In a Dark Wood Wandering (90 page)

“Messire de Monzay, the Duchess has left her chambers,” said Isabel. “Monseigneur and Madame will be here shortly.”

With a gesture the steward indicated that everything was ready. He clapped his hands; the servants, who had set down the plates and goblets and arranged the slices of bread in a great pile on the serving tables, lined up against the walls.

“Is it true that we will have a poet as guest again tonight?” Annette asked de Monzay curiously. This was the opportunity Antonio had been waiting for; even before the steward could answer, he sprang to the fore to give the requested information.

“Messire François Villon has arrived, a poet from Paris.”

“From Paris, yes above all,
from
Paris,” cried the fool shrilly. “He is banished from Paris, ladies, I hear he is a fine gentleman. Robbery, murder, whoring … and on and on. He stood once with the rope around his neck. We shall surely hear a different kind of verse this evening from what we heard last week when Monseigneur read a poem about the foolish hats-with-tails that you wear. Monseigneur will soon rhyme as creditably as a fool. Then I can do away with myself.”

“Ah, don't mock,” said Annette angrily. “Monseigneur is kind and courteous. We know perfectly well that his heart is occupied with other things besides our hats. He is only being cordial to us. This winter he gave me two golden ecus, because I had lost all my money at cards.”

“It is evident that
young
ladies especially know how to appreciate Monseigneur's qualities.” The fool slapped his hands together once with exaggerated courtliness. “How many sixty-year-old men have the happiness to be consoled for the misery of life by so merry a young lady as the Duchess?”

The maidens exchanged annoyed glances. Annette said brusquely, “Monseigneur is not ‘happy' and the Duchess is not ‘merry'. Now keep quiet; they are coming.”

Charles d'Orléans entered the hall through the great door; he led his wife by the hand. He wore, as usual, a loose, dull black cloak with no girdle. His hair was now completely grey and very thin;
his teeth were going bad. He walked with difficulty; the spring had been damp and he suffered from stubborn rheumatism. But anyone who caught his dark glance, who noticed the sensitive, ironic lines of his lips, the lively gestures of his still youthful hands, forgot quickly that Monseigneur had crossed the threshold of old age.

The Duchess looked half a head taller than her husband, who always walked with something of a stoop. Her long oval face, with its full cheeks and high forehead, was pale; around her mouth were lines that hinted at mournful resignation. The ducal couple were followed by members of the household; the chamberlain, the treasurer, the court physician, the librarian, the lords of the chancellery and the Duchess's ladies. Between the clerks and the scribes walked the guest, Villon, in a doublet that had been hastily cleansed of dust and dirt. From time to time he passed his palm over his freshly-shaven jaws. His eyes, dark and restless, took swift and sharp stock of the faces of the household and the interior of the hall. Charles and his wife sat down on the bench under the canopy.

“Take your place, Messire,” Charles said to Villon, who remained standing somewhat uncertainly among the people who were going to sit at the lower end of the table. “De Monzay, bring our guest somewhat closer to us so that we may chat with him …” As Villon was seated, the Duke said to him, “I'm afraid you may find our meals here at Blois rather frugal. But our wine is good.”

“I'm aware of that,” Villon said. “I have had the opportunity to taste it more than once.”

While the dishes were being handed around, Antonio Astesano who, during the customary prayer at table, had glanced stealthily at the guest from time to time, said to his neighbor under his breath, “The fellow looks like an outlaw.”

“He is one, more or less,” replied de Courcelles, one of the masters of the chancellery. “He roams around the neighborhood; he's usually drunk and he's always mixed up in something scandalous. It seems he wintered at Chevreuse.”

“Chevreuse? But that's a nunnery, isn't it?”

De Courcelles winked. “The abbess is young and I hear that she likes poetry.”

