In a Dark Wood Wandering (94 page)

Charles came to Tours accompanied by Dunois; he was present at conferences presided over by the King himself. Coldly and sharply
Louis put his case to them once more, arguing that the measures he had taken were necessary because of the confusion into which affairs of state had fallen during the last years of his father's reign. In connection with the princes' demands, he made a long speech full of generalities about obligations, about obedience and loyalty. Finally he said, looking at the rows of faces with a somewhat sour smile, that he would be sorry if the maintenance of his authority forced him to victimize anybody.

The lords heard these words in silence. They recognized his iron will and his implacable antipathy. They had no doubt that the sole purpose of this meeting was to impress upon them anew, before they pursued their reckless path, the threat of the King's power. However, they remained resolute. Brittany, Bourbon, Anjou and, especially, Burgundy wanted nothing more than to take up arms openly against the man who had forthrighdy said that he intended once and for all to crush the political power of the nobility.

Charles d'Orléans sat huddled in his fur-lined mantle—these December days were bitter cold—among the peers of France. He felt extremely tired, and shivered now and then as though with fever. Cailleau had advised in the strongest terms against this journey to Tours; in such damp raw weather Monseigneur was usually half-crippled with gout. Moreover, his heart had been troubling him again for some time. But Charles refused to consider staying at home; he did not want to give the impression that he would shirk his obligations to his kinsmen and allies out of fear of the King.

In the meeting hall in Tours, he regretted his obstinacy; his heart throbbed so irregularly that he could scarcely breathe; his feet were ice cold; it cost him a great effort to sit upright and pay attention to the words of the speakers. Once he nearly dozed off; Dunois nudged him gently. He came to himself in time to hear the King express his lack of confidence in the good faith of François of Brittany who was on such a friendly footing with the envoys of England and Burgundy. Charles' still-young nephew pressed his lips together in rage, but made no attempt to refute these accusations. When the meeting ended, he withdrew without saying a word. Charles, knowing that his sister's son was deeply wounded, determined to see the King and attempt to cleanse his name of all suspicion. It was of great importance to Charles to bind the young man to him: Franc
is of Brittany could be a valuable friend for his son in the future. The King granted Charles a private audience.

When Charles was announced, a few gentlemen were just leaving the King's apartments; to his deep amazement, Charles saw that one of them was Dammartin, who had been a trusted advisor of Charles VII.

“That surprises you, worthy uncle?” asked the King suddenly. He stood, Charles noticed, leaning his arms on the high back of a chair. “Go sit down—you look as though your legs will barely hold you. Great old age may be worthy of respect but its attendant symptoms are troublesome: tottery legs, trembling fingers, loss of hair and teeth—isn't that right, uncle?”

Charles sat down, startled by these caustic, derisive words. Passion and pride stirred equally within him, but he controlled himself; for the sake of his son's security he could afford to put up with a little abuse. “I remembered that Dammartin once aroused your boundless displeasure, Sire, because he served your father so faithfully,” he said calmly.

The King began to laugh softly; he rested his chin on his fists. His body remained invisible behind the chair. That moving head, with its black eyes gleaming with malice and contempt, made a grotesque, almost terrifying impression. “Dammartin is one of those men who always remains loyal to the king—whoever the king might be—the born devoted servant—a possession not to be squandered. What didn't please me when I was Dauphin, I find excellent now that I am King, my worthy uncle.”

“Yes, I have noticed that, Sire,” replied Charles with a sigh. “Therefore I too have come to you to request your forebearance for my nephew, my Lord of Brittany.”

“Not necessary! Waste no words on that, my lord uncle of Orléans. Spare me your meddling and your pretty speeches. I am not pleasant and courtly enough to hear your platitudes to the end.”

Charles remained in his chair; he asked himself whether he had heard the King correctly. That Louis disliked him he knew very well, but surely his age and rank gave him the right to courteous treatment, at the least.

“You need not stare at me in such surprise,” the King went on, in a tone of cold amusement. “I will readily admit to you that I have always found you an extremely stupid old fellow. If you had only half the brains which you think you have, you would undoubtedly be the wisest man in France.”

“God knows that I have never held an exceptionally high opinion of myself. I willingly admit that I am old and stupid—but I have enough sense to know that such words are not worthy of one who wears the crown of France. And I am your blood relative, Sire.”

The King sniggered again; he raised his hand and pointed a long, tapering finger at his guest. “You are my uncle, my father's half-brother,” he said, visibly enjoying Charles' incredulous consternation at hearing these words. “I at least have never doubted that Isabeau, that slut, spoke the truth when she called my father—may God rest his soul—Orléans' bastard. Don't think that it disturbs me. On the contrary, better this than to stem from a lunatic.”

Charles rose slowly. He had an answer on his lips. The King's malicious, grimacing face, his forefinger raised in an almost grotesque gesture, roused irresistible memories of the man who had once been held captive like a wild beast—the man who had had to be hidden from the court and the people because of his bizarre grimaces.

“I do not wish to tire you any longer with my presence, Sire,” Charles said formally. For a moment the room sank into a grey mist; a strange buzzing filled his ears. I am ill, he thought, surprised, I must return to Blois. He heard his own voice as though it came from a distance; the words came slow, dull, with silence between them. “I deeply regret that you doubt the nature of my intentions—that you consider my actions to be meddlesome. All my life I have sincerely endeavored—sincerely endeavored—to serve my king—to fulfil my obligations to friends and kinsmen. I have—been—a—man—of peace …”

“Ah—.” The King made a protracted sound to show his impatience and distaste. “Once more—spare me all the fine talk. What have you done, uncle? What have you accomplished in that long life of yours? How have you used the opportunity which was granted to you—more I know than to others—to maintain order in the realm, to preserve peace and support the royal authority? What have you, with all your good will and so-called wisdom, understood of the evolution we have undergone—of the real significance of the struggle which has been going on since my great-grandfather's day—between the Crown and the powerful forces who want to smash it to pieces?—For me you are already a dead man, uncle, a residue of something which has died without knowing it. In my eyes you are
a ridiculous, foolish old man—you trot along good-naturedly with your peers who stretch out their claws in a last desperate attempt to grasp power.

