In a Dark Wood Wandering (54 page)

With animated gestures he described how the rabble stormed up the stairs of Saint-Pol and forced their way into the halls; how many eminent courtiers had been dragged away, among them Lud-wig of Bavaria, the Queen's brother, and a number of ladies of the court who had attended the Dauphin's banquet. The prisoners were locked up in the Louvre and guarded by a growing mob. Burgundy, who had rushed out of the Hotel d'Artois, had tried to appease the men by facing them and appealing to them himself, but it was useless. Yes, it seemed that even the butcher bosses could no longer control their apprentices and mates. A delegation—Philippe remembered the names Saint-Yon and Thibert—had arrived, imploring Mon-seigneur's forgiveness for the behavior of the citizen army, but immediately afterward the same troops appeared, led by the former city executive Capeluche, and Caboche, the most notorious rebel of
all, and made a new expedition inside the palace walls, this time with the express purpose of seizing and murdering anyone who had ever had anything to do with the party of Orléans.

“I still don't know how I managed to escape,” Philippe said, raising his goblet courteously toward his brother before drinking. “I climbed over a wall. A peasant brought me over the Seine in a rowboat. One of Monseigneur de Berry's retainers hid me for a few days in a hovel in the fields outside the Hotel de Nesle. Then I heard further news: the butchers guard the Dauphin and allow no one near him. Nevertheless he managed to send me a message. Here …”

From his sleeve Philippe drew a dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which the Dauphin had written in large sloping letters: “Help me. Recruit troops and allies. They threaten me, they wish to force me to sign over my rights to my brother of Touraine. They demand that I use force against Orléans. Be on your guard. Help me!”

Once more Charles d'Orléans entered into negotiations with his erstwhile allies, Alençon, Bourbon and Armagnac. Incessantly the Dauphin despatched messengers and letters with requests for speedy help. In Paris all was confusion and alarm. The butchers, who wanted to fight the Armagnacs and the English together, were now busy collecting the money required for a campaign. Nobles and wealthy burghers were murdered or driven away and their houses looted.

This time Charles saw himself cast in a new role: now he marched upon Paris not as an opponent of his arch-enemy Burgundy, but as a defender of King and Kingdom, a protector of the reign. Circumstances had undoubtedly never been more favorable for him and his cause. He realized that he had not created these circumstances; he had the rabble to thank, and their rage; he could never have accomplished this by himself. Armagnac appeared with a considerably larger force than before; the Gascon's behavior was as crude and coarsely grasping as ever. Although Charles always treated him with noticeable reserve, Armagnac acted as though there had never been any friction between his son-in-law and himself. He constantly sought Charles' company, sat beside him at council meetings and meals, rode with him, and behaved in general as though he were the confidant and right hand of Orléans. In response Charles could use no weapons except coldness and silence, but he understood very well that Armagnac fervently craved the end which he now regarded
as almost within his grasp. He smelled success and wanted to be the first to be considered for favors and gifts when Orléans marched into Paris. Although Charles might thus control his father-in-law's behavior by encouraging his belief that ultimate victory was at hand, he himself looked to the future with fear and misgivings.

On the first of August, Charles appeared before Paris with his armies: he offered the King his help in exchange for the properties which had been taken from him, full restoration of his father's honor and good name. When the people's militia saw the cordon of armed men encircling the city, trouble broke out in their ranks. The men flocked to the marketplace to hear Caboche's response, but before the skinner could open his mouth, here and there among the restless, uneasy mob arose cries for peace. Those who were not part of Caboche's immediate circle were more than sated with murder and pillage, with this harsh and uncertain life. The workshops remained closed, business was at a standstill, the purveyors of food seemed in a constant muddle. The privilege of roaming the city armed to the teeth and letting blood flow with impunity did not outweigh all these inconveniences.

“Peace! Peace! Those who want war step to the left; those who want peace to the right!” cried a voice from the mob. This proposal was immediately echoed and chorused; before long the square resounded with shouts from a thousand throats. Caboche's voice was drowned in the sea of sound; he had to look on helplessly while the men, whom until then he had held in the palm of his hand, crowded to the right side of the marketplace. No one dared to remain standing on the left side. This incident had notable consequences: within twenty-four hours the city had completely changed.

