It was a cheerful building in those days; nothing obscured the view or hid the sunshine; and the smiling gardens, the glittering river, or the busy high-road could be seen from most of the windows of the palace.
In a room on the first floor of the eastern tower of the gate-house, Jean Charost is once more before us. Monterreau's blood-stained bridge, the dauphin and the murderers, and the dying Duke of Burgundy, have passed away; and there are but two women with him. Yes, I may call them women both, though their ages are very far apart. One is in the silver-haired decline of life, the other is just blossoming; they are the withered flower and the bud.
They were seated round a little table, and had evidently been talking earnestly. Madame De Brecy's eyes had traces of tears on them, and those of the young girl, turned up to Jean Charost's face, were full of eagerness and entreaty.
"In vain, dear mother--in vain," said Jean Charost. "My resolution is as firm as ever. Jacques Cœur is generous; but I can not lay myself under such an obligation, and even at the most moderate rate, to raise such a sum in the present state of France, would deprive you of two thirds of your whole income. This captivity is weary to me. To remain here year after year, while France has been dismembered, her crown bought and sold, her fair fields ravaged, her cities become slaughter-houses, has been terrible--has doubled the load of time, has depressed my light spirits, and almost worn out hope and expectation. But yet I will not trust the fate of two, so dear as you two are, to the power of circumstances. You say, apply to Lord Willoughby. I have applied; but it is in vain. He gives me, as you know, all kindly liberty: no act of kindness or courtesy is wanting. But on one point he is inflexible, and we all feel and know that he is ruled by a power which he must obey. It is the same with others who have prisoners of some consideration. They can not place them at reasonable ransom, though the rules of chivalry and courtesy require it."
"He seems a kind man, Jean," said the young girl, still looking in his face. "He spoke gently and good-humoredly to me."
"Ay, gentleness and good humor, my sweet Agnes," said Jean Charost, "will not make a man disobey the commands of his monarch. Another month, and I shall have lain a prisoner seven long years. Why, Agnes, my hair is growing gray, while yours is getting darker every hour. I can recollect your locks like sunshine on a hill, and now a raven's wing is hardly blacker."
"Ah, I saw a gray hair the other day in that curl upon your temple," said the girl, with a laugh. "You will soon be a white-headed old man, Jean, if you obstinately remain here, when our dear mother would willingly sell all to free you. Though I think, after all, you are getting a little younger since we came. We have now been three years with you in this horrible country, and I think you look a year younger."
Jean Charost smiled, saying, "Certainly I do, Sunshine, else do you shine in vain."
"Well, I am going out to seek more sunshine," said the girl. "I will wander away up the bank of the river, and say an ave at the Blackfriars' Church. And then, perhaps, I will go into the Church of the Templar's, and look at the tombs of the old knights, with their feet crossed, and their swords half drawn; and then I will come back again; for then it will be dinner-time. Good-by till then."
She tripped away with a light step, down the stair-case, out upon the road; and when Jean Charost looked after her out of the window he saw her going slowly and thoughtfully along. But Agnes did not continue that pace for any great distance. As soon as she was out of the gate tower of the Savoy, she hurried on with great rapidity, turned up a narrow lane between two fields on the west of the road, and, passing the house of the Bishop of Lincoln, not even stopping to scent her favorite briar rose which was thick upon the hedges, paused at a modern brick house--modern in those days--with towers and turrets in plenty, and the arms of the house of Willoughby hung out from a spear above the gate.