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!