In Paris he carried on a campaign with good results. He succeeded in filling the people with terror over the approach of Orléans’ troops; tales were told of the horrible cruelty of the Gascons and Bretons, street orators and agents reminded everyone once again of the sins of the late Orléans. The Provost des Essars, one of Burgundy’s most passionate partisans, rode by day and by night through the city, armed and with a great following of horsemen and soldiers—thus the atmosphere of disquiet was heightened. The burghers addressed a humble petition to des Essars: they knew of course that the Provost and Monseigneur of Burgundy would leave no stone unturned to protect Paris, but could the populace not set watches and patrols in each district for greater security? This was precisely what des Essars had wanted—and so it came to pass.
In September when Charles d’Orléans and his allies appeared before Paris—they had arrived with all their troops to hand the manifesto personally to the King—they found the gates closed, the city fortified. In the villages and the outskirts lay the armies of Burgundy.
“Now surely everything has been said and done!” said Bernard d’Armagnac impatiently; he strode up and down, stamping on the plank floors so hard that the dust rose up in clouds. The allies, their commanders, advisors, clerks and chancellors, were in a house at Montlhery, about seven miles from Paris. The troops had pitched their tents in the fields outside the village where they awaited the decisions of the great lords. In the meantime the troops were not impatient: in the vineyards and orchards ripe fruit hung for the taking; the country people, having learned prudence through bitter experience, seldom ventured into the fields.
“The King has sent letters, the University has sent a delegation, and Her Majesty the Queen was so kind as to come to meet us at Marcoussis,” Armagnac went on. “They beseech us tearfully to send our troops home before we visit the King. We have said no three times. Now what do we do, my lords?”
“We have made demands too,” remarked Charles; he straddled a bench. Since he had begun to wear leather and mail, his movements had lost that deliberate formality which had always been characteristic of him. He walked and sat like a soldier; not bothering to be courtly in speech and demeanor. These changes were observed with approval by Charles’ entourage—finally Monseigneur d’Orléans was becoming a warrior.
“You might as well ask for the moon, son-in-law,” said Armagnac contemptuously, “as ask that Burgundy be gone from Paris and the Provost des Essars be dismissed from his post! I do not see your demands being granted, although a hundred times those fellows from the University have declared themselves ready to mediate. In the first place Burgundy pays no attention to the University, when it comes to that, and in the second place those in purple cassocks have their heads set on other things. Believe me, son-in-law, the Council of Pisa is more important to them than a row between you and Burgundy. They take the new Pope more to heart than the King. Don’t count on their intercession! But seriously now: what do you intend to do? Paris sits sealed shut—a company of my men rode by the ramparts this morning hoping to break a lance, but no one ventured outside. Not even when my fellows fired a dozen arrows!”
“That was surprisingly stupid and reckless,” Charles said coldly; he tapped angrily on the edge of the table. He had noticed repeatedly that Armagnac, in spite of decisions made in joint council, gave arbitrary orders, allowed his troops to behave defiantly and tolerated licentious and coarse behavior.
The journey from Chartres to Paris had not passed off without trouble: the closer they came to the city, the more hostile were the people. The fear which the populace exhibited toward Armagnac’s men set Charles to thinking. In addition, he could see, every day, how the Gascons and Provencals accepted discipline. Ignoring the express command to preserve order and refrain from acts of violence when they passed through towns and villages, Armagnac’s men had plundered right and left as they chose; they flogged those who resisted them and violated the maidens and women who fell into their hands. Sometimes stones and abuse rained down when the soldiers passed through; usually the townspeople hid behind bolted shutters and doors. Charles had been sorely provoked by the brutal, obstinate behavior of his new father-in-law; how could he strive honorably for what he considered his just due when his men behaved like a pack of devils? Neither pleas nor rebukes had any effect upon Armagnac; he listened to everything, but he refused to change his ways. What Charles, his captains and the Dukes of Bourbon and Alencon feared, came to pass: the Gascons’ actions stigmatized the entire enterprise. Henceforth the Orléans party, both inside and outside France, were called nothing but Armagnacs. “Armagnac” was the worst term of abuse one could find for an enemy; the accusation “He is an Armagnac” was like a sentence of death.