Antonio looked at the guest anew. Villon sat carelessly eating as though he were in a public house along the road. He held his knife constantly in his fist, even when his mouth was full. Meanwhile
his dark eyes, sunk deep in shadowed sockets, flitted from one face to another. A barely healed rough red scar protruded from one of his thin cheeks. In his long, sinewy neck his adam's apple shot up and down as he swallowed. He looked, amid the well-cared-for courtiers of the Duke of Orléans, who sat quietly chatting and eating, like a ragged crow in a dovecote. From time to time he glanced sharply at his host, his mouth pulled wryly down at one corner. Charles, thoughtfully appraising his guest, met this glance more than once.

“What are you thinking about, Messire Villon?” he asked suddenly, with a smile.

Villon put down his knife. “I was thinking, Monseigneur, how much more pleasant this encounter is than our first meeting was.”

“I was not aware that we had met before,” Charles said, raising his brows. Villon laughed shortly.

“You may well have forgotten. I had the pleasure of speaking with you before the doors of the Celestine cloister in Paris when you visited there in '44. That is more than twelve years ago.”

Host and guest stared at each other for a moment. Then Charles began to laugh softly. He raised his goblet and drank to Villon.

“Welcome to Blois, Messire François. I hardly dare to ask if your life has improved since we saw each other last.”

“No, it is really better if you don't ask,” replied Villon, in the same tone, while he raised his own goblet. “I hoped by the way to speak about other things with you.”

“I am eager to learn why you have visited me.” Charles gestured to the others to go on with their own conversations. Villon shrugged.

“I could say that I came here to serve you, or something flattering like that. The truth is, I was curious. They say you are fond of poets, you are more liberal and open-handed than many other great lords and that you yourself can write good verse. It would be rather convenient for me just now to have a safe shelter for a few days and nights. And it seems to me to be a beautiful opportunity to hear your poetry.”

“It pleases me to note that you still come out with your opinions as frankly as … before …” Charles' lips twisted in an ironic laugh. “At that time you must have noticed that honesty of that sort holds an irresistible fascination for me.”

“I am known as the worst liar under God's heavens,” said Villon carelessly, “and I have earned that reputation ten times over.”

The Duchess, who until now had sat silently eating—she took small bites and broke the bread with extreme care—raised her head and said mildly, with a quick, somewhat timid, suspicious glance at the guest, “Monseigneur, tell us something about the theme of the contest.”

“I have two themes for today,” Charles said. “I cannot decide between them, so you choose, ma mie—or else Villon must throw for heads or tails. This is the first theme: ‘I die from thirst, sitting near the fountain.'”

Marie began to smile sadly, but Pierre the fool who, during the meal had sat on the arm of Charles' bench, called out in his shrill voice, “Ho ho, Monseigneur, that is poetic license, by your leave. The fountain in the garden is broken, I won't deny it, but how do you venture to say that you are dying of thirst with a glass full of delicious Beaune standing beside your plate? I am dying of thirst and, believe me, I'm not interested in rhymes at the moment.”

Charles shoved his goblet toward the fool; the small crooked man sprang closer with a jingling of bells and quickly drank a few draughts. Villon repeated the theme: “I am dying of thirst, sitting near the fountain.”

“The notion of thirst can hold no mysteries for Messire Villon,” said Pierre, grinning; he climbed onto the arm of the chair again and nestled there with his shrunken legs crossed.

“The second theme,” continued Charles, “is: ‘In the Forest of Long Awaiting.'”

The Duchess made an involuntary gesture of surprise; she seemed about to say something, but remained silent, staring down at her plate.

“I choose the first theme,” said Villon. “Usually I need more wine to be able to rhyme extemporaneously, but I shall try it.”

Marie rose abruptly and said in voice so loud and cold that all the guests looked up: “I shall withdraw until the tables are removed. I have chosen both themes.”

“You do not make it easy for yourself, ma mie.” Charles came up out of his chair, amazed. Now they all rose, in the customary sign of respect when the Duke or his wife left the table. Charles, perceiving that Marie was displeased or offended for some reason,
added courteously, “It goes without saying that you are perfectly free not to take part if you don't wish to. It's hardly a suitable amusement for a woman like yourself to be compelled to compose poetry on thirst and long awaiting. I take it, ma mie, that these subjects don't mean anything in particular to you.”

