Isabeau smiled with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, toying with the gilt bells on her sleeve. “Do you mean to say that you consider it humiliating to speak to me?”
The Duchess of Orléans curtsied deeply.
“I mean,” she replied softly, “that it is all the same to me, Madame. I am a woman of few words—life might perhaps have been easier for me if I had known how to express myself with facility. It is a great gift to be able to capture in words an image which can move us profoundly. The Dame de Pisan was able to do that when she lost her husband. I have a poor memory for verses, but I remember a song in which she laments: T am all alone.’ She repeats this refrain incessantly, there is no room in her heart for any other thought. So it is with me, Madame; I am alone, I possess nothing on earth, I seek only justice for my husband—beyond that, I am indifferent to everything.”
“Well, well, fair sister.” The Queen did not know what to say; she found such mourning, such mortification, completely senseless. Not without secret amusement, she wondered whether Isabelle too joined in this unending funeral procession; she could not help but think that death had often crossed her daughter’s path—practically since her ninth year she had worn only black. Tears and reproaches from Valentine—these Isabeau could have understood; her sister-in-law had every justification for them. But this cold grief seemed to Isabeau as strange as Valentine’s earlier forbearance. Somewhat curtly, the Queen gave the women of Orléans permission to withdraw.
On the ninth of September, the Duke of Berry rode out the Saint-Antoine gate to greet his grandnephew Charles d’Orléans on a country road. In spite of old age and expanded girth, Berry still sat on horseback; on this day he was uncomfortable because it was exceedingly warm. Besides, the Duke had, as usual, eaten well and drunk copiously. It cost him considerable effort not to fall asleep on his steadily trotting horse; the more so since he was forced to keep his eyes half-closed against the glaring mid-day sun. At the point where the roads to Vincennes and Charenton converged, Berry’s escort halted. From the right a procession of several hundred horsemen approached in a cloud of dust.
Berry, now wide awake, perceived that his grandnephew was preparing to salute him; the riders reined in their horses, Charles d’Orléans rode slowly forward. The youth saw an old, fat man whose hat, clothing and gloves were bedecked with uncommonly large gems, slumping sideways in the saddle. His cheeks and chin were flabby pouches; under their heavy lids his small eyes surveyed Charles with sharp curiosity. Berry saw a sad-faced boy soberly clad in black, who sat his horse well and uttered some well-chosen words of greeting. He was not shy. He lacked something—what, Berry could not immediately tell. In the smooth, controlled face opposite him he thought he read listlessness, a lack of resilience, which seemed especially remarkable in one so young. Berry recalled vividly what Louis had been like as an adolescent—passionate in both his enthusiasms and his aversions, but always under every circumstance a plain-spoken, radiant youth.
While they rode to Paris, Berry glanced continually at young Orléans from the corner of his eye; he conversed in his somewhat chilly, easy manner. Charles responded with civility, but as if the conversation did not concern him. However, when the subject turned to books, Charles thawed considerably. Berry was pleasantly surprised; the youth seemed well-read, a presentable Latinist, and he had taste. He has enjoyed a good education, thought the old Duke appreciatively, he is a much more pleasant young man than the Dauphin, that boastful, conceited little know-it-all who can hardly make out his ABCs but who behaves as though he were God Almighty Himself. Orléans acts somewhat elderly, but the lad has seen enough sorrow to make him look somber. He has his mother’s eyes. They say that eyes are the windows of the soul; so much the worse for him then, for he will suffer in his life. But be that as it may, he is an acquisition to our royal menagerie!
Berry chuckled softly, but Charles did not notice it; he was busy looking about him. For the first time in his life he rode consciously through the streets of Paris; with his own eyes he now saw the churches and palaces of which Maitre Garbet and Marie d’Harcourt and the minstrel Herbelin had told him so often: the squares closely encircled by rows of houses, the busy streets, the thousands of shop signs, the towers with their gilded weathervanes, the handsome gables of the great merchant houses, decorated with wood carvings and statues; he saw the massive towers of the Bastille and—most imposing of all—the shiny blue peaked roofs of the palace of Saint-Pol.
