In a Dark Wood Wandering (35 page)

“I am in complete agreement with the argument.”

Since none among those present seemed inclined to request proof or express doubts, the Duke of Berry declared the session ended, in the King's name.

The following day Burgundy received a document signed by the King which informed him that he was acquitted of all guilt. At the same time he was solemnly invited to resume his seat upon the Council. The King's signature ratified still another document with completely different contents: the children of the Duke of Orléans were deprived of the county of Dreux, the castles and grounds of Château-Thierry, Montargis, Crecy-en-Brie and Chatillon-sur-Marne. That the name Charles VI was written in shaky, blotted, ink-spattered letters by a madman who had no idea of what he was doing, was not thought by anyone to be a point worth consideration.

Isabeau left with her children for the castle of Melun, where she was to meet for prolonged discussions with her brother Ludwig.

Charles d'Orléans stood in one of the deep window recesses of the great hall in Blois and gazed out over the luxuriant landscape of the Loire valley. The broad and glistening river wended its way, bend after bend, between leafy thickets and green hills; the fragrance of flowers and newly-mown grass blew over the field. A triple girdle of ramparts circled the outer wall. Two inner courts separated from each other by moats and fortifications led to the citadel itself, which was flanked by strong towers. In the enormous castle yard were the guardrooms, stables, servants' quarters and dwellings of the officials attached to the ducal household. There also stood the church of Saint-Saveur. The innermost court, situated between the donjon and
the chapel, was considerably smaller; it could be reached over a drawbridge. Within these walls Valentine had found a secure refuge for herself and her children.

Charles stood motionless, with his hands behind his back. He was waiting for his mother. The beauty of the summer countryside—the river blinking in the sun, the light clouds—could not dispel the chill from the young man's heart, nor the oppressive presentiments of disaster. After his joyous reception as the Duke of Orléans, he had found his first few weeks at Blois singularly charming; here, for the first time, he was lord and master in his own house. Despite the stifled laughter and amused glances of Philippe and Dunois, he had given orders and instructions; he was consulted on the daily course of affairs in the castle. Assisted by his chamberlain, Messire Sauvage de Villers, Charles had responded to questions, petitions, complaints and reports; he had acquired a taste for independent action. When his mother returned from Paris, he lost this independence. It was true that she kept him punctiliously informed of everything she planned to do, but she seemed to consider it self-evident—to Charles' private annoyance—that her oldest son would agree with her on everything. Little survived of the sweet, gentle Valentine who, with embroidery and harp-playing, had attempted to forget how quickly the sand flowed through the hour-glass.

The woman who now sat from early in the morning until long after darkness fell, at a table strewn with papers, surrounded by clerks and lawyers, garrison commanders and stewards, had no time for hobbies or the pleasure of art. Between the folds of the mourning veil, her sunken cheeks seemed unnaturally pale, her eyes hard and lusterless as stones. When she was silent her mouth was compressed into a narrow line. At her command the castle of Blois and the hamlet of the same name which lay in its shadow, were put into a state of defense; she ordered a store of provisions laid in, the garrisons fortified, and the walls and towers repaired.

Philippe and Dunois enjoyed all this immensely; they could have their fill of armor, catapults, hand- and crossbows. Whenever they had a chance they roamed the great inner court among soldiers and horses, amazed that their mother allowed them to do it. Charles took up his lessons with Maitre Garbet once more, although with slightly diminished attention; he was worried about his mother's plans: how did she intend, without allies, to challenge so powerful an enemy as Burgundy? Charles spent considerable time with her
each day in the chamber where she conducted her affairs; she showed him the letters and decrees which she signed in his name. The intimate, loving relationship between mother and son seemed to have come to an end.

She displayed a tireless sharpness and objectivity that contrasted strongly with her earlier gentle, tender patience. She caressed only Marguerite, her youngest child, born shortly before Louis' death, and Doucet, the small white dog who had attended its master to the last. Occasionally she smiled with absent sadness at Isabelle.

