Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

The return of Agnes stopped further conversation; and she and De Brecy took their way out by one of the posterns on the hill. Agnes was now as gay as a lark; the shower had passed away and left all clear; not a trace of agitation lingered behind. De Brecy was thoughtful, but strove to be cheerful likewise, paused and gazed wherever she told him the scene was beautiful, talked with no ignorant or tasteless lips of the loveliness of nature, and of the marvels of art which he had seen since he was last in Berri; but there was something more in his conversation. There was a depth of feeling, a warmth of fancy, a richness of association which made Agnes thoughtful also. He seemed to lead her mind which way he would; to have the complete mastery over it; and exercising his power gently and tenderly, it was a pleasant and a new sensation to feel that he possessed it.

There was one very beautiful scene that came up just when the sun was a couple of hands' breadth from the horizon. It was a small secluded nook in the wood, of some ten or fifteen yards across, surrounded and overshadowed by the tall old trees, but only covered, itself, with short green grass. It was as flat and even, too, as the pavement of the hall; but just beyond, to the southwest, was a short and sharp descent, from the foot of which some lesser trees shot up their branches, letting in between them, as through a window, a prospect of the valley of the Cher, and the glowing sky beyond.

"This is a place for Dryads, Agnes," said Jean Charost, making her sit down by him on a large fragment of stone which had rolled to the foot of an old oak. "Nymphs of the woods, dear girl, might well hold commune here with spirits of the air."

"I was thinking but the day before yesterday," said Agnes, "what a beautiful spot this would be for a cottage in the wood, with that lovely sky before us, and the world below."

"It is always better," said Jean Charost, with a smile, "to keep the world below us--or, rather, to keep ourselves above the world; but I fear me, Agnes, it is not the inhabitants of cottages who have the most skill in doing so. I have little faith either in cottages or hermitages."

"Do not destroy my dreams, dear Jean," said Agnes, almost sadly.

"Oh, no," he answered, "I would not destroy, but only read them."

Agnes paused, with her eyes bent down for a moment or two, and then looked earnestly in his face: "They are very simple," she said, "and easily read. The brightest dream of my whole life, the one I cherish the most fondly, is but to remain forever with dear Madame De Brecy and you, without any change--except," she added, eagerly, "to have you always remain with us--to coax you to throw away swords and lances, and never make our hearts beat with the thought that you are in battle and in danger."

Jean Charost's own heart beat now; and he was silent for a moment or two. "That can not be, Agnes," he said, "and you would not wish it, my dear girl. Every one must sacrifice something for his country--very much in perilous times--men their repose, their ease, often their happiness, their life itself, should it be necessary; women, the society of those they love--brothers, fathers, husbands. Now, dear Agnes, I am neither of these to you, and therefore your sacrifice is not so much as that of many others."

"I know you are not my father," answered Agnes. "That our dear mother told me long ago; but do you know, dear Jean, I often wish you were my brother."