“I do not understand, father-in-law, why you do not hold your men in check,” continued Charles evenly, doing his best to control himself. But passion drove the blood to his head. “Do you want them to call us bad-tempered disturbers of the peace because of our violence? Do you want them to think that we are trying to force war upon the King and Burgundy? We are here to demand justice; we can take up arms only if they refuse us that justice.”
Armagnac laughed loudly and spread his arms in an eloquent gesture of scorn and impatience. “By Christ’s wounds!” he swore. “Do you seriously believe that there is something behind all those words and formalities? Frankly, I call that blather on both sides. Burgundy is trying to gain time, he hopes to make us uncertain by delay. He thinks our vigilance will slacken after weeks and months of waiting. I am eager to know now, Orléans, what you intend to achieve by dawdling and diplomatic talk. I take it you are pursuing a definite course of action. Don’t tell me you are in earnest about your requests for justice and your demands for satisfaction? That would be the greatest farce I ever…”
He tossed his ever-present riding whip on the table and approached Charles.
“Even senile old Bourbon still had ambitions,” he said in an undertone. “Are you still wet behind the ears then, son-in-law?”
“Will you be quiet now?” cried Charles passionately, glancing at the gentlemen seated at the foot of the table: Alencon and d’Albret with their army captains, officials and priests who belonged to the council of the Orléans party—Brittany had had business to settle elsewhere, and Berry, who did not feel well, lay in bed. “Do not forget that we all wear mourning for Monseigneur de Bourbon.”
“Naturally. May God rest his soul.” With a mocking grimace Armagnac tugged at the crepe which he, like his confederates, wore bound about his right arm. “Now to business. What do you plan to do?”
Charles rose, “Messire Davy,” he said loudly to his Chancellor, “be so good as to read Monseigneur d’Armagnac the letter we received this morning from the King in Paris.”
“From Burgundy,” said Armagnac, also loudly.
“The messenger says the King is somewhat recovered,” remarked the Chancellor. He unrolled the letter and began to read from it slowly and carefully about distress in the city; now that the armies of Orléans and Burgundy occupied the countryside around Paris, the flow of victuals was greatly impeded, yes, made impossible. Food supplies were depleted. Fear of the soldiers prevented the populace from bringing in the harvest—whatever harvest could still be reaped. The King was extremely displeased with the attitudes of both parties. Did the treaty of Chartres mean so little to them? It was the King’s wish that Orléans as well as Burgundy and all their vassals and allies should return to their own domains. A board of impartial councillors would henceforth assist the King. The Provost des Essars was relieved of his office.
“That means our first demand is granted,” said Charles, motioning to Messire Davy to withdraw. “In the manifesto we declared that we wished to free the King from Burgundy. The King has now taken this measure himself. I am positive he will hear with favor my petition for justice.”
“Do you mean to say that I must send my men home without anything to show for their efforts?” Armagnac put his hands on his hi
ps and set one foot on the bench. “They have smelled the odor of roasting meat, and now must they leave the fat drumsticks lying there? What do you think we are, Orléans?”
In November a new treaty was signed in the castle of Bicêtre—a treaty as troublesome and tricky as the preceding one. Berry, invited by the King to resume his seat in the Council, appeared this time also as a peacemaker and chairman of the discussion, much to the indignation of Charles, who could not understand how his great uncle could change his opinion with such rapidity. The Duke of Berry was able to adapt himself to every circumstance with bewildering ease. He pleaded the durability of an armistice and reconciliation between both parties with the same eloquence with which he had advocated war a good half year before. Burgundy himself did not appear; he had sent a number of well-armed envoys with a numerous following. Armagnac had also declined to engage in the discussions. He declared bluntly that the matter was no concern of his. In Bicêtre it was finally decided that the armistice would last until Easter; after that, they would negotiate anew.
