of Agnes, but the head and face were partially destroyed
during the Revolution, and restored in their present form in 1806, so
that little of the original now remains.

[Illustration: _Loches._

TOMB OF AGNES SOREL.

_To face page 158._]

This tomb, which to-day may be seen in a small vestibule of the
Chateau Royale (now the Sous-Prefecture), has a strange and chequered
history. Perhaps scarce another has suffered such singular
vicissitudes, so many removals, or more ruthless violations. Soon
after the death of Charles the Seventh (1461), the canons of Loches,
whom Agnes had largely endowed and of whom she asked naught save to be
remembered in their prayers, petitioned Louis the Eleventh for its
transfer to a side chapel, since they considered it unfitting for the
dust of such an one to repose in the choir. Louis, using his subtlety
to better purpose than was his wont, replied that if they removed the
tomb, they must return her gifts. Naturally these worthy ecclesiastics
silenced their consciences and kept the tomb where it was. However, in
the year 1777, in the reign of Louis the Sixteenth, the priestly
conscience again awoke to the enormity of its presence within the
choir, and, with the king's consent, it was removed to the nave.
Before re-burial the coffin was opened in the presence of various
church dignitaries and State officials. Among the latter was a doctor
who left an authoritative account of the proceedings, from which we
can approximately surmise the height of La Dame de Beaute, and verify
the record of her abundant fair hair. The exterior coffin of oak was
only 5 feet 6 inches long. Within this, and protected by another of
lead, was a shell of cedar wood in which, after the lapse of more than
three centuries, lay all that was mortal of Agnes Sorel. Her fair hair
was plaited in a long tress, and two curls rested on her forehead. As
one of those present, more curious than his fellows, stretched out his
hand to touch, all fell to dust. Death and Time were her guardian
angels. But even this desecration did not suffice to drain the cup of
unmerited vengeance. In 1793 the tomb was rifled, the sculptured
features, so lovingly wrought, defaced, and her dust cast to the
winds. But what matter? Agnes had done her work--work which had to be
done, and which she alone could do.

Another of the little band of chosen spirits of which Agnes was the
soul and centre, was Pierre de Breze, Lord of Varenne and Brissac, w