In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Antonio is enthralled by what the professional poets come up with; they are obliged by their calling to contrive ingenious rhymes, to employ exceptionally beautiful images, to sustain symbolism in the most precise way once they have chosen it. But all may be said to have acquitted themselves worthily of their tasks, to compose with almost offhand ease verse which is at the same time significant, clever and melodious, or so it seems at any rate to the listener who is nearly blinded by such a dazzling display of ballads, virelays, songs and rondelets. But the Duke has a sharp ear, a keen eye; he can instantly detect a false note, a bit of tinsel. If he nods his head thoughtfully, the poet can sit down satisfied. But when he allows a versemaker to come into his study and pushes a certain book with loosely folded pages toward him, requesting that he inscribe his ballad or song therein, then the poet may be certain that he has won the greatest praise Monseigneur can bestow—a place in the Thought Book. Many have seen it in Monseigneur’s hands or on his writing table, but only a very few have had the privilege of reading it.

  Monseigneur’s verses are heard only when he takes his turn during a poetry competition; gazing pensively at a point on the wall or outside the window, he recites, in a soft monotone, what he has just composed. When he finishes, he comes to himself; he smiles rather self-consciously and gives a friendly wave to the next speaker.

  Antonio Astesano has begun to write a great chronicle, in which he will record the history of the House of Orléans and demonstrate from documents on hand the legality of the Duke’s claims to Asti and Milan. Monseigneur is interested in his work and has furnished him with much material. But as he writes, Antonio is troubled by feelings of sorrow. He will have to conclude the chronicle with the life of the Duke himself, for the House has no heirs. No son of Orléans will ever turn the leaves of Antonio’s book; it will be no invaluable guide, but only a survey of forgotten things. Antonio is fully conscious that the prospect fills the Duke too with regret and bitterness; from the way in which, in the court or outside on the road, Monseigneur greets the numerous children who have been named for him—whom, at their parents’ requests, he has presented for baptism—it seems obvious enough that he, more than any man, would have rejoiced in the possession of a family of his own.

  Insofar as the Duchess is concerned, she behaves with more restraint toward the children who continually cross her path, but the impressionable Antonio finds her coldness more disturbing than Monseigneur’s somewhat melancholy openness and good nature. The Duchess of Orléans has become, over the course of ten years, a pale, taciturn woman who—and this is noteworthy—takes great pains to support her husband in the management of the household at Blois, in the entertainment of guests and in the practice of good works. Madame still likes to hunt, preferably with falcons, but the time of boating on the river, of ecstatic horseback rides or round dances in the meadow, is over for good.

  Very old people in Blois, who can still remember the late Lady Valentine, often say that the Duchess shows, day by day, a greater resemblance to Monseigneur’s mother. Each time they see Marie d’Orléans sitting in the great hall or, from a distance, in the cool shadowed garden arbor, dressed in black as always, with an embroidery frame or a book before her and equally industrious court ladies around her, it seems to them that time has stood still for fifty years. Even the black wall coverings with the motto stitched in silver—Rien ne m’est plus, plus ne m’est rien—hang once more in the Duchess’s apartments, and Madame wears the ornament which Duchess Valentine never removed after her husband’s death: a fountain of tears cunningly constructed from silver and tiny glittering gems.

  Fancywork seems to have become a passion for Marie d’Orléans; she busies herself chiefly with crocheting beads and buttons from Cyprian gold thread. Everyone has received these as gifts from her; Monseigneur wears them on his jacket and cloak, and they are threaded into his paternoster. It seems to Antonio that the Duchess is never cheerful or happy; she tries to be friendly to everyone, following her husband’s example, but her heart does not seem to be in it. Even the little dogs and birds which she keeps near her always, she caresses absently. Now that Bourbon’s son Pierre de Beaujeu, whom Orléans has raised as a foster child, has grown into young manhood, he no longer needs Marie’s attention. If anything can make her realize profoundly that time gives no quarter, it is the presence of this tall adolescent squire who once—it seems only yesterday—entered Blois as a little child.