In the southerly tower of Blois, Charles wrote a long letter to the King. Respectfully, patiently, driven by the sacred intention to put an end to a situation which one could call neither peace nor war, he set down once more his grievances against Burgundy. He sat in his own room, sober and quiet as a monk’s cell. The bed with the green curtains in which he had slept as a child filled the small room almost completely; between both narrow windows stood a cupboard with shelves where he kept his books, and an iron chest containing a few personal belongings: the golden goblet and the crucifix which his mother had given him, a handsome triptych, buckles and rings, his collar of the Order of the Hedgehog. There was no chimney in the room; Charles had to content himself with the heat from the glowing charcoal brazier at his feet. He sat in a chair at a reading desk such as monks used, and wrote page after page in his own hand; he found great satisfaction in this occupation as well as in the careful composition of the letter.
It was snowing outside: the fields around Blois were white, the roofs of houses and barns and the boughs of the trees heavy laden with frost. For days, thick swarms of flakes had fallen from heaven; all sounds were muffled as though they came from far away. All activity had stopped. In the castle and the city the inhabitants lived on stores of provisions piled up over the years. By now Blois contained almost three times as many soldiers, horses and beasts of burden as before; only scanty portions could be doled out if there was to be any hope of survival through the winter without famine. Maintenance of the troops cost Charles handfuls of money; the previous autumn he had had to order his treasures sold in Paris: crowns, chains of honor, a golden ship which had been used as a table ornament, images of saints, candlesticks and jewels. Now the soldiers of the household had been paid to the last denier: whatever remained of the money had to be used for the customary New Year’s gifts to members of his household. In order to meet his necessary expenses Charles was forced to borrow small sums from his physician, his Chancellor and substantial citizens of Blois. He himself lived with extreme frugality; in the book in which he listed his personal expenses only three items appeared that winter: a hood, a box of writing materials and a pair of mittens.
Bonne d’Armagnac’s dowry seemed finally to amount to nothing more than a drop on a scalding platter. Moreover, there was no guarantee that his father-in-law would keep his word about the payment terms. Charles had seen his new bride only once, during the wedding ceremonies at Riom, one of Berry’s castles; of the child Bonne he remembered nothing except that she had black braids and round red cheeks. After the church service she had been taken back to her mother. No one had had the time or the desire to organize a fete.
Charles was pleased that he was not required to keep the girl with him. In Blois there was hardly room for women’s quarters, and besides, he could not afford a retinue for the new Duchess. Surely Bonne would not have liked to live in the nursery. Charles seldom visited the apartment where Marguerite played with her wooden dolls and his little daughter crawled on a mat. When he stepped inside and saw the clothes hanging by the fire to dry, or heard the Dame de Maucouvent singing nursery songs in her shrill voice, he fancied himself a child again. It seemed to him at those times only a short while since he himself had lived safely hidden inside the four walls of the nursery, surrounded by toys, protected from worry and pain. He lifted his daughter in his arms. Day by day she was becoming more human, he discovered, easier to understand, a creature of flesh and blood like himself; the frail little doll in the cradle had inspired only wonder and deep pity in him.
Although Blois was blanketed in a winter silence, Charles could not recapture the calm life of the past. The forced inactivity weighed heavily upon him. Writing the letter to the King gave him an illusion, at least, of accomplishment. He poured into the words all his botded-up energy, all his anxiety to be finished with the task which was his inheritance.
Once again, aided by his secretary Garbet, Charles went over the documents concerning the murder and everything that had happened after it. Once more he had to relive those dreadful, tragic days. Only now did he seem to feel the violence of the blow which had struck him; he had not been able at the time to grasp the full significance of his father’s death. A feeling of bewilderment and painful impotence had overwhelmed him when, with Isabelle, he had watched beside his mother who was half mad with grief; now on reading the account of the murder and burial, on reviewing Petit’s accusations, going over once more the royal letters informing him of the confiscation of manors and castles, he understood for the first time his mother’s courage. Indignation and sorrow made him express himself in a way which perhaps did not belong in so solemn a document as his letter to the King; if he had asked his advisors’ opinion they would have told him to mitigate the emotional tone of the letter, and the way in which he had underscored each point in its long list of events.