The gates were flung open and Charles d'Orléans and his princely allies marched into Paris. The inhabitants of the city, wild with joy, did not bother with half-measures: huge bonfires flamed in the marketplaces and on street corners; here was a chance to dance and drink in the open air until long past midnight. Wine and excitement drove the people to another extreme. Even before dawn broke, Caboche, Saint-Yon, Thibert, de Troyes and a number of butchers and butcher's companions were driven away and their houses looted and put to the torch. In Caboche's lodgings they found a document signed by Burgundy, which contained a long list of names of citizens of Paris; each name was preceded by a sign: D, P or R. Everyone knew what that meant: death, prison or ransom, Many of the names
thus marked belonged to people who had always been confirmed supporters of Burgundy. The discovery of this document spelled the end of Burgundy's power. All those who had once been willing to follow him blindly now turned against him. When Burgundy heard that the people in the streets were vying with the Armagnacs to shout, “Burgundian dogs, we will cut your throats!”; that they were beginning to arrest the officials appointed by him and to kill his servants, he considered that he was no longer safe, not even in the donjon of the Hotel d'Artois. He fled unceremoniously from Paris, leaving his followers behind in peril of their lives.

Burgundy had scarcely reached Arras when he learned that his enemies were advancing under the King's banner to compel him by force of arms to beg forgiveness, and to make amends. So Charles d'Orléans rode into battle beside the Dauphin; before him he saw the silken pavilion covering the carriage where the King sat; over his head fluttered the blue and gold banners of France and the ensigns with the inscriptions “Justice” and “The Right Way”. Nevertheless, there were still moments when he thought that he dreamt; sometimes he closed his eyes expecting, when he opened them again, to see the walls of Blois around him, to encounter the desolate landscape at Gien. But this was reality, he was the confidant and favorite of the royal family; they were concerned about him, they defended his cause. Here he was marching to punish Burgundy, supported by the highest authority; he had almost achieved his purpose.

But for all that, he knew no peace of mind. He had only to turn his head to see Armagnac riding behind him, a crafty smile forever on his cracked lips.

The stubborn presence of the Gascon distressed Charles sorely; he could not help thinking of the vultures who often in time of war arch over the advancing armies, knowing instinctively that they need not wait long for the carrion. During the brief time he had spent at the court, Armagnac had already made a number of enemies by his crude and repulsive behavior and unabashed greed. Many saw with trepidation and displeasure that three-fourths of the army with which the King went forth to battle for justice was composed of savage, untrustworthy mercenaries; the memory of their outrages in the outskirts of Paris was still fresh in people's minds.

That the King and the Dauphin had allowed themselves to be persuaded to wear the white band of the Armagnacs on their right
arms, thoughtful people considered to be an insurmountable scandal—worse still, a great imprudence: the King had to stand above all parties, and should not identify himself with so disreputable a horde of soldiers. Charles was afraid that those who spoke that way would all too quickly be proven right. Indeed, time had taught him that his fears were only too well-founded: the towns which the army had captured on the way to Arras were, in spite of the King's orders, pillaged and reduced to ashes. Charles saw the city of Soissons after the Gascons and Bretons had rampaged there; as long as he lived the image of the horrors would remain with him: the charred beams and black scorched walls, the mutilated corpses of women and children, the rows of dead hanging on trees and palisades. Over the years he had, indeed, learned to control himself well, but on seeing this senseless destruction, this bestial ferocity, he could contain himself no longer. How could a venture be blessed which owed its success to such behavior?

Charles was not surprised to see that the King's army was stranded before Arras; the city seemed impregnable. Moreover, the camp was ravaged by heavy rains; fever broke out among the troops. The end of the campaign was ignominious: peace negotiations were re-opened once more at the request of the Dauphin, who suffered from the damp climate and was becoming weary. For the fifth time in seven years they entreated Charles to reach out his hand to his adversary. Three times Charles refused. He obeyed only when the Dauphin, enraged by his cousin's persistent refusals, had stalked out of his tent, stamping his foot angrily. But Charles did not look at Burgundy, nor did he speak to him. The King, who had just enough sense to realize that young Orléans was deeply offended, thought that Charles had to be kept satisfied one way or another.

