Unobserved, Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe also rode into the city; both wore deep mourning. They were attended by only a small retinue, not more than fifty horsemen; so it was stipulated in the decree which summoned the Duke of Orléans to the meeting in Chartres.
The young man sat straight and silent in the saddle; he dreaded this meeting with Burgundy. He felt guilty because he had yielded to the pressure brought to bear on him by the Council and his own royal kinsmen. Since the death of his mother, they had sent him messengers and mediators without interruption; they knew only too well that it would be easier to make demands upon an inexperienced young man than upon Burgundy. The Duke of Berry had visited his nephew and spoken to him sympathetically, as a man of the world: what was the sense, he asked, in clinging obstinately to desires for vengeance and satisfaction? Why should feelings of enmity exist between the young man and his blood relative? There was certainly no question that reconciliation with Louis had been impossible, that Valentine had been filled with hatred—”but come, Monseigneur; you are too intelligent, too courteous, too pious, when all is said and done, to go on with a feud that can’t bring you anything but trouble.” With his sharp nose, Berry had sniffed out the arguments which would sway Charles: with broad strokes he painted the suffering and unrest in the country, the terror and aversion people felt for the armies because the soldiers depended upon the farmers and citizens for food and lodging; he did not neglect to point out that the threat of war interfered with the functioning of the government so that important affairs would be neglected or even ignored.
Despite his counsellors’ advice that he should not cooperate, Charles did not dare to refuse. He felt swamped by the overwhelming numbers of nearly insoluble problems; he could not choose a position or stand up for a point of view. There were many domains to administer, money matters to arrange, household affairs to manage and guidance to be given to officials—he had to keep an eye on a number of things the existence of which he did not even suspect. He was a husband as well as a brother and guardian, the head of a feudal House of one of France’s four most powerful vassal states. He did not know each separate task, but his awareness of the expectations that he would take full control of all these functions together made him extremely receptive to the pressure which was exerted upon him.
Now he had agreed to hear Burgundy’s apologies and be satisfied by them. He must play his role, even though he was beginning to question the wisdom of the course; even though he was plagued by feelings of guilt and regret. With thoughts like these he entered the cathedral of Chartres, followed by Philippe.
The light of hundreds of candles could not expel the dusk which hung under the old vaulted roof; the windows glowed dully: smouldering red, autumnal yellow, somber blue. The altar laden with gold, the royal cortege around the throne, the prelates in their ceremonial robes gleamed like treasure which lay sunken at the bottom of a deep shaft. A cold draught swept over the tombstones and made Charles shiver; he felt both insignificant and unimportant in this place. He was ashamed that the House of Orléans was represented so shabbily in the persons of two youths. He sought refuge, as always when he was insecure, in silence and reticence. Precisely because of this, although he was unaware of it, he gave an impression of dignity, of being equal to the situation. In the midst of so much pomp and ceremony, the rather thin figure of the youth, his stiff bearing and quiet face, could not help but arouse sympathy. Thus by his restrained entrance he gained considerably more favor than Burgundy, who came into the cathedral a short time later, attended by twice the number of men which had been stipulated. Jean was accompanied by his advocate, the Sire de Lohaing; they did not waste time upon compliments and ceremonial greetings, but proceeded directly to the purpose for which they had come.
Burgundy, attired in deep blood red, knelt before the King; the advocate followed suit, but remained at some distance behind his lord.
Jean coldly and insolendy inspected the royal group and especially the King who looked vacantly before him, and the two sons of Orléans—de Lohaing spoke in a voice which reverberated in the farthest corners of the cathedral.
“Sire, here is Monseigneur, the Duke of Burgundy, your true and humble servant, your nephew of royal blood, who applies to you in connection with the outrage committed by him upon the person of Monseigneur of Orléans, your brother. Monseigneur of Burgundy acknowledges that this outrage was perpetrated with his knowledge and on his authority for your welfare and the welfare of your Kingdom; he stands ready to acknowledge that here again, if Your Majesty wishes. He has heard that his deed has aroused your displeasure, and that causes him great suffering. Therefore, Sire, he beseeches you humbly to receive him once more in your grace and friendship.”
De Lohaing stopped, but the rising sound of the last syllables he uttered resounded in the silence; even before the echo died away, Burgundy completed the supplication: “That is my veritable wish, Sire; give ear to it.”
