, mounted his horse, and rode away.
As soon as he left her, Agnes de Meranie raised her head from the flowers over which she had been stooping, and walked on slowly, musing, towards the castle; while thought--that strange phantasmagoria of the brain--presented to her a thousand vague and incoherent forms, called up by the conversation that had just passed--plans, and fears, and hopes, and doubts, crowding the undefined future; and memories, regrets, and sorrows thronging equally the past. Fancy, the quick wanderer, had travelled far in a single moment, when the sound of a hasty step caught her ear, passing along under the trellis of vines that skirted the garden wall. She could not see the figure of the person that went by; but it needed not that she should. The sound of that footfall was as well known to her ear as the most familiar form to her eye; and, bending her head, she listened again, to be sure--very sure.
"'Tis Philip!" said she, all her other feelings forgotten, and hope and joy sparkling again in her eye--"'tis Philip! He sees me not, and yet he knows that at this hour it is my wont to walk here. But perhaps 'tis later than I thought. He is in haste too by his step. However, I will in, with all speed, to meet him;" and, signing to her women to come up, she hastened towards the castle.
"Have you seen the king?" demanded she of a page, who hurried to open the gates for her.
"He has just passed, madam," replied the youth. "He seemed to go into the great hall in haste, and is now speaking to the serjeants-at-arms. You may hear his voice."
"I do," said the queen; and proceeding to her apartments, she waited for her husband's coming, with all that joyful hope that seemed destined in this world as meet prey for disappointment.