Charles' wife was eighteen years old; now that Valentine was occupied elsewhere, Isabelle supervised the household and servants, with the same composure and self-possession which she had demonstrated on other occasions. She was very conscientious and seldom overlooked anything. Charles she treated politely, but with a certain irritating impatience. For his part, the young man did not know how to behave toward this tall, pale girl with cold eyes. Sometimes by chance he encountered her tense, penetrating stare; it was as though she looked for something, she expected something from him, but he could not imagine what it could be. He looked away in confusion. Did she perhaps detect the transformation which he was undergoing and which, embarrassed and irritated, he attempted to hide? He was seized alternately by feelings of restlessness and oppression; a sudden, violent urge for action, followed unceremoniously by a longing for quiet and solitude. He did not find peace even in his books any longer; he lay awake at night plagued by restlessness, an inner tension for which no cause seemed to exist. He was confused, queer thoughts came into his head—he did not know where to turn for advice. Once he hesitantly approached Maitre Garbet, his tutor whom he admired and trusted, and attempted to confide his troubles, but the old man only looked at him, smiling, over the rim of his spectacles and said, with good-natured mockery:

“Yes, yes, Monseigneur, you are growing up.”

This response, and especially the manner in which it was said, Charles found infuriating, but it gave him food for thought. Could that be the solution to the mystery? In the winter he would be fifteen years old, the age at which kings were considered to have attained their majority. The fact that his voice sometimes broke or that his limbs would not always obey him—did all this mean he was becoming an adult? There had been a time when he had wanted more than anything else to be a grown man, so that he could buy books
freely, read to his heart's content, journey to distant lands to see with his own eyes the wonders described in the holy stories and the tales of chivalry. Now the future which awaited him as an adult seemed less attractive.

The youth spent his days inside the dark walls of Blois, depressed by these and other thoughts. He loved the castle and principally its setting which unfolded to the horizon in delicate shades of green. In the river he saw reflections of clouds and the light of the sky in summer; it was an infinitely more beautiful picture than those woven into fabrics and tapestries. To his surprise he became aware of a curious desire to put into words what he saw: the sparkle of the sun on the stream, the glow of poppies in the green fields. Secretly he was ashamed of this urge. He had never heard that a man thought about such things.

He heard his mother's train rustling behind him over the leaf-strewn floor. He turned and went to her; silently she allowed herself to be led to the bench under a tapestried canopy. For a few minutes mother and son sat next to each other without speaking; Valentine stared into space. Sunshine lay in broad rectangles on the floor; in its strong light the colors of the fabric hanging along the walls were dimmed by dust and grime. The afternoon was filled with sounds: a cuckoo calling in the thicket by the river, the creak of a water wheel in the village, the stamping of hooves and confused clamor of voices and tools in the inner court… Charles glanced sideways at his mother's face; her skin was yellowish, wrinkled around the eyes—he thought she looked suddenly old and tired.

‘There are things which I must discuss with you, son,” said Valentine. Her soft voice sounded slightly cracked.

“Yes, Madame ma mere,” replied Charles; he tried to keep an attitude of courteous attention as he had been taught to do toward grown-ups, but a vague feeling of foreboding was creeping over him.

“You are now almost fifteen. At that age your father and your uncle the King were considered to be mature and responsible. Maitre Garbet tells me you have a good sense; he praises the progress you have made. After consulting with him, I have decided to terminate your lessons.”

Charles felt a lump in his throat; he made an abrupt gesture of protest.

“Your education has been much too narrow,” said Valentine, unmoved. She fixed her dark lusterless eyes upon him. “You are not predestined to be a scholar, son. You are Duke of Orléans, the head of a House, a leader of a party. It is time that we begin to develop those qualities which you must have for a task like that. You are a good horseman, but you have no skill with any weapon.”

Charles sighed; his lack of enthusiasm did not escape Valentine's notice.