Soon the procession entered under the arched gates; the sentries gave them a respectful greeting; from all sides stableboys and stewards hastened to receive the Dukes and their retinues of nobles. Charles felt as though he was on a plateau set in high mountains. He had never imagined that walls and towers could be so steep, roofs so dizzyingly high. Blois, though powerful and massive, faded into insignificance against these narrow, pointed buildings with their hundreds of corridors and peepholes, pinnacles and battlements. From almost every tower fluttered thin blue pennants embroidered with golden lilies as a sign that the king was in residence within the walls of Saint-Pol.
Charles wished to go at once and pay his respects to his godfather. Berry led him through what seemed to the youth a maze of corridors and galleries to a very quiet wing of the palace. The doors which led to this section were diligently guarded by armed soldiers. Even in the anteroom Charles, who was extremely sensitive to that sort of impression, began to detect a strange, foul odor, such as might emanate from a place where wild beasts were caged. Attempts had been made to dispel the stench by the burning of incense and redolent herbs, but this had succeeded only in making it more noticeable. Old, faded and nearly threadbare fabrics hung on the walls; the windows were small and narrow and further obscured with bars. These dark chambers filled Charles with a feeling of horror and secret anguish. How sick was the King that they could force him to live in a place like this?
Finally they came to a door studded with iron figures; Berry called out that he and Monseigneur d’Orléans wished to see the King—soft footsteps could be heard behind the door; someone pushed a bolt aside. The gentlemen of both Dukes’ retinues withdrew to the anterooms as though they wished to avoid an encounter with the woman who appeared now in the doorway.
On the threshold of the King’s chamber stood Odette de Champ-divers, “the little queen” as she was derisively nicknamed—the paramour whom Isabeau had so opportunely chosen for her husband. Berry greeted her curtly and immediately entered the room; but Charles, who suddenly remembered some court ladies’ gossip which he had overheard, stood motionless, uncomfortable and dismayed. He had imagined Odette de Champdivers to be a coarse, bold woman like the trollops with their fierce, shameless eyes and crude gestures who wandered among the troops encamped at Blois. Whenever he heard the word ‘sweetheart’ he thought of these women, although he knew that this woman was the daughter of a Burgundian nobleman. Odette de Champdivers stood against the open door. She wore a brown dress and hooded cloak like a burgher’s wife. Her small, pointed face was also suffused with a brown glow. It was the face of a child, almost an elf, with wise, soft, very dark eyes.
“Come in, my lord,” she said amiably, gesturing with her narrow hand. Charles mumbled a hasty greeting and walked past her into the room. The oppressive, acrid air was almost unbearable; he had to make a strong effort to keep from holding his nose. The King sat huddled at the foot of a bed with tied-back curtains; he was biting his nails and looking with hostility at his visitors. The room was barren but neat; flowering plants stood in pots on the window sill.
“Sire,” said Berry quickly—in his haste to be on his way he omitted the customary ceremonial formalities. “Sire, your nephew, Monseigneur d’Orléans, requests the honor of greeting you.” The King made a few unintelligible sounds and stared about him fearfully. The young woman, who had closed the door softly and carefully, approached and held out her hand to him to help him rise.
“Come.” She helped him firmly but lovingly; he al
lowed himself to be drawn from the bed. “Come, here are Monseigneur de Berry and your nephew. Look at him nicely and greet him—he has come from far away to see you. Come, do not be afraid. I am with you.”
“Yes, yes, that’s fine.” Berry waved his glove impatiently. “Don’t force him if he doesn’t feel like talking. He doesn’t recognize us.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure he recognizes you. And he is pleased that you have come to visit him,” said Odette de Champdivers, fixing her dark eyes upon Charles. She laughed reassuringly. Never had Charles seen anyone who radiated so much warmth, who inspired such deep confidence. It seemed to him that in spite of her youth she was older and wiser than the oldest and most intelligent people he had ever met; only looking at her gave him a feeling of comfort.
“How is it with the King now?” he asked. Odette de Champ-divers shook her head, still smiling.
