On the fields and highways near the monastery of Auxerre, the inhabitants of nearby towns and villages stood in groups, looking at the noble travelers, the horses and wagons, the flags and equipment, at the banquets in the open air, at the sham fights held by the high lords inside an arena cordoned off with gaily colored ribbons. The spectators were gloomy; they could not believe that their anguish and distress had ended. And now the region was afflicted by a pestilence; people said it came from the armed camp before Bourges. All that babble of eternal peace could not dispel the knowledge that every hour men and beasts were dying in the farms and houses in the countryside. For over a century the fear of disease, hunger and war had sunk deep into the hearts of the people. Better times are promised in Heaven, said most men, but Paradise lies far away—we sinners know not where.
To reassure and pacify the crowds huddled in the fields of the monastery, Burgundy and Charles went outside together; they passed back and forth between the decorated tables, sat together on the same horse at the Dauphin’s request—Burgundy in front, Charles in back—and rode, amidst the acclaim of the spectators, around the arena. From the monastery chapel, choirboys emerged holding burning candles in their hands. They sang “Glory to God in the Highest” and now the bystanders and participants finally joined this strange game of princes with the most beautiful of songs: “Peace on earth to men of good will, hallelujah, hallelujah!” at first hesitantly, but growing gradually louder, stirred by the pealing bells, the burning tapers, the voices of the choir and the magnificent banners.
Meanwhile the plague raged, the mercenaries of Burgundy and Orléans and all their allies, dismissed from their bond of service, plundered everywhere; Armagnac with his Gascons proceeded to harass the regions between the sea and the Loire, and the English, already in possession of the hostages they had demanded, withdrew to their ships, robbing and burning despite the agreements and promises. “Peace on earth,” sang the people, not knowing what the morrow would bring; “Men of good will,” hummed the powerful with uneasy and distrustful hearts. “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” they shouted all together; bonnets and hats flew off, banners fluttered in the wind. The horse which bore Burgundy and Charles began to rear, frightened by the noise; he had to be held fast so that both riders could dismount without mishap.
Now it so happened that a peasant, Jacques d’Arc by name, lived in Domrémy in Lorraine in those days, and at just about this time his wife gave birth to a child. It was the fifth child and a girl, and she was christened Jeanne.
Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe accepted the Dauphin’s invitation to accompany him to Vincennes castle. The King’s son wished to become better acquainted with his cousins now. Monseigneur d’Aquitaine of Guyenne, as the crown prince was called, had become gradually disenchanted with the manner in which Burgundy still attempted to exercise guardianship over him. The young man had tried a few times to assert his independence, and there were enough men in his suite who encouraged him to rid himself of his father-in-law at any cost. Isabeau, apparently completely on Burgundy’s side, tried to influence her son by indulging him immeasurably. She gave him houses, money and valuables, and did not attempt to oppose the frankly licentious life he led.
She thought with regret of the good times of the past; when the Dukes had ruled she had been powerful—now no one listened to her. Her brother, Ludwig of Bavaria, who was continually at her elbow, showed her the way to new influence. The Dauphin was fully grown. He was a shallow, erratic young man who in reality had neither the desire nor the disposition to rule. He was interested in dancing, feasts and carousing, in silk clothes and beautiful jewels. He who succeeded in gratifying his cravings for these things won his confidence completely and could mold him as he wished. Burgundy, once so indulgent toward his son-in-law, began to display more and more irritation when he learned about the amounts of money demanded and squandered by the Dauphin.
Isabeau had to take advantage of this friction if she wanted to rule again through the youth. Accordingly she closed her eyes to her son’s excesses; she listened impassively to the hints of the clergy and the complaints of subordinates. What business was it of hers if the Dauphin and his friends drank and danced each night with harlots in the Hotel de Behaigne, if they annoyed inoffensive citizens with their wild and not always harmless pranks? She flattered his vanity, loaded him with gifts, whispered new notions into his ear—Isabeau had her fantasies too—and at the same time advised him to seek a fresh rapprochement with the party of Orléans—weren’t all the princes of the blood on that path already? The Dauphin considered his mother to be an ugly, self-seeking, disagreeable woman, but he had a still greater aversion to Burgundy who, despite the fact that his son-in-law was the heir to the throne, scolded and nagged him incessantly. Monseigneur de Guyenne felt himself old enough to fill the elevated position to which he was to be called, but he wanted to do it in a suitable manner: in order to be able to give himself up undisturbed to luxurious pleasures, he wished to distribute responsible positions in the government among friends and relatives who were clever enough to prevent disorder and to understand that the wearer of the crown was not to be bothered needlessly.