“You can sit and read later when old age or illness allows you no other diversion.” Her tone brooked no contradiction. “I fear, child, that you may already have spoiled your eyes by peering at your letters. Now you must develop your physical strength, exercise your muscles. You will need all that when you ride off to war.”

“War?” Charles raised his head; his look was just guileless enough to give his mother pain. But Valentine repressed this sympathetic impulse—she thought she must be pitiless herself if she were to help her son become the man of steel he had to be.

“Why do you think I have called up all these soldiers?” she asked wearily. “It costs a fortune every day to maintain them. If Burgundy will not bend, he must be broken. I shall force him to give me satisfaction, through force of arms if there is no other way. But any army of Orléans' must stand under our personal command—that is to say, under your command, son. You owe that duty to your father, who was so ignominiously murdered. Listen …” She turned toward him and took his face almost roughly between her two hands. “Listen, boy. From now on you must be inspired by only one thought, only one desire must impel you—revenge, revenge, nothing but revenge, until the humiliation they visited upon your father and upon us has been expunged in blood. I have never been cruel and vindictive, God knows that. But now I have learnt all too well what fate awaits the meek. Strike before you are struck. That is the only law, son, I can't teach you a wiser maxim. Remember that: revenge, satisfaction. Repeat those words by day and by night. Be aware that you must ignore yourself and everything you love must be set aside until you have achieved your purpose, until your father's death has been avenged, his memory cleansed, your inheritance restored intact to you and your brothers. That work must be pleasing to God,
because your father was a noble man who served the interests of the King and the realm.”

“Mother,” Charles said with sudden vehemence—he slid onto his knees before her. “Mother, they say that my father robbed the King—that he was impious and frivolous.”

Valentine raised her hand and struck the young man across the mouth.

“That you should dare to say those words within these walls is worse than treason,” she said harshly. “Never speak like that again. Do not question for one moment the truth of what I say to you. I knew your father better than anyone else knew him. He caused me much suffering, many bitter tears, but now it seems to me that the sorrow I had to endure was far less important than the joy he brought to me. Yes, that joy was so deep that now the world has lost its light for me. Nothing has meaning anymore,” she concluded, slowly repeating the words which were written in silver against the black walls of her apartments; tears began to fall from her dull eyes—she held a handkerchief before her face.

“I ask your forgiveness, Madame ma mere,” said Charles, embarrassed and upset. “But I don't know if I am suited to be the leader of an army. I will learn to fight with weapons if you wish me to. But it is not fitting that I should be in charge of men like Messires de Braquemont and de Villars, who are great warriors.”

“You must let me judge what is fitting for a Duke of Orléans.” Valentine's face had regained its severity. “You cannot become a leader through talk. You will have the best possible tutors. I don't want any more objections, son. You are still under my guardianship; I am responsible for your education. Sit up straight—throw your shoulders back—you have sat bent over books for too many years. It has not been good for you.”

Charles obeyed, but he had to bite his lips to avoid bursting into tears of rage and disappointment. Valentine sighed; she folded her thin hands stiffly in her lap and went on.

‘There are still a few important matters I want to discuss with you. Your father contracted huge debts. He had to maintain his court and contribute to the support of his vassals here and abroad. He was forced to borrow a great deal of money at times to pay for his new territories. I want to pay off that debt before we undertake anything else, son, and that cannot be done without sacrifice. We must sell valuables and jewels. I have already made my choices—see
if you agree with me, because there are many things among them which belong to you. I believe that if we want to have a large sum of money at our disposal all at once, we shall have to sell a house. I have heard that the Queen wishes to give the Dauphin his own dwelling in Paris. I have recently told her that I am ready to relinquish the Hotel de Behaigne to her for ten thousand gold francs. I take it you agree with me?”

The young man nodded; he did not speak. He was overwhelmed by despondency. What could he really say? He did not need to think; everything was being decided for him.