Had the wars and contentions which had raged through the rest of France prevailed in the neighborhood of Bourges--had Madame da Brecy and Agnes been accustomed to the scenes of strife and confusion which reigned in the rest of the country--had they been drilled, as it were, and disciplined to hourly uncertainty, they might have felt little or no alarm. But Berri had been nearly free from the evils that scourged the rest of France, and a wandering troop of Royalist cavalry, or the sudden inroad of a small band of English or Burgundians, causing them to raise the draw-bridge and drop the portcullis, was all they knew of the dangers of the times. Even during the short period they had spent in the citadel of Bourges, however, Jean Charost had always found means to spend a short part of each day with them; and although his not coming at the usual hour might not have caused much apprehension, the reply that he had gone forth from the castle, and not returned, agitated them both.
The alarm of Agnes, however, was much more than that of Madame De Brecy. The aged feel this kind of apprehension, from many causes, much less than the young. Cares and griefs harden the spirit to endure. Each sorrow has its stiffening influence. Besides, as we approach the extreme term of life, we are led to value it less highly--to estimate it properly. When we contemplate it from the flowery beginning of our days, oh, what a rich treasury of golden hours it seems! and we think every one like us has the same dower. But as we look back at it when our portion is nearly spent, we see how little really serviceable to happiness it has procured, and we judge of others as ourselves. A friend dies; and, though we may grieve, we think that we may soon meet again. A friend is in danger, and we feel the less alarm, from a knowledge that in losing life he loses little--that a few years more or less are hardly dust in the balance, and that if he be taken away, it is but that he goes from an inn somewhat near us to his home further off.
Agnes was very anxious. Her's was a quick imagination, active either in the service of joy or sorrow; and she fancied all that might have occurred, and much that was not likely. At one time she was inclined to believe that the commander of the castle was deceiving Madame De Brecy and herself, anxious to save them pain--that Jean Charost had been killed, and that De Blondel would not tell them. She little knew how lightly a hardened soldier could deal with such a matter. Then, reasoning against her fears, she thought that De Brecy must have gone forth upon a sally, and been made prisoner, and memory brought back all the sorrows that had followed Azincourt. But worst of all was the uncertainty, the toilsome laboring of thought after some definite conclusion--the ever-changing battle between hope and fear, in which fear was generally triumphant. She sat at the high window, gazing over the country round, and watching the different roads within sight. Now she saw a group coming along toward the gates; but after eager scanning, it proved nothing but some peasants bringing in provisions for the soldiery. Then an indistinct mass was seen at a distance; but long ere it reached Bourges, it turned away in a different direction. Each moment increased her anxiety and alarm. One hour--two, went by. Again she saw some one coming, and again was disappointed, and the long-repressed tears rose in her eyes, the sobs with which she could struggle no longer burst from her lips.
"Agnes, Agnes my child, come hither," cried Madame De Brecy; and rising from her seat, Agnes cast herself upon her knees beside Jean Charost's mother, and hid her streaming eyes upon her lap.
"What is it, my dear Agnes?" asked Madame De Brecy, much moved. "Tell me, my child; what agitates you thus? Tell me your feelings--all your feelings, my Agnes. Surely I have been to you ever as a mother: conceal nothing from me."
"Why does he not come?" asked Agnes, in a voice hardly audible. "Oh, dear mother, I fear he is ill--he is hurt--perhaps he is--"
"Nay, nay," replied Madame De Brecy, "you have no cause for such agitation, Agnes. A soldier can not command his own time, nor can he, amid many important tasks, always find the opportunity of letting those he loves best know his movements, even to relieve their anxiety. A soldier's wife, my child," she added, putting her arm gently round the kneeling girl, "must learn to bear such things with patience and hope--nay, more, must learn to conceal even the anxiety she must feel, in order to cast no damp upon her husband's spirits, to shackle none of his energies, and to add nothing to his sorrow of parting even with herself. Would you like to be a soldier's wife, my Agnes?"
"I know not what I should like," answered Agnes, without raising her head; but then she added quickly, as if her heart reproached her for some little insincerity, "Yes, yes, I should; but then I should like him to be a soldier no longer."
A faint smile came upon Madame De Brecy's lip, and she was devising another question to bring forth some further confession, when through the open window came the sound of a trumpet, and Agnes, starting up, darted back to her place of watching.
Oh, how eagerly she dashed away the tears that dimmed her eyes; and the next instant she exclaimed, with a radiant, rosy look of joy, which rendered all further confession needless, "It is he--it is he! There are a great number with him--some twenty or thirty; but I can see him quite plainly. It is he!"