“Let us, for the sake of my brother whose soul is now in Paradise, hold a service in Notre Dame for the dead, when we return to Paris,” whispered the sick man, gesticulating quickly to the Archbishop of Reims. “With a thousand candles and torches and black curtains, knights and priests and singing boys, as if it were the funeral of a king. I shall be there too in my prayer chair,” he concluded in a mysterious tone, nodding his head like a satisfied child.

So it happened. Before the high altar, heaped with gold candlesticks and flickering lights, Charles heard his father's memory praised by no less a personage than the very learned and eloquent Maitre Gerson, who twenty years before, in an equally passionate flow of
words, had called Louis d'Orléans a wastrel, a woman chaser and a heretic.

Toward the end of October Charles set out for the castle of Riom, to meet there with his wife Bonne d' Armagnac for the first time in four years.

“I ordered my daughter to come to Riom,” Armagnac told him shortly after they had returned from Arras. “She is now fifteen years old, old enough to bear children. You can take her along now, son-in-law, it is growing too expensive for me to keep on supporting her.”

Charles realized on this occasion that he had never given thought or word to his young wife. A few years earlier he had dutifully sent her some gifts for the New Year, in honor of her name day—rings, pins, a golden triptych with angels playing the harp. The bride's mother, Berry's daughter, had sent him a letter of thanks in the girPs name; from this he learned that Bonne was well, and thought of him with respect and affection. Charles knew that this was nothing more than a courtly phrase; he had never attached any importance to it. When he had lost contact with Armagnac after the failure at Saint-Cloud, he had also stopped sending Bonne letters and gifts, not so much intentionally as from forgetfulness. Bonne was for him hardly more than a name, he did not think of her, or if he ever did, it was with a certain antipathy because she was the daughter of a man whom he found frustrating and contemptible. Armagnac's words reminded him of Bonne's existence; he realized that she had grown up now and was entitled to the respect due to a Duchess of Orléans, and to husbandly affection and devotion. He could no longer shirk these obligations.

While he rode over the roads to Riom, accompanied by a large retinue of horsemen and servants, he reflected, with the resignation which had become characteristic of him over the last few years, that he ought to be happy to a certain degree with this solution; he was now at an age when a man ought to be married. Although up to now he had had little time or inclination to involve himself with women, passion and desire were not alien to him; he could easily imagine what he had never experienced. He understood now what it was that Isabelle had found lacking in him. Now that he himself knew the torment of sexual deprivation, he thought of his dead wife
with compassion. Restrained by inner scruples Charles had not sought the short-lived pleasure which is easily accessible or can be bought with money. In the army camps around Blois, in the camp before Saint-Denis, in the cities through which he had ridden at the head of his troops, there had been enough women ready to oblige him at the slightest sign. Although no one would have blamed him in the least if he had let himself go—on the contrary, his abstinence provoked ridicule and a certain disdain—he suppressed his mounting desires. He longed for something which he himself could not yet clearly visualize; he knew only that gross sensuality, blind passion without anything else, did not attract him. In his solitude and voluntary chastity, he experienced at least the curious sweet feeling of anticipation which had charmed him so when he was a child. He did not discuss these and similar matters; he realized, to be sure, that men found him odd—even his own brothers found him so. Philippe was proud of the casual adventures he had had during these campaigns; Dunois, young as he was, could romp and banter with his half-brother's maid-servants.

At the court of Saint-Pol in Paris, a new world had opened for Charles: a class of women he had never met before lived there. At first he had been deeply impressed with their beauty, the splendor of their finery, their courtly manners and clever conversation, but soon he could not help noticing that in many cases smiling lips and lustrous eyes concealed an inner darkness that he had never imagined. Monseigneur de Guyenne, the Dauphin, already well-schooled in the arts of Our Lady of Love, invited his cousin to attend certain fetes in a private circle. Charles drank and danced like the others—little by little he had come to understand that it is frequently unwise to behave differently from your fellows—but his heart was bleak with bitterness and aversion. At the Dauphin's request he laid aside his mourning—for the first time since his father's death he wore colored garments: violet and gold brocade, crimson and silver like his royal cousin.