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et moi aucun sur les siennes." She well knew, in truth, that the influence which the Lady of Beauté exercised over his mind was exercised in her favour, and was beneficial to her, as well as to the interests of the kingdom.

Her

In the winter of 1449-50, Charles, who had recently subjugated Normandy, took up his abode in the Abbey of Jumieges. The cold was intense: this inclement season in France had never brought more severe and dreary weather. He was surprised to receive an unannounced visit from his fair Agnès. She had left Loches, and braved the winter's snow, to warn him of a conspiracy which might endanger his life, and in which the rebellious Dauphin was prime mover. Having conveyed her precautionary warning, she retired to the neighbouring hamlet of Mesnil, where she was seized by sudden and alarming illness. Her health, which had long been delicate, had been im. paired by the trying journey she had just accomplished. She felt with that intuitive perception which is given to many on the brink of eternity-that the grave would soon open its portals to receive her; and that she must prepare for her pilgrimage to that "bourne whence no traveller returns." agonies of mind and body were intense. She reviewed, with self-upbraiding, her past life: lamented the fatal gift of beauty, but for which she might have accomplished her youth's early promise; lived in innocent happiness, and died in peace. To the Count de Tancarville, who stood by her death. bed, she spoke of her fears for the future: nor could she gain a moment's tranquillity, but by reflecting on the mercy shewn by the Saviour to Mary Magdalen, the woman, who, like her, was a great sinner." She repeated, incessantly, passages from the confessions of St. Bernard, which she had copied with her own hand, feeling that they were applicable to her case. At length, exhausted by mental and bodily suffering, she breathed her last sigh in the arms of the King. Her heart was bequeathed to the monks of Jumiegès; her body was interred in the middle of the choir of the cathedral church at Loches, where a beautiful monument was erected to her memory by her royal lover. She is represented in a recumbent posture; graceful drapery veils her figure, and a circlet round her brow confines her flowing tresses;

angels, with extended wings, hover, as if waiting to convey to heaven the prayer which her clasped hands and half-parted lips seem to express; while two lambs, emblems of meekness and gentleness, lie passively crouched at her feet. The inscription is simple:

"Cy git noble Demoiselle Agnès Seurelle en son vivant Dame de Beauté de Roqueserein, d'Essoudun, et de Vernon-sur-Seine, piteuse envers toutes gens, et qui largement donnoit de ses biens aux églises et aux pauvres; laquelle trépassa le 9iem jour de Fevrier, l'an de grace 1449. Pricz Dieu pour l'àme d'elle. Amen."

It may seem a paradox to speak of the virtuous mistress of Charles the Seventh; and posterity-even allowing for the frailties and errors of fallible human nature-might still pronounce an unfavourable verdict on the character and conduct of Agnès Sorel, were it not for the negative evidence given in her favour by the contrast which is apparent in the actions of Charles during the twenty years in which her influence was paramount; and his conduct after her death. Then, as in his early youth, he abandoned himself to sensual indulgences. No longer conceding to his amiable Queen that respect and consideration she so well merited, he treated her with harsh and cruel neglect. He became unmindful of his friends, and ungratefully dismissed them at the suit of newer and unworthy favorites.

Jacques Cour, to whom he owed so much, was the first who fell under his displeasure, or rather, we should say, his indifference, and he basely left him to fall a prey to his personal enemies. The great money-changer of Bourges had amassed, for that day, enormous riches. He had been a successful trader in the Levant; his argo. sies rode, richly laden with the treasures of the East, in all the southern harbours of France. In his commercial establishment he had three hundred factors receiving their orders from him, and devoted to his interests. His seigneurie of St. Fargeau enclosed twentytwo parishes. His house at Bourges

still remains a monument of his rich and elegant taste in architecture. The King was his debtor to an enormous amount. When Charles undertook the conquest of Normandy in 1448, Jacques Coeur advanced him 200,000

crowns of gold, and entertained four armies at his own expense. "Il est aussi riche que Jacques Coeur," was a common proverb. The people believed that he had discovered the philosopher's stone, and could thus transmute the baser metals into pure gold. But the secret of his success was less magical;may we not trace it in the punning device which yet stands, carved in bold relief, on his house at Bourges-"A VAILLANS (cœurs) RIEN IMPOSSIBLE." Truly the omnipotence of Will is great. He who steadily resolves, and bends every energy to obtain the prize, whatever it may be, which he proposes to himself, runs but little chance of failure. Still, when success has been attained, how often does it fail to give the happiness and satisfaction which its possessor looked for? So was it with Jacques Cœur. The sunshine of his prosperity brought forth the adder.

