Agnes Sorel turned as the boy spoke, but she looked not at him, or the cage, or the bird, for her eyes instantly rested upon the figure of Jean Charost, as he advanced toward her, apologizing for his intrusion. Though what light there was fell full upon him through the open window, it was too dark for her to distinguish his features; but his voice she knew as soon as he spoke, though she had heard it but rarely. Yet there are some sounds which linger in the ear of memory--echoes of the past, as it were--which instantly carry us back to other days, and recall circumstances, thoughts, and feelings long gone by, with a brightness which needs no eye to see them but the eye of the mind. The voice of Jean Charost was a very peculiar voice--soft, and full, and mellow, but rounded and distinct, like the tones of an organ, possessing--if such a thing be permitted me to say--a melody in itself.
"Monsieur de Brecy!" she exclaimed, "I am rejoiced to see you here--no longer a prisoner, I hope--no longer seeking ransom, but a free man. But what brings you to this remote corner of the earth? Some generous motive, doubtless. Patriotism, perhaps, and love of your prince. Alas! De Brecy, patriotism finds cold welcome where pleasure reigns alone; and as to love--would to God your prince loved himself as others love him!"
"What shall I say to his highness, madam?" asked the boy, whom she had hardly noticed; "what shall I say about the bird?"
"Tell him," replied Agnes, rising quickly from her seat--"tell him that if I am a good instructor, I will teach that bird to sing a song which shall rouse all France in arms--Ay, little as it is, and feeble as may be its voice, I am not more powerful, my voice is not more strong; and yet--I hope--I hope--Get thee gone, boy. Tell his highness what I have said--tell him what you will--say I am half mad, if it please you; for so I am, to sit here idly looking at that mountain and that star, and to think that the banners of England are waving triumphant over the bloody fields of France. Well, De Brecy--well," she continued, as the boy retired and closed the door. "What news from the court of the conquerors? What news from the proud city of London? We have lost our Henry; but we have got a John in exchange. What matters Christian names in these unchristian times? A Plantagenet is a Plantagenet; and they are an iron race to deal with, which requires more steel, I fear, than we have left in France."
"My news, dear lady," replied Jean Charost, "is not from London, but from Paris."
"Well, what of Paris, then?" asked Agnes Sorel, in an indifferent tone, taking another seat partly turned from the window. "Let me ask you to ring that bell upon the table. It is growing dark--we must have lights. One star is not enough, bright as it may be--even the star of love--one star is not enough to give us light in this darksome world."
Jean Charost rang the bell; but ere any attendant could appear, he said, hurriedly, "Dear lady, listen to me for one moment: I bring important news."
"Good or bad?" asked Agnes Sorel, quickly.
"One half is unmingled good," answered Jean Charost; "the other is of a mixed nature, full of hope, yet alloyed with sorrow."
"Even that is better than any we have lately had," replied Agnes. "Nevertheless, I am a woman, De Brecy, and fond of joy. Give me the unmingled first: we will temper it hereafter."