"Perhaps not, sire," replied De Brecy, boldly. "But I know of no one who has a better right than myself."
His eyes were flashing, his face heated, his whole frame trembling with emotion; and, with his free and possibly rash habit of expressing his thoughts, it is impossible to tell what he might have said; but Dunois and Juvenel de Royans took him by the arms, and forcibly drew him away from the king's presence toward a door at the end of the line of ladies and gentlemen, on the king's right hand.
As this painful and exciting scene had proceeded, the open space before the monarch had been gradually crowded, the ring around had become narrower and narrower, and De Brecy was soon lost to the monarch's eyes in the number of persons about him. Dunois paused for a moment there, urging something to which Jean Charost gave no heed; but nearly at the same instant a small hand was laid upon his arm, and the voice of Agnes Sorel said, in a low, earnest tone, "Leave her to me, De Brecy; leave her to me. I know all you fear; but, by my Christian faith, I will protect her, and guard her from all evil. Here, here--give your mother your arm; and, for Heaven's sake, for your own sake, for her sake, do not irritate the king."
De Brecy heard no more; but, with the heaviest heart that had ever rested in his bosom, suffered Dunois to lead him from the hall.
Juvenel de Royans followed, and, when they leached the vestibule beyond, he wrung De Brecy's hand hard, saying, "This is my fault--all my foolish chattering. But, by the Lord, I will set it right before I have done, or I will cut my cousin Trimouille's heart out of his body;" and with those words he turned sharply and re-entered the hall.
CHAPTER XLIX.
For Jean Charost, a period of lethargy--I may almost call it--succeeded the scene last described. A dull, idle, heavy dream--a torpor of the spirit as well as of the body. It is not the man of many emotions who has the deepest: it is he who has the power, either from temperament or force of character, to resist them. His spirit has not been worn by them; his heart has not been soiled by them; and when at length they seize upon him, and conquer him, they have something to grasp.
It was thus with him. In early life he had never known love. The circumstances in which he had been placed, the constant occupation, the frequent moving from place to place, and the absence of any of those little incidents which plant and nourish passion, had left his life without the record of any thing more than a mere passing inclination. But when love seized upon him, it took possession of him entirely, filled him for a few days with hope and joy, and now plunged him into that spiritless lethargy. The events which were passing around him in France came upon him as a vision. Like the ancient prophet, he saw things in a trance, but having his eyes open; and they must be pictured to the reader in the same way that they appeared to him.
A large, fine city, on a beautiful river, is besieged by a numerous army. Its fortifications are old and insufficient, the troops within it scanty, the preparations small. The cannon thunder upon it, mines explode beneath its walls, the enemy march to its assault; but they are driven back, and Orleans remains untaken. There is a bridge, the key, as it were, to the city. It is attacked, defended, attacked again. An old castle seems its only protection. The castle is attacked, and taken by the enemy; and a man of magnificent presence, calm, and grave, and gentle, mounts the highest tower therein, to direct his soldiery against the city. Suddenly, the stone ball of a large cannon strikes the window at which he stands; and Salisbury is carried away to die a few hours after of his wounds.
The city still holds out; the attacks have diminished in fierceness; but round about the devoted place the English lines are drawn on every side, pressing it closer and closer, till famine begins to reign within the walls. There is a battle in the open fields, some miles from the besieged place. Wagons and tumbrils are in the midst, and gallant men, with the lily banner over them, fight bravely; but fight in vain. They fly--at length they fly. The bravest hearts in France turn from the fatal field, and all is rout, and slaughter, and defeat. Surely, surely Orleans must fall, and all the open country beyond the Loire submit to the invader.