“He is very ill,” she replied, in her tranquil, modest way, “and he suffers a great deal. But he endures his pain with great patience and humility.”
Berry snorted with impatience and walked to the door, making it obvious that he wished to leave.
“If sometimes he does not do so,” continued Odette de Champ-divers to Charles, “he cannot help it. He does not always know what he is doing. But he is such a good and friendly man that one must love him.”
“Yes,” said Charles hesitantly. It was impossible for him to imagine how this young woman could perform her revolting task with so much patience; with so much affection, too. He saw how the King put his hand in hers, for support; how he followed her uneasily with his eyes when she moved away from him. Neither by day nor by night did Odette de Champdivers quit the room where he lived; she was always there to assist him, to comfort him, to clean him when he soiled himself, to admonish him gently when he would not eat or was ill-tempered with visitors. Even in times of deepest mental darkness, the madman had to be assured in one way or another that he was surrounded by a completely unselfish love. Anew each day he got the greatest gift any man could be given: compassion which sees all and forgives all.
“Come along now, nephew,” said Berry, who had already opened the door. Charles bowed before the King and, then, no less deeply, before Odette de Champdivers.
“God be with you, Monseigneur.” She followed him and showed him out. Standing in the anteroom, Charles and Berry heard the bolt shoved gently back into place on the door.
Not until Charles was outside the gate of Saint-Pol did his depression lift slightly. They rode to the Louvre where Isabeau and the Dauphin had taken up temporary residence; this castle lay at the other end of the city. The procession followed the rue Saint-Antoine, but was soon forced to take the narrower, more tortuous streets striking through the heart of Paris. The populace, long accustomed to the presence in the city of great lords with armed troops from all regions of the realm, paid little attention to the horsemen passing by. Those who recognized the Duke of Berry looked closely at his company, but no one suspected that the young man, stiffly clad in black like a clerk, was the son of Orléans.
So these people are Burgundy’s friends, thought Charles, as he rode on, looking down on the turmoil around him; he noticed that a great many of the people carried weapons; that in numerous houses the ground floor windows were nailed up leaving only a small peephole; that an alarming number of soldiers roamed in aimless bands through the streets, throwing a curious eye in passing at the horsemen of Berry and Orléans.
In the Louvre Charles was received by the Queen and the Dauphin. Isabeau looked thoughtfully at her son-in-law; he had grown much taller—who would now say that this youth was still unable to perform his duty as a husband? She did not have much to say to him; she repeated to him only what she had already said to Valentine: she hoped with all her heart that Charles and his mother would be able to refute Maitre Petit’s argument. Afterward she moved off to a side room with Berry, leaving the two youths alone. The Dauphin, Duke of Aquitaine, was twelve years old, rather thin and pale like all Isabeau’s children, but with a large head and protuberant eyes. He wore elegant garments, decorated with golden lacings; he flattered himself that he looked magnificent.
“Fair cousin,” said the young Duke of Aquitaine in a sour voice, “they say you have a whole army there in Blois. Is that true?”
“Indeed it is true,” replied Charles. He could not bring himself to speak in flowery terms to his perfume-sprinkled royal cousin.
“Then you intend to fight?” asked the Dauphin eagerly. “Because Monseigneur of Burgundy will not yield. I am certain of that.”
Charles looked down at the enamelled mosaic of the floor. “That we shall see,” he said stiffly.
The Dauphin began to laugh, the forced affected laughter of a badly spoiled child. “Don’t think it matters to me one way or the other.” He opened a gilded leather pouch which he wore on his girdle, and took out a pair of dice. “Here, throw,” he said to Charles, pointing to a table. “The stakes are two golden livres. Do you have any money with you?”
Charles felt little affection for his cousin; when he saw him a few days later in the great hall of the Louvre where Orléans’ coun-terplea was to be read, he found him decidedly ludicrous. The Dauphin was arrayed for the occasion in royal purple, with ermine around his shoulders and a crowned hat on his head; this was to make it plain that he was acting for his father. He sat with Isabeau under the canopy; the places beside them were awarded to the great of the Kingdom and the royal members of the Council. Knights, members of the Council and of Parlement, representatives of the University and many prominent citizens sat as they had sat to hear Maitre Petit’s speech in Saint-Pol, on platforms erected for that purpose. Great numbers of the populace also had been admitted to the assembly. Only Burgundy was absent; he was laying siege to Liege.