Soon after the death of Agnès Sorel, Chabannes, one of the enemies whom his riches had excited, being high in the favour of the King, obtained his consent to a "procès" against the goldsmith of Bourges. One of the absurd charges brought against him was, that he had poisoned his constant and true friend, the fair and gentle Lady of Beauté! With base injustice, Charles made his accuser his judge. After an indecent proceeding, in which every form of justice was violated, Jacques Coeur was condemned to perpetual banishment, with confiscation of his goods, in addition to a fine of 400,000 crowns to the royal coffers. The persecuted man fled to Rome, stripped of the wealth which he had acquired by the unremitting industry of years. He found the pontiff, Nicholas the Fifth, about to dispatch a fleet against the Tuks, and solicited the command, which was readily granted him. before his voyage was completed he fell sick, and died at Chio, where his mortal remains repose in a church of the Cordeliers. Popular rumour in France long refused credence to the tidings of his death. In the belief of many he lived to amass, anew, riches no less considerable than the fortune he had been stripped of in France with such cruel injustice.

But

We must not close our notice of Agnès Sorel without reverting to the fate of her early playmate, Isabelle of Lorraine. She died long before her friend having survived her sons, who

were snatched from her ere they had attained the age of manhood. Her daughters, Yolande and Margaret, were celebrated for their charms, as the latter afterwards became for her sorrows and misfortunes. Yolande was betrothed to Ferry, son of Antoine de Vandemont, who had so long contested with René the succession to Lorraine: and part of the disputed territory was settled on the young couple. Margaret, when scarcely fif teen, was solicited in marriage by Henry the Sixth of England; and one of the last occasions on which Agnès Sorel appeared in public, was the ceremony of the espousals at Nanci. "La Belle des Belles" was, as usual, sumptuously attired, and her presence was considered to give great éclat to the scene. When the youthful bride bade adieu to her native land, the King tenderly embraced her: "I seem to have done little for you, my niece," he said, addressing her, "in placing you on one of the mightiest thrones in Europe, for it is not worthy of possessing you." Poor Margaret could then but little anticipate the destiny that awaited her; doomed as she was to return to France, a heart-broken widow, a childless mother, a fallen and dis-crowned Queen-a suppliant for the penurious charity of others; her beauty gone, her hopes blighted; waiting and longing until her weary pilgrimage on earth should be accomplished and ended.

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The last hours of King Charles were scarcely less wretched. He survived his once-loved Agnès eleven years. sufficient time to prove to himself and to others, how utterly he was unworthy of her devoted and faithful love. No constant friend stood by his death-bed, or received his last sigh. He died from starvation!-fearing to partake of food, sustenance, or medicine, lest poison should be conveyed in them. His own son was the virtual parricide who thus hastened his end, and whose emissaries he dreaded in all those that surrounded him.

On the accession of Louis the Eleventh, the monks of Loches, anxious to propitiate the new sovereign, who had shown such rancorous hostility to Agnès Sorel, requested his permission to remove her monument, which, as we have stated, stood in the choir of their cathedral; alleging the scandal which it caused them in their

devotions. "I respect your scruples," replied the sneering Louis, "and grant you the permission you desire. Of course, you will not hesitate to reinstate in my coffers the large sums of money with which Agnès Sorel endowed you, and which it would be a sin against your tender consciences any longer to retain.”

The character of Agnès Sorel has since met with a juster appreciation. In the chapter-house of this very Cathedral of Loches is preserved a manuscript, containing one thousand sonnets or poems in her praise; most of them

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THE OLD MAN'S BEQUEST; A STORY OF gold.

THROUGH the ornamental grounds of a handsome country residence, at a little distance from a large town in Ireland, a man of about fifty years of age was walking, with a bent head, and the impress of sorrow on his face.

"Och, yer honour, give me one sixpence, or one penny, for God's sake," cried a voice from the other side of a fancy paling which separated the grounds in that quarter from a thoroughfare. "For heaven's sake, Mr. Lawson, help me as ye helped me before. I know you've the heart and hand to do it."

