Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

It seemed to Jean Charost--after several years had passed--but as a day and a night since he had left Agnes and his mother in the château of Brecy, near Bourges. Each day had had its occupation, each hour its thought: the one had glided into the other, and one deed trod so hastily upon the steps of another that there was no opportunity to count the time. And yet so many great events had happened that one would have thought the hours upon the dial were marked sufficiently. He had taken part in battles, he had been employed in negotiations, he had navigated one of the many armed vessels, now belonging to Jacques Cœur, upon the Mediterranean, in search of fresh resources for his king; and one of those lulls had taken place at the court of France--those periods of idle inactivity which occasionally intervened between fierce struggles against the foreign enemy, or factious cabals among the courtiers themselves. He took his way from Poictiers toward Bourges, to fulfill the promise he had often made to himself of returning, at least for a time, to those he loved with unabated fondness; and as he went, he thought with joy of his dear mother just as he left her--not knowing that her hair was now as white as snow; and his dear little Agnes--forgetting that she was no longer a mere bright girl of fourteen years of age.

But Jean Charost now no longer appeared as a poor youth struggling to redeem his father's encumbered estates, nor as a soldier followed to battle by a mere handful of followers. His train was strong and numerous. The lands of St. Florent, so near his own castle and the town of Bourges as to be under easy control of an intendant, had furnished not only ample revenues but hardy soldiers, and with a troop of some sixty mounted men, all joyful, like himself, to return for a period to their homes, he rode gladly onward, a powerful man in full maturity, with a scarred brow and sun-burned face, but, with the rich brown curls of his hair hardly streaked with gray, except where the casque had somewhat pressed upon it, and brought the wintery mark before its time. But it was in the expression of his countenance that youth was most strongly apparent still. There were no hard lines, no heavy wrinkles. There was gravity, for he had never been of what is called a very merry disposition, but it was--if I may be allowed an expression which, at first sight, seems to imply a contradiction--it was a cheerful gravity, more cheerful than it had been in years long past. Success had brightened him; experience of the world and the world's things had rubbed off the rust that seclusion, and study, and hard application had engendered; and a kind, a generous, and an upright heart gave sunshine to his look.

The country through which he passed was all peaceful: the troops of England had not yet passed the Loire; the Duke of Bedford was in England, and his lieutenants showed themselves somewhat negligent during his absence. After the fiercest struggle, the spirit of the Frenchman soon recovers breath; and in riding from Poictiers to Bourges, one might have fancied that the land had never known strife and contention--that all was peace, prosperity, and joy. There was the village dance upon the green; there was the gay inn, with its well-fed host, and his quips, and jests, and merry tales; the marriage-bells rang out; the procession of the clergy moved along the streets, and there was song in the vineyard and the field.

It was an evening in the bright, warm summer, when the last day's march but one came toward an end; and on a small height rising from the banks of the Cher, with a beautiful village at its foot, and woods sweeping round it on three sides, appeared the old castle of St. Florent, where Jean Charost was to halt for the night, and journey on to De Brecy the following day. It was a pleasant feeling to his heart that he was coming once more upon his own land; and there above, upon the great round tower--for it was a very ancient building even then--floated a flag which bore, he doubted not, the arms of De Brecy. Just as he was passing one of the curious old bridges over the Cher, with its narrow, pointed arches, and massy, ivy-covered piers, a flash broke from the walls of the tower, and a moment after the report of a cannon was heard.

"They see us coming, and are giving us welcome, De Bigny," said Jean Charost, turning to one of his companions who rode near. "Oh, 'tis pleasant to enjoy one's own in peace. Would to Heaven these wars were over! I am well weary of them."

They rode on toward the slope, and entered a sort of elbow of the wood, where the dark oak-trees, somewhat browned by the summer sun, stretched their long branches overhead, and made a pleasant shade. It was a sweet, refreshing scene, where the eye could pierce far through the bolls of the old trees, catching here and there a mass of gray rock, a piece of rich green sward, a sparkling rivulet dashing down to meet the Cher, a low hermitate, with a stone cross raised in front, and two old men, with their long, snowy beards, retreating beneath the shady archway at the sight of a troop of armed men.

"This is pleasant," said De Brecy, still speaking to his companion; "but to-morrow will afford things still pleasanter. The face of Nature is very beautiful, but not so beautiful as the faces of those we love."

A hundred steps further, and the gates of the old castle appeared in view, crenelated and machicolated, with its two large flanking-towers, and the walls running off and losing themselves behind the trees. But there was the flutter of women's garments under the arch, as well as the gleam of arms. The heart of De Brecy beat high, and, dashing on before the rest, he was soon upon the draw-bridge.

It is rarely that Fortune comes to meet our hopes. Hard school-mistress! She lessons man's impatience by delay. But there they were--his mother and little Agnes, as he still called her. The change in both was that which time usually makes in the old and in the young; and with old Madame De Brecy we will pass it over, for it had no consequences. But upon the changes in Agnes it may be necessary to pause somewhat longer. From the elderly to the old woman, the transition is easy, and presents nothing remarkable. From the child to the young woman the step is more rapid--more distinct and strange. There is something in us which makes us comprehend decay better than development.

Agnes, who, up to the period when Jean Charost last beheld her, had been low of stature, though beautifully formed, seemed to have grown up like a lily in a night, and was now taller than Madame De Brecy. But it was not only in height that she had gained: her whole form had altered, and assumed a symmetry as delicate, but very different from that which it had displayed before. Previously, she had looked what Jean Charost had been fond to call her--a little fairy; but now, though she might have a fairy's likeness, still there was no doubting that she was a woman. Beautiful, wonderfully beautiful, she was to the eyes of Jean Charost; but yet there was something sorrowful in the change. The dear being of his memory was gone forever, and he had not yet had time to become reconciled to the change. He felt he could not caress, he could not fondle her as he had done before--that he could be to her no longer what he had been; and he dreamed not of ever becoming aught else.