He forgot that he sat in his quiet room between his bed and his bookcase, that the snow fell silently and unceasingly behind the small window panes, that his feet, near the charcoal grate, were warm, but his fingers stiff from cold. He saw himself in the dark alley where his father’s bloody body lay in the mud; later at the funeral mass he saw Burgundy, dressed in mourning, holding the edge of the pall; he saw his mother kneeling in humble entreaty for justice; he relived the empty ceremony in the cathedral of Chartres.
“… And therefore, my Prince and Sovereign, we implore you—nay, we insist that you give us leave to obtain satisfaction ourselves in every possible way for the murder of our dearly beloved father and lord, may God forgive his sins. We are obliged to do so, we cannot leave it undone with impunity. There is not a man alive, no matter how humble he may be, who will not pursue the murderers of his father to the death. We therefore beseech you to stand by us and help us, as much as it lies in your power, to punish the murderer, liar and traitor. All this I have truly written, so help me God…”
The snow had melted and the tepid spring rain was falling when Charles had carefully signed his name to this long and detailed letter. He told his brothers the contents and asked them if they wished to sign their names beside his. This they did, gathered on a spring afternoon in the chamber they habitually used; the silver letters gleamed dully against the black background on the walls: ‘Rien ne m’est plus, plus ne m’est rien.” Philippe, Count de Vertus, was fourteen years old now, a sprightly youth with charming manners. Durine Charles’ absence Philippe had acted ably as lieutenant-general of Orléans’ estates. He patterned himself wholly after his elder brother whose commissions he punctiliously fulfilled. He accepted Charles’ decisions without questions; all his life he had heard that Charles was the more thoughtful and sharp-witted of the two. Charles, on his side, found support in Philippe; his brother’s carefree disposition, his continually stimulating humor, formed a desirable counterweight to his own retiring, somewhat melancholy nature. But it was his youngest brother, Jean, whom he loved best; Jean, who reminded him strongly of his mother.
The nine-year-old was rather small for his age and not particularly robust. He stood somewhat apart from the others—too old for the nursery, too young to take part in business affairs like Philippe, and at the same time not vigorous enough to do as Dunois did and exercise daily in the courtyard of Blois with the soldiers. Louis’ bastard son differed from his half-brothers in every respect; he was broad and strongly built, with sandy hair and light eyes. He lacked to a degree the courtliness, the innate dignity which Charles and Philippe possessed. But he lacked also Charles’ inclination to melancholy and vacillation and Philippe’s easy carelessness.
Dunois consciously followed a well-chosen path: he intended to become a skilled warrior, to lead men in battle, to lay siege to fortresses. He intended when he was older to serve the House of Orléans in this way, so that his half-brothers could devote themselves to matters of state. Already he saw his tenacity rewarded: men praised him for his facility with sword and bow and his proficient horsemanship. Toward Charles and Philippe, Dunois behaved with respect and with a certain reserve: he was only too aware of the difference between his position and theirs. Nevertheless, he showed no trace of humility or envy. Nor was he at all ashamed of his illegitimacy: he was proud to be a son of Orléans; he asked no greater favor of fate than some day to be able to avenge his father’s death. Although he did not add his name to the letter, he was present. The others—and he himself too—considered it quite natural that he should enter in all discussions and give his opinions on everything.
“Do you think the King will read your letter now?” Philippe asked after he had carefully written his name, adorning the P with intricate, interwoven lines.
Dunois looked up and asked quietly, “Is Monseigneur de Berry for us or against us this time?”
“I don’t know.” Charles siehed and shruffed. “He always defends his viewpoints so well that I am inclined afterwards to agree with him. He writes me that he considers himself an outpost in the enemy camp. He believes he can do more for us by exercising influence in the Council and with the Dauphin than by siding with us openly if it comes to hostilities again. I cannot deny that there is truth in what he says. The citizens of Paris have always had high regard for Monseigneur de Berry.”
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