“You can sit and read later when old age or illness allows you no other diversion.” Her tone brooked no contradiction. “I fear, child, that you may already have spoiled your eyes by peering at your letters. Now you must develop your physical strength, exercise your muscles. You will need all that when you ride off to war.”
“War?” Charles raised his head; his look was just guileless enough to give his mother pain. But Valentine repressed this sympathetic impulse—she thought she must be pitiless herself if she were to help her son become the man of steel he had to be.
“Why do you think I have called up all these soldiers?” she asked wearily. “It costs a fortune every day to maintain them. If Burgundy will not bend, he must be broken. I shall force him to give me satisfaction, through force of arms if there is no other way. But any army of Orléans’ must stand under our personal command—that is to say, under your command, son. You owe that duty to your father, who was so ignominiously murdered. Listen …” She turned toward him and took his face almost roughly between her two hands. “Listen, boy. From now on you must be inspired by only one thought, only one desire must impel you—revenge, revenge, nothing but revenge, until the humiliation they visited upon your father and upon us has been expunged in blood. I have never been cruel and vindictive, God knows that. But now I have learnt all too well what fate awaits the meek. Strike before you are struck. That is the only law, son, I can’t teach you a wiser maxim. Remember that: revenge, satisfaction. Repeat those words by day and by night. Be aware that you must ignore yourself and everything you love must be set aside until you have achieved your purpose, until your father’s death has been avenged, his memory cleansed, your inheritance restored intact to you and your brothers. That work must be pleasing to God, because your father was a noble man who served the interests of the King and the realm.”
“Mother,” Charles said with sudden vehemence—he slid onto his knees before her. “Mother, they say that my father robbed the King—that he was impious and frivolous.”
Valentine raised her hand and struck the young man across the mouth.
“That you should dare to say those words within these walls is worse than treason,” she said harshly. “Never speak like that again. Do not question for one moment the truth of what I say to you. I knew your father better than anyone else knew him. He caused me much suffering, many bitter tears, but now it seems to me that the sorrow I had to endure was far less important than the joy he brought to me. Yes, that joy was so deep that now the world has lost its light for me. Nothing has meaning anymore,” she concluded, slowly repeating the words which were written in silver against the black walls of her apartments; tears began to fall from her dull eyes—she held a handkerchief before her face.
“I ask your forgiveness, Madame ma mere,” said Charles, embarrassed and upset. “But I don’t know if I am suited to be the leader of an army. I will learn to fight with weapons if you wish me to. But it is not fitting that I should be in charge of men like Messires de Braquemont and de Villars, who are great warriors.”
“You must let me judge what is fitting for a Duke of Orléans.” Valentine’s face had regained its severity. “You cannot become a leader through talk. You will have the best possible tutors. I don’t want any more objections, son. You are still under my guardianship; I am responsible for your education. Sit up straight—throw your shoulders back—you have sat bent over books for too many years. It has not been good for you.”
Charles obeyed, but he had to bite his lips to avoid bursting into tears of rage and disappointment. Valentine sighed; she folded her thin hands stiffly in her lap and went on.
‘There are still a few important matters I want to discuss with you. Your father contracted huge debts. He had to maintain his court and contribute to the support of his vassals here and abroad. He was forced to borrow a great deal of money at times to pay for his new territories. I want to pay off that debt before we undertake anything else, son, and that cannot be done without sacrifice. We must sell valuables and jewels. I have already made my choices—see if you agree with me, because there are many things among them which belong to you. I believe that if we want to have a large sum of money at our disposal all at once, we shall have to sell a house. I have heard that the Queen wishes to give the Dauphin his own dwelling in Paris. I have recently told her that I am ready to relinquish the Hotel de Behaigne to her for ten thousand gold francs. I take it you agree with me?”
The young man nodded; he did not speak. He was overwhelmed by despondency. What could he really say? He did not need to think; everything was being decided for him.