Marie, about to descend the stairs from the platform—her ladies stood in a row waiting for her—turned and said, so softly that only her husband could hear her, “Monseigneur, I am childless.”

The retinue remained standing in silence, watching her departure. Charles seemed suddenly tired and listless. He beckoned to des Saveuses and asked him to announce that the poetry competition would be put off until the following day. At the same time the chamberlain was told to announce both themes to those who had not been present at the meal, so that they could prepare in tranquillity. To Villon, who had witnessed this sudden change of mood with raised brows, Charles said, “Come with me to my study, Messire François. You will have twenty-four hours more to throw yourself into poetic creativity.”

Villon followed the Duke to the library where an odor of parchment, ink and leather hovered in the air. Charles sat down carefully at the long table strewn with papers and, not without effort, stretched out his aching leg on a low footstool.

“Am I correctly informed, did they want to hang you in Paris?” he asked, signalling his guest to sit down wherever he chose. Villon had been looking up at the books in the tall bookcase. He shrugged.

“I had almost forgotten it, Monseigneur. What was really important I was able to put into verse for myself and the other rabble who were going to dance on the gallows.”

“So you once mentally took leave of life,” Charles said slowly, wiping his spectacles on his sleeve. “I should like to hear from you how it feels to have done with the world.”

“It depends on how closely one is attached to life and the world,” replied Villon; a spark of mockery flashed like a falling star through his eyes. “With the rope around my neck I could not feel that I had left much behind that was worthwhile.”

“Then you are free, Villon. How does it feel to be really
free
of everything?”

“I did not think about that then. I sat on a pile of stinking straw in a dungeon of the Chatelet and scratched the lice from my rags.
I bartered my last meal for a piece of paper to write down my epitaph, that rhyme I mentioned to you just now: ‘Brothers, who will live after me …' ”

“There was no room in your heart for anything but a poem? And all that happened to you was nothing but the source for the writing of poetry?”

Villon grimaced and raised his long, thin brown hands in protest.

“God knows, Monseigneur, I do not deserve the good will of the muse. I have been untrue to her too often for the sake of more tangible charms. But she is the only one who is not fed up with me. In her honor I proclaimed a year and a day ago—'Blonde, brown or black, it is all the same, and woman's beauty vanishes like last winter's trackless snow.'”

Charles stared pensively at his visitor. He does not understand what I mean, he thought in disappointment. He can tell me no more than the others about what I want to know because this being-free, this not-being-bound is innate with him, as flying is with birds. He is bound by no chains of obligation; he is not pinched by any feeling of responsibility for so many lives, by the duty of being an axis around which a world turns, even if it is only a world of trifles. And the man does not appreciate his own freedom. How can I expect that he could explain to me what it's like to find no obstacles between oneself and the expression of one's feelings?

He sighed, gave a slight cough and put on his spectacles. Villon, who had sat quietly watching him, said suddenly, “A person can carry his own persecutor, his own prison, about with him, Monseigneur. He can—as you know—die of thirst even when he has the clearest water within his reach. To be free … not to be free … it is all relative. No one has to drag along more ballast than he wants to and he who allows himself to be bound is a fool. The biggest fools are those who wear shackles of cobwebs and believe themselves to be helpless.”

Charles did not reply at once. With his head propped upon his hand he looked at his visitor—that thin, sharply delineated face with the shadowed eyes and the wide, bitter mouth, the face of a man who had lived fiercely and violently. Charles recalled the nervous vigilance, the disillusioned look of the youth who had been caught cutting a purse in front of the Celestine cloister; the face of the man who sat across from him in the quiet library at Blois bore no trace
of youth, although Villon was not yet thirty years old. In that mask, only the eyes appeared sometimes to be vulnerable as they blazed for a brief moment with affection or enthusiasm. Charles, who was usually quick to strike a note of friendship with his visitors, found himself almost uneasy in Villon's company. More than the width of the table divided them: there was a whole world between them.