The person addressed as Mr. Lawson looked up and saw a woman whom he knew to be in most destitute circumstances, burdened with a large and sickly family, whom she had struggled to support until her own health was ruined.

"I have no money-not one farthing," answered John Lawson.

"No money!" reiterated the woman, in surprise; "isn't it all yours, then?-isn't this garden yours, and that house, and all the grand things that are in it yours?—ay, and grand things they are the pictures, and them bright shinin' things in that drawingroom of yours; and sure you deserve them well, and may God preserve them long to you, for riches hasn't hardened your heart, though there's many a one,

and heaven knows the gold turns their feelin's to iron."

"It all belongs to my son, Henry Lawson, and Mrs. Lawson, and their children-it is all theirs;" he sighed heavily, and deep emotion was visible in every lineament of his thin and wrinkled face.

The poor woman raised her bloodshot eyes to his face, as if she was puzzled by his words. She saw that he was suffering, and with intuitive delicacy she desisted from pressing her wants, though her need was great.

"Well, well, yer honor, many's the good penny ye have given me and the childer, and maybe the next time I see you you'll have more change."

She was turning sadly away, when John Lawson requested her to remain, and he made inquiries into the state of her family; the report he heard seemed to touch him even to the forgetfulness of his own sorrows; he bade her stop for a few moments and he would give her some relief.

He walked rapidly towards the house and proceeded to the drawingroom. It was a large and airy apartment, and furnished with evident profusion; the sunlight of the bright summer-day, admitted partially through the amply-draperied windows, lit up a variety of sparkling gilding in pictureframes, and vases, and mirrors, and

cornices; but John Lawson looked round on the gay scene with a kind of shudder; he had neither gold, silver, nor even copper in his pocket, or in his possession.

He advanced to a lady who reclined on a rose-coloured sofa, with a fashionable novel in her hand, and after some slight hesitation he addressed her, and stating the name and wants of the poor woman who had begged for aid, he requested some money.

As he said the words " some money," his lips quivered, and a tremor ran through his whole frame, for his thoughts were vividly picturing a recently departed period, when he was under no necessity of asking money from any individual.

"Bless me, my dear Mr. Lawson !" cried the lady, starting up from her recumbent position, "did I not give you a whole handful of shillings only the day before yesterday; and if you wasted it all on poor people since, what am I to do? Why, indeed, we contribute so much to charitable subscriptions, both Mr. Lawson and I, you might be content to give a little less to common beggars.'

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Mrs. Lawson spoke with a smile on her lips, and with a soft caressing voice, but a hard and selfish nature shone palpably from her blue eyes. She was a young woman, and had the repute of beauty, which a clear pinkand-white complexion, and tolerable features, with luxuriant light hair, generally gains from a portion of the world. She was dressed for the reception of morning visitors whom she expected, and she was enveloped in expensive satin and blond, and jewellery in large proportions.

John Lawson seemed to feel every word she had uttered in the depths of his soul, but he made a strong effort to restrain the passion which was rising to his lips.

"Augusta, my daughter, you are the wife of my only and most beloved child-I wish to love you-I wish to live in peace with you, and all-give me some money to relieve the wants of the unfortunate woman to whom I have promised relief, and who is waiting without. I ask not for myself, but for the poor and suffering-give me a trifle of money, I say."

"Indeed, Mr. Lawson, a bank would not support your demands for the poor people; that woman for whom you are

begging has been relieved twenty times by us. I have no money just now.”

She threw herself back on the sofa and resumed her novel; but anger, darting from her eyes, contrasted with the trained smile which still remained on her lips.

A dark shade of passion and scorn came over John Lawson's face, but he strove to suppress it, and his voice was calm when he spoke.

"Some time before my son married you, I gave up all my business to him -I came to live here amongst trees and flowers--I gave up all the lucrative business I had carried on to my son, partly because my health was failing, and I longed to live with nature, away from the scenes of traffic; but more especially, because I loved my son with no common love, and I trusted to him as to a second self. I was not disappointed-we had one purse and one heart before he married you; he never questioned me concerning what I spent in charity he never asked to limit in any way my expenditure-he loved you, and I made no conditions concerning what amount of income I was to receive, but still I left him in entire possession of my business when he

married you. I trusted to your fair,

young face, that you would not controvert my wishes-that you would join me in my schemes of charity."