In Vincennes, the Dauphin overloaded his cousins of Orléans with marks of favor and gave fetes and hunting parties in their honor. In Philippe, who was completely dazzled by the splendor of court life, and who spent his days intoxicated by joy and hitherto unknown delights, the Dauphin instantly found an enthusiastic, indefatigable boon companion. Charles, however, did not unbend; he could not quickly forget what he had left outside those festive walls decorated with wreaths and garlands. He was filled with bitterness and regret by the thought that he had sacrificed his brother for no purpose, since the English had broken their promises. For the first time in years, Philippe went about dressed in gold and bright colors, but Charles refused to lay aside his mourning. Like a stranger who cannot understand the language of his hosts, he lived among his royal kinsmen and their household. He saw his brother, flushed with excitement and exertion, trying to follow the Dauphin’s example in the row of dancing courtiers; beautiful women laughed at the youth and held out their hands to him invitingly.
But Charles sat under the canopy beside the Queen, who found him dull; once, in Chartres, she had thought she had discerned the promise of wit and rare courtliness in young Orléans; now there seemed nothing more to say about him than that he was agreeable and well-mannered. Charles was only too well aware of his inability to join in the exuberance and loose jests of the others; this realization made him all the more silent and monosyllabic, especially since he detected in himself a desire to be as carefree and happy as the ele-gandy dressed young men he saw around him, leading the women to the dance with light, courtly phrases.
The beauty of the women both confused and enraptured him. He thought he had never realized that such lustrous warmth and grace existed; in the curve of an arm, the drop of a veil, the lines of neck and shoulders, a timeless enchantment lay concealed, a temptation which Charles felt all the more strongly because timidity and lack of experience made him defenseless. But he did not reveal his emotions; he sat with the older men and talked politics. He considered it his duty to learn the opinions of this group with whom, until now, he had had so little contact. Besides, he felt uncertain: what he had been promised in Auxerre, restoration of honor and property, remained still only words on paper. The Council had not yet convened, Burgundy had gone to Flanders; the restoration of honor existed only in the courteous and sympathetic reception afforded him by the Dauphin.
Charles spoke candidly with only one person while he was in Vincennes. One evening he noticed among the spectators in the banquet hall a thin, middle-aged woman in a dark red gown, with sharply chiselled features and intelligent eyes. He remembered her at once and went up to her, although he knew that etiquette demanded that she, as a subordinate, must salute him first. But he remembered how he, as a small boy, had sat at her feet, between the deep folds of her dress, while sh
e, in a low gentle voice, recited verses to his mother. He found that Christine de Pisan, widow of the Sire de Castel, had changed very little.
He spoke with her at length and often; he found it easy to confide in her. She had known his grandfather, admired his father and had been a friend and compatriot of his mother. He greeted her almost like a kinswoman.
In the twelve years which had passed since Charles had seen her last, the Dame de Pisan had gained renown and esteem; her talents were no longer doubted by anyone; she was the guest and close friend of monarchs and, not the least, among great scholars in wisdom and knowledge. Although Burgundy was her protector, she remained impartial. Charles felt that she could be trusted with his confidences.
When they talked together during fetes or meals or in the Queen’s reception halls, Charles and the poet observed etiquette: she stood or knelt in his presence; he touched on general subjects only, requesting her to instruct him about literature and philosophy. It was soon not unusual for members of the royal household to see Monseigneur d’Orléans and the Dame de Pisan immersed for hours in conversation. But sometimes Charles invited her to visit his private rooms with no other listener than Maitre Garbet. There he told her frankly what he thought and felt, what distressed him, insofar as he could give a clear account of all this himself.
Christine understood him; she knew what it meant to live bitter and aggrieved among carefree people.
“When my husband died, I stood alone in the world, Monseigneur,” she said, fixing her calm, intelligent eyes upon him. “From the beginning I had to take care of my children and worry about my closest blood kin. I too had to wage a long and bitter struggle to try to save my inheritance. I did not succeed, my lord. But God has given me the ability to say many things in rhyme. Thanks to that ability I could earn my livelihood and was able to raise my children. Believe me, I know what afflicts you so deeply: to feel isolated, alone in a room full of merry-makers. I could, when I had just lost my husband, sing only of grief and love and you know, Monseigneur, that such songs are fashionable for dancing. I sold my heartache for a handful of gold pieces.”