“Furthermore, I have finally received an answer to the letter which I sent to Monseigneur of Brittany in Paris. As you know, I held extensive discussions with him this spring. It is very fortunate for us, son, that he has reason to be dissatisfied with the way Burgundy handled the guardianship and administration of Brittany during Monseigneur’s minority. Now that Monseigneur is an adult and his own master, he will no longer allow Burgundy to order him about. In short, he has declared himself ready to enter into an alliance with us even if it means a rupture with his mother the Queen of England. I have had the agreement put into writing; you will be so good as to sign it soon and also those documents which I am sending to the Margrave of Moravia concerning the need to fortify the fortresses in Luxembourg.”
“Yes, Madame ma mere,” Charles replied in a barely audible voice; he kept his eyes fixed obstinately on the floor. Again they sat side by side in silence, two small black figures against a background embroidered with saints and heroes.
“Charles,” Valentine said suddenly, with a trace of the old tenderness in her voice, “you can keep Maitre Garbet in your service as secretary, of course. I know that you are greatly attached to him, child. You do not have to lose his friendship.”
The young man bowed, but his pale face did not relax. Valentine looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to another, once so loved. She saw in the thin mouth and around the nostrils too, something that reminded her of Louis; but Charles’ eyes were different, milder; she missed the flash of irony which had enlivened Louis’ glance. The youth’s cheeks were beginning to lose their childish roundness. From temple to cheekbone and chin fell the shadow, the oudine of maturity, which gives each face its own character. His thick light brown hair, clipped high around the crown, was as curly as it had been in his childhood, but the colorless down on his upper lip and chin was an unmistakable sign of manhood. The Duchess of Orléans almost smiled, but the impulse was too weak to soften the taut mask that was her face. She stood up slowly, leaning on the chair like an old woman; Charles hastened to help her. Together they walked through the long hall; the leaves rustled under Valentine’s train and under the soles of Charles’ black velvet shoes.
In the last week of August Valentine received a message that she would be received in Paris; she had not been so moved in a long time as when she read the royal letter. With the sealed parchment in her hand, she went to the inner court where, in an area set aside for that purpose, Charles worked with hand- and crossbow under the supervision of the practised archer Archambault de Villars. Valentine, who entered the court accompanied by her daughter-in-law Isabelle, watched her son for a while from the shadow of an arched doorway. The young man stood straight and lean in his leather jacket, at the far end of the shooting range. Slowly he drew back the heavy bow, his eyes squinting. Now the taudy-pulled sinew neared his shoulder; he let go; the arrow whizzed through the air, directly striking the target at the other end of the range. The feathered arrow quivered in the wood. Dunois, who had looked on knowledgeably with tense attention, went up, pulled the arrow from the board and made a chalk mark between the innermost circle and the bull’s eye.
“What a beautiful shot,” said Isabelle.
The sound of her daughter-in-law’s voice struck Valentine; she glanced quickly at her. In the girl’s eye she saw something which made her look equally quickly at the spot where Charles stood. After two mont
hs of almost uninterrupted physical exertion, he had become more robust. His slenderness had disappeared; he was now lean, but muscular and supple. Horseback riding, swimming, exercises with sword, bow and spear had removed every trace of awkwardness from him; he moved with some of the same ease which had characterized Louis. For the first time Valentine saw that her son was no longer a child but a young man; with amazement she realized that Isabelle already knew this. She drew her own conclusions. The eighteen-year-old Madame d’Orléans went about—it could no longer remain a secret from those around her—bent under her burden of forced virginity. Most women of her age already had one or two children, but although she was married now for the second time she was still a maiden. Her haughty bearing, her cutting coolness concealed her deep sense of shame and inferiority. Valentine had often asked herself, not without concern, what would happen in the future; when must she assign Charles and Isabelle a joint apartment? Isabelle seemed irritated with the quiet, childlike youth. The only feeling Charles evinced toward his wife was a certain embarrassed timidity.