“But it is over, lord uncle, it is over. Your time, the time when great lords were kings, is over. Henceforth there will be one King in France, one single King, by God's grace and by your leave, and that King will rule from the Pyrenees to the farthest border of the lowlands. He who dares to nibble at the cake will be sent from the table. Believe me, uncle, if any crumbs are to be picked up it will not be by the flashy, ambitious ne'er-do-wells with their gilt escutcheons and fine-sounding names, but by those who have made the cities great and prosperous, by the men behind the anvil and in the shipyards, by the weavers and smiths, by the merchants, soldiers—by each one with diligence and keen intelligence, even if he comes crawling up from the slime of the sewer.
These
I shall amply reward for their service—not a high-born weakling like you, uncle, who lets every chance slip through his fingers, who willingly lets himself be led by anyone who puts himself to the trouble of taking him in tow. Distinction, dignity, an affable manner—all at your service—but for all that, you did nothing worth mentioning for either king or country.

“Go back to Blois, putter about with rhymes and rock the cradle. God knows you could have been king, you could have spared the Kingdom a half-century of misery if you had had a drop of true ruler's blood in your veins. You could have stood where
I
stand now, instead of whining with humiliation and groping for the way to the door on trembling legs …”

Charles, who was feeling at the wall for support—he could not see; it was growing dark before his eyes—stood still.

“I never imagined that I possessed great gifts. When I was young, I often asked myself bitterly why so heavy a burden had been laid precisely on
my
shoulders, why I had to carry out a task which was too much for my strength. But now I know that each man over the course of his life receives an assignment which enables him to learn the lesson which he must learn here on earth …”

“And what have you learned, uncle?” asked the King, laughing softly.

Charles shook his head. Now all at once he felt thin and light, then again a leaden weight seemed to press him down to earth.

“I have been a slothful scholar—often wilful and easily distracted
—but each day I learn to understand better—that in life people are not charitable enough to one another—and that he who is humble at heart—and sincere—can find and keep God's gifts, beauty and happiness—”

“Is that all?”

“Green grass in the sunlight—a child's laughter—and the beauty—the beauty of language—”

“Yes, yes.” The King sighed with impatience; he no longer found the conversation amusing.

“That is only a small portion of the truth,” Charles said with an effort, “but enough to make me realize that I know nothing. Since I realized that, I have had a deep desire to become truly wise. I am aware that what up to now I have considered reality is not reality at all. The world in which one wishes to be great and powerful and feared, your world, Sire, is an illusion.” He coughed and gasped for breath. “I have not lived my life in vain. If I once … may have a glimpse of the real world …”

The King replied sarcastically, but Charles did not understand what he said. He lost all sense of time and place. It seemed to him as though he moaned, warding off a blow; as though he sought support from a friend whom he could not recognize in the darkness.

A long time later he opened his eyes; the darkness had lifted; he lay in deep silence. Against a background of green shadows, he saw the trusted face of his friend, the physician Cailleau. Charles tried to smile; he moved his lips but could utter no sound. Cailleau was looking at him so gravely, so attentively. It suddenly seemed inexpressibly soothing: that large, wrinkled face, drawn by anxiety and tension, hovering above his own. It made him think of something: once he had experienced a similar sensation—long ago.

He knew now what it was—his nurse had looked upon him like this when he was a little child lying in bed. He had tried then to lift his hand and touch the veils of her white headdress. He really could not help laughing at the memory: for a whole lifetime he had forgotten how it felt to be a small, helpless child.

In the greenery above his head, patches of light and shadow seemed to stir, as when the leaves in the treetops quiver above the forest path. The smell of damp earth and ferns, cool and fresh, greeted him; now here and there he could hear the rippling of a little nearby brook, hidden from view by leaves and underbrush. Charles sighed deeply in surprise and pleasure. After the heat and
the dazzling brightness of feverish visions, the coolness of the wood moved him with inexpressible emotion. He began to move forward, hesitantly at first, as though he doubted his ability to do it. Slowly he walked beneath the trees, through long, silky, rustling grass. Birds and small creatures fled at his approach with a light whisper of wings and a rustling in the undergrowth. The sun shone through the foliage above his head; he saw the network of dark nerves oudined against the green-gold shading of the leaf. He had wandered alone, but at a turning in the path he saw a figure awaiting him. He recognized him at once: it was Nonchaloir, beckoning with a smile. But oddly enough, for the first time he had no desire to seek his company; he turned instead into the shrubbery.

While he struggled through the tall bushes, defending himself against the boughs which struck back with a rush after he had bent them to one side, he heard familiar voices all around him behind the dense forest growth: his small son cried, his little daughter, laughing, called his name, Marie spoke to him calmly and persuasively—and now it seemed to him that they were all talking together in a kind of chorus; his servants and friends in Blois, his kinsmen and allies: he could distinguish Dunois' loud, strong voice, Jean d'Angoulême's thoughtful murmur. He wanted to escape from them, he wanted to be left in peace now so that he could make his way, alone and unhindered, through the quiet cool forest.