  One day in the summer of the year 1456, Antonio set out at noon in company with a few other clerks from Monseigneur’s office for the great hall where the repast was about to be served. They walked quickly through the garden, only pausing for a moment near the walled pond which the Duke, not long before, had had fitted with a fountain. Standing in a rock in the center of the pond was a bronze gargoyle. The splashing of the streams of water springing from between its lips, out of its nostrils and ears, was usually audible in the innermost chambers of the castle. But the fountain had been silent since that morning; there was something wrong with the ducts. The Duke, who had missed the familiar sound, had come to the well that morning, joking that he would die of thirst next to his fountain. Antonio and his friends mounted the broad stairs to the hall.

  There the preparations for the meal were in full swing; under the supervision of the steward, Alardin de Monzay, three or four servants were busy putting tops on the trestles, unfolding the linen cloths. A youth ran about with a basket, from which he strewed fresh leaves on the floor. From one of the deep window recesses came smothered laughter; two of the Duke’s pages stood there joking with Pierre the fool. The harpist, one foot resting on the steps of a bench, attentively tuned his instrument. Antonio went into another window niche, knelt on the stone seat and leaned forward to look outside.

  The southwestern portion of Blois looked like a gigantic green-and-bronze-tinted tapestry. In the last few years vines had taken possession of nearly every open spot on the old wall. The village of Blois lay at the foot of the precipice in the burning midday sun. The river was low; the reflection of the sunlight on the exposed sands was so dazzling that Antonio involuntarily closed his eyes.

  As he leaned on the window seat, dozing in the warmth, he caught the conversation going on among the jocular group in the next window niche. With exaggerated intonation, the fool was reciting a rondeau consisting of nothing but nonsense words, accompanied by the jingling of bells.

  “Stop it, Pierre,” said one of the pages. “In the name of anything you like, spare us from poetry for a while. If we aren’t in church, we are rhyming. About love, about the four seasons, about the kindness of Madame the Duchess …”

  “What do you want then?” replied another youth. “The Duke doesn’t like the hunt and he is too fat for games of skill and horseback riding. Can you imagine him jousting?”

  “He had fights enough when he was young, at least if you can believe the stories. He should certainly know something about what goes on. Don’t forget he has been through Agincourt!”

  The fool began to titter shrilly.

  “We have another hero of Agincourt, gentlemen; only look at Messire de Monzay who stands there surveying the tables like a commander with his battlefields!”

  “Hey, de Monzay, I didn’t know that!” cried one of the pages. “Were you at Agincourt, man?”

  “Hush, hush, hush!” the fool whispered so sharply that he could be heard in the farthest corners of the hall. “Do not bother Messire. He won’t be happy to be reminded that the English stripped him stark naked and let him run away like that.”

  The pages laughed, half in derision and half in scandalized astonishment. De Monzay said, in a choked voice, “It would have been better for me if they had killed me, or sent me to England with the Duke.”

  “Man, you would have died from boredom on the other side of the Straits of Calais,” cried the fool. “In that climate! I’ve been told that the fog is so thick in London that you can’t see three steps in front of you.”

  “Th
e Duke must still consider himself lucky that they let him go.”

  “He may well, but his purse still feels the pain.” The fool uttered a terrifying series of moans and gasps. Suddenly he stopped and said in a normal voice, “Listen, the harpist is playing! There must be a lady nearby. Unless I’m wrong, even two ladies. There come a couple of the Duchess’s young women, the two prettiest if I’m not mistaken …”

  The easily enflamed Antonio Astesano, who was accustomed to wooing all the court ladies in turn—until now, however, in vain—hastily emerged from the window niche. The two young ladies, Isabel and Annette, floated gracefully into the hall. From their fashionable pointed hats hung veils of white muslin. They tried to maintain a dignified demeanor, but in their bright eyes sparkled the inexplicable, irrepressible delight that seizes maidens as soon as they enter the company of men whom they know they can tease. They glanced derisively with feigned hauteur at Antonio, who bowed, at the pages who gave them a friendly greeting.

  “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.”