Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James

hand and arm were cast carelessly over the bed-clothes; her left side and breast exposed. The name she murmured seemed to act like a command; for instantly one hand was pressed upon her lips, and the other struck violently her side. The cry was smothered; the hands clutched the air in vain: a slight convulsive effort to rise, an aguish shudder, and all was still.

      The assassin withdrew his hand, but left the dagger in the wound. Oh, with what bitter skill he had done the deed! The steel had pierced through and through her heart!

      There he stood for a moment, and contemplated his handiwork. What was in his breast--who can tell? But suddenly he seemed to start from his dark revery, took the hand he had made lifeless in his own, and withdrew a wedding ring from the unresisting finger.

      Though passion is fond of soliloquy, he uttered but few words. "Now let him come and look," he murmured; and then going rapidly round to the other side of the bed, he snatched up the infant, cast part of his robe around it, and departed.

      Oh, what an awful, dreadful thing was the stillness which reigned in that terrible chamber after the murderer was gone. It seemed as if there were something more than silence there--a thick dull, motionless air of death and guilt. It lasted a long while--more than half an hour; and then, walking on tip-toe, came back the nurse. For a moment or two she did not perceive that any thing had happened. All was so quiet, so much as she had left it, that she fancied no change had taken place. She moved about stealthily, arranged some silver cups and tankards upon a dressoir, and smoothed out the damask covering with its fringe of lace.

      Presently there was a light tap at the door, and going thither on tip-toe, she found one of the Duke of Orleans's chief servants come to inquire after the lady's health.

      "Hush!" said the nurse, lifting up her finger, "she is sleeping like an angel."

      "And the baby?" asked the man.

      "She is asleep too," replied the nurse; "she has not given a cry for an hour."

      "That's strange!" said the man. "I thought babies cried every five minutes."

      Upon second thoughts, the nurse judged it strange too; and a certain sort of cold dread came upon her as she remembered her long absence, and combined it with the perfect stillness.

      "Stay a moment: I'll just take a peep and tell you more;" and she advanced noiselessly to the side of the bed. The moment she gazed in, she uttered a fearful shriek. Nature was too strong for art or policy. There lay the mother dead; the infant gone; and she screamed aloud, though she knew that the whole must be told, and her own negligence exposed.

      The man darted in from the door, and rushed to the side of the bed. The bloody evidences of the deed which had been done were plain before him, and catching the nurse by the arm, he questioned her vehemently.

      She was a friend of his, however--indeed, I believe, a relation--and first came a confession, and then a consultation. She declared she had not been absent five minutes, and that the deed must have been done within that short time; that somebody must have been concealed in the room at the time she left, for she had been so close at hand that she must have seen any one pass. She went on to declare that she believed it must have been done by sorcery; and as sorcery was in great repute at that time, the man might have been of her opinion, if the gore and the wound had not plainly shown a mortal agency.

      Then came the question of what was to be done. The duke must be told--that was clear; and it was agreed by both the man and the woman that it would be better for them to bear their own tale.

      "Do not let us tell him all at once," said the good lady, for horror and grief had by this time been swallowed up in more personal considerations; "he would kill us both on the spot, I do believe. Tell him, at first, that she is very ill; then, when he is going to see her, that she is dying; then that she is dead. And then--and then--let him find out himself that she has been murdered. Good gracious! I should not wonder if the murderer was still in the room. Did you not think you saw the curtain move?" and she gave a fearful glance toward the bed.

      The man unsheathed his sword, and for the first time they searched the room, which they had never thought of before.

      Nothing, however, could be found--not a vestige of the murderer--the very dagger that had done the deed was now gone; and after some further consultation, and some expressions of horror and regret, they set out to bear the intelligence to the Duke of Orleans, neglecting, in the fear of any one forestalling them, to give any directions for pursuit of the murderer.

      The house lay close to the Orleans palace, with an entrance from it into the gardens of the latter. Through that door they passed, walked down a short avenue of trees and vases, crossed a walk, and entered the palace by a side door. The man made his way straight toward the little hall, closely followed by the woman, and found the duke, as I have shown, in conversation with Jacques Cœur and Jean Charost. As had been agreed, the prince was at first informed that the lady was very ill, and even that intelligence caused the agitation which I have depicted. But how can I describe his state of mind when the whole truth was known, the fire of his rage, the abyss of his sorrow, and more, far more than all, the depth--the poignancy of his remorse? When he looked upon that beautiful and placid face, lying there in the cold, dull sleep of death--when he saw the fair bosom deluged in purple gore--when he remembered that, for the gratification of his light love, he had torn her from the arms of a husband who doted on her, from peaceful happiness and tranquil innocence, if not from joy and splendor--when he thought he had made her an adulteress--had brought disgrace upon her name--that he had been even, as he felt at that moment, accessory to her death, the worm that never dies seemed to fix itself upon his heart, and, casting himself down beside the bed, he cursed the day that he was born, and invoked bitterer maledictions on his own head than his worst enemy would have dared to pile upon him.

      True, in his anguish he did not altogether forget his energy. Instant orders were given to search for and pursue the murderer; and especial directions to beset all the doors of a small hotel in the neighborhood of the Temple, and to mark well who went out or came in. But this done, he fell again into the dark apathy of despair, and, seated in the chamber of death, slept not, took no refreshment throughout the livelong night. Priests came in, tall tapers were set in order, vases of holy water, and silver censers, and solemn voices were raised in holy song. But the duke sat there unmoved; his arms crossed upon his chest; his eyes fixed with a stony glare upon the floor. No one dared to speak to him or to disturb him; and the dark, long night of winter waned away, and the gray morning sunlight entered the chamber, ere he quitted the side of her he had loved and ruined.

      CHAPTER VI.

      Hope is nothing but a bit of cork floating on the sea of life, now tossed up into the sky, now sunk down into the abyss, but rising, rising again over the crest of the foamy wave, and topping all things even unto the end.

      Joyous and hopeful, Jean Charost presented himself at the gates of the Duke of Orleans's palace; but the heavy door under the archway was closed, and some minutes elapsed ere he obtained admission. The tall man who opened for him seemed doubtful whether he would let him in or not; and it was not till Jean had explained that the duke had appointed him, and that he was the person who had accompanied Jacques Cœur on the preceding night, that the man would let him pass the wicket. He then told him, however, to go on to the house and inquire for the master of the pages.

      Jean Charost was not very well satisfied with this reply; for, to his mind, it seemed to indicate that the duke had made up his mind to place him among his pages, and had given orders accordingly. Now the position of a page in a great household was not very desirable in the eyes of Jean Charost; besides, he had passed the age, he thought, when such a post was appropriate. He had completed his seventeenth year, and looked much older than he really was.

      As he walked on, however, he heard a step behind him, and, looking round, saw a man following him. There was nothing very marvelous in this, and he proceeded on his way till he found himself in the vestibule before described, and asked, as he had been directed, for the master of the pages. The man to whom he addressed himself said, "I'll send you to him. You were here