“And have I not?" interrupted Mrs. Lawson, in a sharp voice, though the habitual smile still graced her lips; do I not subscribe to, I don't know how many, charitable institutions? Charity, indeed-there's enough spent in charity by myself and my husband. But I wish to stop extravagance-it is only extravagance to spend so much on charity as you would do if you could; therefore, you shall not have any money just now."

Mrs. Lawson was one of those women who can cheerfully expend a most lavish sum on a ball, a dress, or any other method by which rank and luxury dissipate their abundance, but who are very economical, and talk much of extravagance when money is demanded for purposes not connected with display and style.

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Augusta Lawson, listen to me❞— his voice was quivering with passion"my own wants are very few; in food, in clothes, in all points my expenditure is trifling. I am not extravagant in my demands for the poor,

either. All I have expended in charity during the few years since you came here, is but an insignificant amount as contrasted with the income which I freely gave up to my son and you; therefore, some money for the poor woman who is waiting, I shall now have; give me some shillings, for God's sake, and let me go." He advanced closer to her, and held out his hand.

"Nonsense!" cried Mrs. Lawson; "I am mistress, here I am determined to stop extravagance. You give too much to common beggars; I am determined to stop it—do not ask me any further."

A kind of convulsion passed over John Lawson's thin face; but he pressed his hand closely on his breast, and was silent for some moments.

"I was once rich, I believe. Yes-it is not a dream," he said, in a slow, selfcommuning voice. "Gold and silver, once ye were plenty with me; my hands-my pockets were filledguineas, crowns, shillings-now I have not one penny to give to that starving, dying woman, whose face of misery might soften the very stones she looks on-not one penny.'

"Augusta," he said, turning suddenly towards her, after a second pause of silence, "give me only one shilling, and I shall not think of the bitter words you have just said?"

"No; not one shilling," answered Mrs. Lawson, turning over a leaf of her novel.

"One sixpence, then-one small, poor sixpence. You do not know how even a sixpence can gladden the black heart of poverty, when starvation is One sixpence, I say—let me

come.

have it quickly."

"Not one farthing I shall give you. I do beg you will trouble me no further."

Mrs. Lawson turned her back partially to him, and fixed all her attention on the novel.

"Woman! I have cringed and begged; I would not so beg for myself, from you-no; I would lie down and die of want before I would, on my own account, request of you-of your hard heart-one bit of bread. All the finery that surrounds you is mine-it was purchased with my money, though now you call it yours; and, usurping the authority of both master and mistress here, you-in what you please to call your economi

cal management-dole out shillings to me when the humour seizes you, or refuse me, as now, when it pleases you. But, woman, listen to me. I shall never request you for one farthing of money again. No necessity of others shall make me do it. You shall never again refuse me, for I shall never give you the opportunity."

He turned hastily from the room, with a face on which the deep emotion of an aroused spirit was depicted strongly.

In the lobby he met his son, Henry Lawson. The young man paused, something struck by the excited appearance of his father.

"Henry," said the father, abruptly, "I want some money; there is a poor woman whom I wish to relieve will you give me some money for her?”

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Willingly, my dear father; but have you asked Augusta. You know I have given her the management of the money-matters of the establishment, she is so very clever and economical."

"She has neither charity, nor pity, nor kindness; she saves from me-she saves from the starving poor-she saves, that she may waste large sums on parties and dresses. I shall never more ask her for money-give me a few shillings. My God! the father begs of the son for what was his own

for what he toiled all his youthfor what he gave up out of trusting love to that son. Henry, my son, I am sick of asking and begging-ay, sick -sick; but give me some shillings,

now."

"You asked Augusta, then," said Henry, drawing out his purse, and glancing with some apprehension to the drawing-room door.

"Henry," cried Mrs. Lawson, appearing at that instant with a face inflamed with anger "Henry, 1 would not give your father any money to-day, because he is so very extravagant in giving it all away.'

Henry was in the act of opening his purse; he glanced apprehensively to Mrs. Lawson; his face had a mild and passive expression, which was a true index of his yielding and easilygoverned nature. His features were small, delicate, and almost effeminately handsome; and in every lineament a want of decision and force of character was visible.

"Henry, give me some shillings, I

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