But now Valentine saw in her daughter-in-law’s eyes an undisguised interest; more noteworthy still, Isabelle lowered her eyes when Charles, who had seen his mother, handed his bow to de Villars and approached to greet both women. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand; the flush of exertion which had colored his cheeks during the archery had disappeared—exhaustion lurked in the shadows under his eyes. The Duchess of Orléans sighed involuntarily; the young man was not strong; he did his best, but he was hardly equal to the effort which a soldier’s education required. Silently she handed him the Queen’s letter.
Later—Charles and she had consulted with advisors and lawyers in her apartments—mother and son discussed once again at length the measures to be taken. Valentine believed she must seize the opportunity without delay; she wanted to go to Paris with the evidence she had collected—letters, orders and other documents connected with Louis’ affairs—and there choose a qualified spokesman. Her intention was to refute Maitre Petit’s accusations point by point in the presence of the court, the government and representatives of the Church and the people. She increased her demands. Accompanied by Isabelle, she would go to Paris to gauge the atmosphere in the city and the court. If she found this to be favorable, Charles could follow with a suitable entourage.
The young man agreed to everything; he stood before the table piled high with documents and absently drew diagrams on the wood with his thumbnail. This made Valentine impatient; she was annoyed and disappointed diat she saw in him no trace of her own passionate zeal, her vengeful perseverance.
“I trust that you are well aware of your obligations, son,” she said at last, standing up to signal that the discussion was over. “What we do now is no whim for me nor child’s play for you. We must remain vigilant, even if Burgundy should come on his knees to beg our forgiveness. Do not believe for one moment in the good faith of the hypocrite who had the insolence to hold the edge of the pall covering your father’s bier the day after the crime; who went with his victim to communion a few hours before his murder! I want him to be humbled before us, that’s obvious—but after that I shall also be prepared for war. There will come a day, Charles, when we will be asked to move swiftly and boldly, you can be sure of that. Take care that you will be ready then in every way; in order to achieve that day you must not relax for a moment, not now, not ever! Is that clear, son? You may go now. I think that your exercise down in the square should be resumed.”
Charles shook his head; slowly he unbuckled the straps of the leather bands which he wore on his wrists when he worked with the bow. He gazed past his mother’s head at the blue sky outside the arched window; large, gleaming clouds drifted slowly by, a fleet of ships on the way to unknown destinations. He saluted Valentine and left the room.
Where is he going now? thought the mother, overcome by a vague feeling of shame and regret. What is going on in him? What is he thinking?
She walked back and forth in her cheerless room; on the walls hung black fabrics, embroidered with motifs suggesting fountains of tears and with her motto, repeated over and over in pointed silver letters. She passed her days here as though she were in a tomb, surrounded by objects which had belonged to Louis: a missal, a cup, a crucifix, a glove. The dog Doucet, wounded in the attack, lay night and day on a cushion. Valentine now possessed Louis completely; at last he belonged to her alone. He continued to exist for her—nobler, purer, more upright than he had ever been or ever could have been. She was driven only by the need to justify him, to cleanse his memory of every stain—true as well as false. She did not know herself whether her tireless efforts on his behalf made his ideal image clearer every day, or whether her belief in his perfection impelled her to those efforts. The realities of daily existence had been lost for Valentine forever; she did not know whether it was raining or whether the sun was shining; she ate and drank without noticing what was put before her. She concerned herself less and less with her children: the Dame de Maucouvent, grey-haired and rheumatic but more dedicated than ever, cared for Jean and little Marguerite; Philippe and Dunois were looked after by their tutor. Fervently, Valentine wanted Charles and Isabelle to identify with her struggle. Only similar emotions could constitute any kind of bond; nothing else existed any longer for the Duchess.
