Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

Strange to say, Agnes seemed to feel the change far less than he did. Indeed, she saw no change in him. His cheek might be a little browner; the scar upon his brow was new; but yet he was the same Jean Charost whom she had loved from infancy, and she perceived no trace of Time's hand upon his face or person. She had not yet learned to turn her eyes upon herself, and the alteration in him was so slight, she did not mark it. She sprang to meet him, even before his mother, held up her cheek for his first kiss, and gazed at him with a look of affection and tenderness, while he pressed Madame De Brecy to his heart, which might have misled any beholder who knew not the course of their former lives.

But Jean Charost was very happy. Between the two whom he loved best on all the earth, he entered the old château; was led by them from room to room which he had never seen; heard how, as soon as they had received news of his proposed return, they had come on from De Brecy to meet him; how the hands of Agnes herself had decked the hall; and how the tidy care of good Martin Grille had seen that every thing was in due order for the reception of his lord. Joyfully the evening passed away, with a thousand little occurrences, all pleasant at the time, but upon which I must not dwell now. The supper was served in the great hall, and after it was over, and generous wine had given a welcome to De Brecy's chief followers, he himself retired, with his mother and his fair young charge, to talk over the present and the past.

During that evening the conversation was rambling and desultory--a broken, ill-ordered chat, full of memories, and hardly to be detailed in a history like this. Jean Charost heard all the little incidents which had occurred in the neighborhood of Bourges; how Agnes had become an accomplished horse-woman; how she had learned from a musician expelled from Paris to play upon the lute; how Madame De Brecy had ordered all things, both on their ancient estates and those of St. Florent, with care and prudence; and how there were a thousand beautiful rides and walks around, which Agnes could show him, on the banks of the Cher.

Then again he told them all he himself had gone through, dwelling but lightly upon his own exploits, and acknowledging, with sincere humility, that he had been rewarded for his services more largely than they deserved. Many an anecdote of the court, too, he told, which did not give either of his hearers much inclination to mingle with it; how the adhesion of the Count of Richmond had been bought by the sword of Constable and other honors; how the somewhat unstable alliance of the Duke of Brittany had been gained by the concession of one half of the revenues of Guyenne; how Richmond had played the tyrant over his king, and forced him to receive ministers at his pleasure; how he had caused Beaulieu to be assassinated; and how, after a mock trial, he had tied Giac in a sack, and thrown him into the Loire. Happily, he added, La Trimouille, whom he had compelled the king to receive as his minister, had avenged his monarch by ingratitude toward his patron; how Richmond was kept in activity at a distance from the court, and all was quiet for a time during his absence. Thus passed more than one hour. The sun had gone down, and yet no lights were called for; for the large summer moon shone lustrous in at the window, harmonizing well with the feelings of those now met after a long parting. Madame De Brecy sat near the open casement; Agnes and Jean Charost stood near, with her hand resting quietly in his--I know not how it got there--and the fair valley of the Cher stretched out far below, till all lines were lost in the misty moonlight of the distance. Just then a solemn song rose up from the foot of the hill, between them and St. Florent, and Agnes, leaning her head familiarly on Jean Charost's shoulder, whispered, "Hark! The two hermits and the children of the village, whom they teach, are chanting before they part."

Jean Charost listened attentively till the song was ended, and then remarked, in a quiet tone, "I saw two old men going into the hermitage. I hope their reputation is fair; for it is difficult to dispossess men who make a profession of sanctity; and yet their proximity is not always much to be coveted."

"Oh yes, they are well spoken of," replied Madame De Brecy; "but one of them, at least, is very strange, and frightened us."

"It was but for a moment," cried Agnes, eagerly. "He is a kind, good man, too. I will tell you how it all happened, dear Jean; and we will go down and see him to-morrow, for he and I are great friends now. The day after our arrival here, I had wandered out, as I do at De Brecy, thinking myself quite as safe here as there, when suddenly in the wood, just by the little waterfall, I came upon a tall old man, dressed in a gray gown, and walking with a staff. What it was he saw in me, I do not know; but the instant he beheld me he stopped suddenly, and seemed to reel as if he were going to fall. I started forward to help him; but he seized hold of my arms, and fixed his eyes so sternly in my face, he frightened me. His words terrified me still more; for he burst forth with the strangest, wildest language I ever heard, asking if I had come from the grave, and if his long years of penitence had been in vain; saying that he had forgiven me, and surely I might forgive him; that God had forgiven him, he knew; then why should I be more obdurate; and then he wept bitterly. I tried to soothe and calm him; but he still held me by the arm, and I could not get away. Gradually, however, he grew tranquil, and begged my pardon. He said he had been suffering under a delusion, asked my name, and made me sit down by him on the moss. There we remained, and talked for more than half an hour; for, whenever I wished to go, he begged me piteously to stay. All the time I remained, his conversation seemed to me to ramble a great deal, at least I could not understand one half of it. He told me, however, that he had once been a rich man, a courtier, and a soldier, and that many years ago he had been terribly wronged, and in a moment of passionate madness he had committed a great crime. He had wandered about, he said, for some years as a condemned spirit, not only half insane, but knowing that he was so. After that, he met with a good man who led him to better hopes, and thenceforth he had passed his whole time in penitence and prayer. When he let me go, he besought me eagerly to come and see him in his hermitage, and, taking Margiette, the maid with me, I have been down twice. I found him and his companion teaching the little children of the village, and he seemed always glad to see me, though at first he would give a sidelong glance, as if he almost feared me. But he seemed to know much of you, dear Jean, at least by name. He said you had always been faithful and true, and would be so to the end, and spoke of you as I loved to hear. So you must come down with me, and see him and his comrade."

"I will see him," replied Jean Charost. He made no further remark upon her little narrative; but what she told him gave him matter for much thought, even after the whole household had retired to rest.

CHAPTER XLII.

When Jean Charost awoke, it was one of those pleasant, drowsy summer mornings when the whole of nature seems still inclined to sleep, when there is a softness in the air, a misty haze in the atmosphere, streaky white clouds are half veiling the sky, and even the birds of the bush, and the beasts of the field, seem inclined to prolong the sweet morning slumber in the midst of the bounteous softness of all around. A breath of air, it is true, stirred the trees; but it was very gentle and very soft, and though the lark rose up from his fallow to sing his early matins at heaven's gate, yet the sounds were so softened by the distance, that one seemed to feel the melody rather than to hear it. It was very early, and from the window no moving object was to be seen except the mute herds winding on toward their pasturage, a rook wending its straight flight overhead, and an early laborer taking his way toward the fields. The general world was all asleep; but, nevertheless, the young Lord De Brecy was soon equipped in walking guise and wandering on toward the hermitage. He found its tenants up, and ready for the mornings' labors; but one of them welcomed him as an old acquaintance, and, leading him into their cell, remained with him in conversation for more than an hour.