Valentine entered accompanied by Charles, and her Chancellor and by the advocate, Maitre Cousinot. The text of the defense, prepared beforehand in Blois and bound as a book, was now solemnly handed over to the Abbe de Serizy of Saint-Fiacre, whom Valentine had chosen as spokesman. The Abbe proceeded in a clear, calm voice, to read aloud the long speech, which he introduced with the following words: “Justitia et indicium pmeparatio sedis tuae”
Patiently and minutely the Abbe de Serizy refuted all the charges of attempted poisonings, attempted murder, conjuration. He succeeded in holding the attention of his audience through his choice of words, weaving suitable quotations from Aristotle, Augustine and Cicero into his argument. In contrast to Petit, he did not attempt to make an impression by shouting, using glib phrases, fiercely taking advantage of the reaction of the people in the audience. For this last, he would have had little opportunity anyway because the multitude behind the wooden railings were not at one with him, and attempted again and again to interrupt him through angry muttering and restless shuffling.
“With respect to the King and the royal family, Monseigneur d’Orléans was anything but hostile. Her Majesty the Queen can testify to that if she chooses.”
De Serizy paused and looked toward the royal seats. Displeased. Isabeau raised her brows; coughing and shifting broke out on the platform. Only Madame d’Orléans and her son sat unmoving—she with raised, he with lowered, head.
“Now I come to the final accusation levied by the opposition: that Monseigneur d’Orléans robbed the King and extorted money from the people by the imposition of heavy taxes. My lords, it is truly wonderftd that the opposition should reproach Monseigneur d’Orléans in this way. It is a well-known fact that that is a means to which all royal persons have recourse when they need money. May I remind you of the manner in which in the year 1396 the expenses of the expedition against the Turks were defrayed, and how the ransom for Monseigneur of Burgundy was finally collected? Actually, the expedition caused irreparable damage to France.
“Then there is the allegation that Monseigneur d’Orléans attempted by night to steal the gold which is stowed away in a tower of this palace. It is true that he suddenly removed 100,000 gol
d francs—but he had good reason to do that. Monseigneur d’Orléans had repeatedly sought money to pay the salaries and provide necessities for the troops who must guard our coasts. His opponent, Monseigneur of Burgundy, had refused persistendy in the Council to supply the necessary funds. Because the army had a right to prompt payment, Monseigneur d’Orléans was forced, against his will, to take what was not willingly given.
“Members of the opposition,” concluded de Sérizy, after a brief pause, turning to the place where Burgundy’s lawyers sat, “members of the opposition, take into account the displeasure, even the calamity, which the people of France will have to endure because the soldiers in the service of Burgundy—who pays poorly—roam plundering through the regions between Paris and Flanders.
“Princes, nobles, consider what has happened here. Burgundy has taken a path which can lead only to destruction, a road of treachery and cunning. Men and women of the city, old and young, rich and poor, consider that peace and calm have ended. Between the royal kinsmen glitters the naked sword, and that means war and suffering for you. Prelates, consider that a man has been murdered; that he did his utmost, in spite of everything, to serve the welfare of Church and State. That is why Madame d’Orléans has come here, together with her son, imploring you to give her justice. Remember what Solomon the Wise said in the Book of Proverbs: ‘He who deals righteously shall find life and true glory.’ ”
With these words the Abbé de Sérizy concluded his oration. He had, like Maitre Petit, spoken for four hours without interruption. Maitre Cousinot, advocate in Parlement, arose now, amid a great tumult from that part of the hall where the people stood packed together; he declared that on the strength of the preceding evidence he had come to believe that the Duke of Burgundy deserved only the most stringent punishment. Bailiffs removed troublemakers from the public area and loudly demanded silence. After that, Cousinot read Valentine’s demands.
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