For some time she had been hearing a whisding sound in the inner court—the recoil of a bowstring. She looked out the window and saw Dunois in the shooting range. Archambault de Villars was no longer there; a page and a couple of stableboys stood at a distance, watching Dunois as, lips pressed grimly together, he tried to bend the heavy bow, to aim the arrows correctly. Although he was not yet eight years old, he did not seem too young to hit the inside circle of the target if he was not too far from it. The further away he stood the more difficult it was for him, because he did not yet have the strength to draw the bow back far enough. His small, broad face was red with exertion, his short sandy hair tangled and damp with perspiration, but he did not give up. Again and again he picked up the fallen arrows, again and again he marked the holes in the target with chalk. Then he returned to a certain spot and drew the bow once more.
Valentine looked down at him; a strange smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. This boy who was not her son had, since his infancy, shown a strong will, unlike her own children. She saw in him the tenacity of purpose, the blind drive which she now thought indispensable to the present circumstances. Charles did what he was told to do; he performed his exercises for the required time and not a moment longer. Dunois possessed the sacred fire, the inborn passion for weapons and their secrets—and he refused to allow himself to be driven from the field by either fatigue or a feeling of inadequacy.
When, some time later, Valentine looked out the window again, he was still there. Apparently he had hit the target, for he now stood a pace farther away from it. The Duchess of Orléans nodded as though in reply to her own silent question.
Around the vesper hour on the twenty-eighth of August, Valentine rode out of the Hotel de Behaigne in Paris; although she had sold the house to the Dauphin, it still remained for a time at her disposal. As before, she had arrived with black carriages, black horses, and a great following clad in mourning; this time too she was attended by Isabelle. As soon as she could, she set out for the royal palace. The King, who had not been in his right mind since the spring, could not receive her; she was admitted into the hall where the Council was gathered, presided over by Isabeau. In the presence of the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry, Bourbon and Brittany, the Chancellor de Corbie, the Constable d’Albret, bishops and archbishops, nobles and prominent citizens, Valentine for the second time presented her petition for justice. With no retinue, accompanied only by her daughter-in-law, she entered the hall; she did not wait for the punctilious ceremonial marks of honor that were her due; like any suppliant she fell immediately upon her knees and from that position delivered her complaint. Isabeau could not understand suc
h indifference to one’s rank, such extreme humility; from her raised seat she looked down on her sister-in-law with a disapproving frown.
“Madame,” she said, when at last the Duchess of Orléans was silent, “we welcome you to Paris. We assure you that we shall give your petition our most profound consideration and that we will do our utmost to grant it.”
Valentine raised her dead eyes to the woman who, all her life long, had been her bitterest enemy. That she herself had once condemned Isabeau for her cruelty, filled her now with a vague feeling of surprise. What did the discord between two women matter in comparison to the catastrophe which had engulfed her since then? She saw on the throne a fat woman dressed in gold brocade, who sat with difficulty on her hard chair. Her obesity aroused aversion and pity rather than hatred; to be sure, Isabeau’s eyes were, if possible, brighter and harder than before, but they no longer frightened Valentine.
The Queen, eager to exchange a few words with her daughter, invited both Duchesses of Orléans to accompany her to her apartments at the conclusion of the session. In the room with the golden doves of peace—how well Isabelle remembered greeting the English delegation here—Isabeau received them. She ran her eye swiftly over her daughter’s thin figure, her colorless face; she asked a few questions: how was Monseigneur d’Orléans? How old was he now? How did Isabelle like life in Blois—did it suit her? The girl answered politely, but coldly. Isabeau shrugged impatiently. Presently, she turned to her sister-in-law.
“Well, my fair sister,” she said, “it’s been a long time since we have been together. Much has happened.”
“Yes, Madame,” replied Valentine without looking up. Isabeau yawned and sat down.
“I ask myself whether you believe you have much to forgive me for,” she remarked after a while, glancing aside at Valentine. Isabelle frowned and flushed with annoyance, but the Duchess of Orléans said, in a calm, toneless voice, “Who am I to decide what I must forgive you for, Madame? We are all sinners. In my situation I no longer worry about these things. My father is dead; Monseigneur my husband is dead. There is no need for enmity between you and me, Madame, if my interests are also yours. For the sake of the goal which I have set myself, I am prepared for any humiliation.”
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