Philip Augustus; or, The Brothers in Arms

by G. P. R. James

In those days, the whole of the soil in that part of the country was covered with wood. The hills, and the valleys, and the plains round Rosny and Rolleboise, were all forest ground; and the trees absolutely dipped themselves in the Seine. To the left, a little before reaching the chapel of Notre Dame de Rosny, the road on which Philip had hitherto proceeded turned off into the heart of Normandy; and such was the direct way to the castle in which Agnes de Meranie had fixed her dwelling; but to the right, nearly in the same line as the present road to Rouen, lay another lesser path, which, crossing the woods in the immediate vicinity of the château, was the one that Philip judged fit to follow.

The road here first wound along down to the very banks of the Seine; and then, quitting it at the little hamlet of Rolleboise, mounted the steep hill, and dipping down rapidly again, skirted between the high chalky banks on the left, and a small plain of underwood that lay on the right towards the river.

Dug deep into the heart of the cliff, were then to be seen, as now, a variety of caves said to have been hollowed by the heathen Normans on their first invasion of France, some yawning and bare, but most of them covered over with underwood and climbing plants.

By the side of one of the largest of these had grown a gigantic oak, which, stretching its arms above, formed a sort of shady bower round the entrance. Various signs of its being inhabited struck Philip's eye as he approached, such as a distinct pathway from the road to the mouth, and the marks of recent fire; but, as there was at that time scarcely a forest in France which had not its hermit--and as many of these, from some strange troglodytical propensity, had abjured all habitations made with hands--the sight at first excited no surprise in the bosom of the monarch. It was different, however, when, as he passed by, he beheld hanging on the lowest of the oak's leafless branches, a knight's gauntlet, and he almost fancied that one of the romances of the day were realised, and that the next moment he should behold some grave enchanter, or some learned sage, issue from the bowels of the rock, and call upon him to achieve some high and perilous adventure.

He rode by, notwithstanding, without meeting with any such interruption; and, thoroughly acquainted with every turn in the woods, he proceeded to a spot where he could see the castle, and a portion of several of the roads which led to it: and, pushing in his horse amongst the withered leaves of the underwood, he waited in anxious hopes of catching but a glance of her he loved.

It is in such moments of expectation that imagination is often the most painfully busy, especially when she has some slight foundation of reality whereon to build up fears. Philip pictured to himself Agnes, as he had first seen her in the full glow of youth, and health, and beauty; and he then remembered her as she had left him, when a few short months of sorrow and anxiety had blasted the rose upon her cheek, and extinguished the light of her eye. Yet he felt he loved her more deeply, more painfully, the pale and faded thing she was then, than when she had first blessed his arms in all the pride of loveliness; and many a sad inference did he draw, from the rapidity with which that change had taken place, in regard to what she might have since undergone under the pressure of more stinging and ascertained calamity. Thus, while he watched, he conjured up many a painful fear, till reality could scarcely have matched his anticipations.

No Agnes, however, appeared; and the king began to deem that the report of the confessor had been false, when he suddenly perceived the flutter of white garments on the battlements of the castle. In almost every person, some one of the senses is, as it were, peculiarly connected with memory. In some it is the ear; and sounds that have been heard in former days will waken, the moment they are breathed, bright associations of lands, and scenes, and hours, from which they are separated by many a weary mile, and many a long obliterating year. In others, it is the eye, and forms that have been once seen are never forgot; while those that are well known, scarce need the slightest, most casual glance, to be recognised at once, though the distance may be great, and their appearance but momentary. This was the case with Philip Augustus; and though what he discerned was but as a vacillating white spot on the dark grey walls of the castle, it needed no second glance to tell him that there was Agnes de Meranie. He tied his horse to one of the shrubs, and with a beating heart sprang out into the road, to gain a nearer and more satisfactory view of her he loved best on earth.

Secure in the concealment of his armour, he approached close to the castle, and came under the wall, just as Agnes, followed by one of her women, turned upon the battlements. Her cheek was indeed ashy pale, with the clear line of her brown eyebrow marked more distinctly than ever on the marble whiteness of her forehead. She walked with her hands clasped, in an attitude that spoke that utter hopelessness in all earth's things, which sees no resource on this side of the grave; and her eyes were fixed unmovingly on the ground.

Philip gazed as he advanced, not doubting that the concealment of his armour was sure; but at that moment, the clang of the steel woke Agnes from her reverie. She turned her eyes to where he stood. Heaven knows whether she recognised him or not; but she paused suddenly, and stretching her clasped hands towards him, she gazed as if she had seen a vision, murmured a few inarticulate words, and fell back into the arms of the lady who followed her.

Philip sprang towards the gate of the castle, and already stood under the arch of the barbican, when the vow that the pope had exacted from him, not to pass the threshold of her dwelling till the lawfulness of his divorce was decided, flashed across his mind, and he paused. Upon a promise, that that decision should be within one half year, he had pledged his knightly honour to forbear--that decision had not yet been given; but the half-year was not near expired, and the tie of a knightly vow he dared not violate, however strong might be the temptation.