She paused and raised her long narrow hands in a gesture of resignation. “I often thought that no worse fate existed on earth than my own. But, alas, my lord, one becomes older and wiser and one learns from day to day. Now it often seems to me that I wept too quickly over my own grief. I look about me and I cannot understand how I can bear with dry eyes the suffering of France. My lord, my lord, how is it possible that kings and princes can still sleep peacefully at night?”
The Dame de Pisan was able to tell him a good deal about the calamities which ravaged the people: she was no stranger to poverty; often enough she had been close to hunger, cold, pestilence, cruelty and injustice. Her words brought Charles back again to a sense of what he must do.
He took leave of the court and marched south to his castle in Beaumont, which had suffered exceedingly under the occupation of Waleran de Saint-Pol. Philippe he left behind in the Dauphin’s retinue; the young man wanted nothing more than that. Before Charles left, Christine de Pisan presented him with a book of her poems, Epistles of Othea to Hector. In exchange, Charles gave her his gold cross; he was not rich enough to reward her with a princely gift of money. His friendship with the poet had warmed his heart. He left Vincennes considerably less embittered and depressed than when he had arrived.
On a rainy, chilly spring day in the year 1413, Philippe, Count de Vertus, rode into the city of Blois; he came from Paris, not with a well-armed escort as befitted one of his rank, but in great haste on a horse chosen at random, attended only by two grooms. Without stopping to change his clothes, Philippe went straight to his brother. He found Charles in his old study, busy checking accounts and receipts with the aid of Maitre Gar bet and a few clerks. Charles leaped up with a cry of surprise. Philippe was still breathless from his fast ride and hard walk. And he wore a disguise—cloak, bonnet and hose like a traveling merchant, and he was covered with mud and dirt. Philippe did not let his brother get in a word.
“I fled from Paris,” he said, while he tugged at the lace of his cloak. “I have ridden for two days and nights without pause, brother. They were close at my heels.”
Charles motioned the clerks to withdraw. The faithful Garbet, concerned, remained standing behind the table.
“Come sit down, Philippe,” said Charles, “and tell me what happened there.” He kicked aside the damp, grimy cloak which Philippe had dropped on the floor, and thrust his brother down on the chair. “A few days ago another refugee arrived here, your physician-in-ordinary, Messire Pion.”
“Thank God he is alive. I thought they had killed him,” cried Philippe. Charles drew a footstool toward him with his foot and continued.
“Nay, but he was a great deal worse off than you, brother. He came on foot, half-naked and famished. He lies in bed still, too ill to talk much. I know that a rebellion broke out in Paris, that the people are laying siege to the Bastille.”
“Alas!” Philippe gestured with impatient excitement. “That was weeks ago—so much has happened since then. The butcher rabble rules Paris; they walk about with large knives and axes. They have fortified their districts as though they were castles. None of those fellows works any longer, they do nothing but patrol the streets and plunder, killing anyone who is not especially dirty and does not shout as loud as they do.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that already.” With a gesture Charles checked his brother’s flow of words. “Are you able to tell me quietly what you know or do you want to eat and sleep first?”
“Are you mad? I’m not tired, brother.” Never before had he been in such great danger or been involved in such exciting events. He found that he was extremely well-informed; he could enlighten his brother as well if not better than couriers or letters from the court. “I shall tell you everything in detail. It had already begun when I arrived in Paris with the Queen and Monseigneur de Guy-enne. Every day there were riots in front of the palace and fighting in the streets because the King had made peace with us. Of course Burgundy stood behind all this. Each day the butcher folk stood before Saint-Pol screaming for Monseigneur de Guyenne. At last he was forced to appear in a window, whether he wanted to or not. Those people have an orator—a surgeon or some such thing, and he addressed Monseigneur, telling him that he was their only hope, but that he had evil companions and advisors, that he behaved like a profligate and wastrel. Aye, the surgeon said that, brother, and all the time the butcher bosses stood there in their Sunday finery, nodding agreement, but the rabble who are always near them brandished knives and sticks. They wore white bonnets—the bastards, that is their symbol; all Paris walks about wearing them and those who do not wear them are killed. Then Monseigneur de Guyenne—in order to provoke the butchers—donned a cap with long flaps which hung over his shoulders. He looked as though he wore the ribbons of our party!”
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 t
oward 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.
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