The King, who did not understand anything that had been said, remained sitting motionless; his long hair hung over his face, he seemed half asleep. Berry and Bourbon approached and spoke to him in a whisper; the King grumbled a little, but finally cried loudly, “Yes.” With this proof of royal favor, Burgundy had to be content. He turned now with a smile to Charles d’Orléans and his brother, Philippe. The advocate inquired, in the same tones he had employed toward the King on Burgundy’s behalf, whether the sons of Monseigneur d’Orléans were ready to renounce all thoughts of vengeance. Philippe could not restrain his tears, but Charles listened apparently unmoved; neither by look nor by gesture did he betray what it cost him to hear this purely formal expression of humility; to look into the face of his father’s enemy. He felt like shouting loudly that he refused to accept these apologies because he could not believe in their sincerity; that he rejected reconciliation with the murderer, that he would rather choose to continue the feud with fire and sword, even though he himself were to be ruined.
The blood mounted to his head, he took a step forward; but now he saw nearby, on the throne, the sick man’s grey face, which looked as though it were covered with cobwebs, and his trembling hands; he was overcome suddenly by a new strong desire: to help this poor madman to wear the crown and carry the sceptre. Was that not also what his father had striven for; could he himself wish for a nobler task? He readied himself to give the cheerful answer which was expected of him; the advocate de Lohaing had just concluded his speech, and Burgundy said, half under his breath, with a look of secret derision, “That I beg of you in sincere friendship, Messeigneurs d’Orléans.”
At that moment Charles became acutely aware that the entire reconciliation was essentially a senseless, ridiculous spectacle, undertaken to throw sand in the eyes of the simpletons—among whom, no doubt, they counted him as well. The King knew nothing, the Queen and the Dukes allowed themselves, like weathervanes, to take direction from the strongest wind. Burgundy wanted to be that wind. He expects us to fly away before him like withered leaves, thought Charles, with a new-found grimness. In later years he was to remember this moment in the sparkling twilight of the cathedral as decisive. He understood that in the eyes of many he was the personification of justice which had been trampled underfoot by a merciless ambition. So it went in the world always; the strong prevailed: those who allowed themselves to be oppressed deserved only contempt or pity. Shall it then always be so? thought the youth, embittered and rebellious. Must I bow before Burgundy; my steward before me; one of my farmers before him; a serf before the farmer, and can the serf finally kick his dog if he wants to? Must a man suffer injustice because he is weak—isn’t there any defense? I must oppose him, he said to himself, I must move against Burgundy, not from hatred, not from self-interest, but for the sake of a higher justice. How can we live peacefully when the arbitrary acts of a man with a hard fist and an insolent mouth set the law for us? I shall not be weaker than Burgundy—one must assert oneself when injustice seems invincible.
“Yes,
Monseigneur,” he said aloud, in response to Burgundy’s direct question. “I bear no malice against you, and I am ready to make peace with you.”
He smiled and looked straight at Jean of Burgundy. It cost him no effort to utter meaningless and nonsensical phrases. Lie for lie, trick for trick, thought Charles, that is the purpose of this whole charade which will be forgotten in a few weeks.
At a nod from the Duke of Berry, he descended from the dais and approached Burgundy to exchange the kiss of peace with him. This symbolic act took place in a deathly silence. Jean of Burgundy watched the young man’s tense face draw near; in his eyes he thought he saw something which made him doubt that Charles was indeed so guileless as he had been painted.
At the conclusion of the ceremonies the royal kinsmen and their courtiers assembled in a building opposite the cathedral, where a banquet was to be held. Burgundy and Orléans were to sit on either side of Isabeau. His new insights had brought about a remarkable transformation in Charles: he felt reckless, even elated, able for the first time in his life to exchange jests with his grown-up neighbors at table. Isabeau looked at him, startled and at the same time amused—would her son-in-law now turn out to be a worthy son of his famous, quick-witted father? Burgundy, on the other hand, was not amused by the youth’s lively and often trenchant observations. From time to time he thought he saw sitting beside the Queen the cousin whom he had hated more than anything else in the world. The years seemed to slip away; he seemed to find himself again in the festive halls of Saint-Denis, filled with rage and jealousy, watching his wife Marguerite’s animated dinner partner.
“Why do you not eat, my lord?” asked Isabeau. “Do you find the wine so bad that you will not touch the goblet?”
Abruptly Burgundy stood up; he could bear it no longer. Assassination, war, intrigue, deception—for these he possessed sufficient patience and self-control; but the gradually dawning realization that he had slain his detested adversary only in appearance—that this man and his power had entered his life afresh in the shape of a youth with the same smile, the same quivering of the nostrils—that realization made him almost choke with rage. He quit the banquet hall as though in flight, under the amazed and displeased eyes of those assembled there. His departure was, understandably, considered to be a bad omen.
Charles felt as though he stood beside a table watching a stranger with an odd resemblance to himself sit eating and drinking; he had never suspected the existence in himself of this outspoken, easy-mannered youth. He heard his own voice raised in jests and laughter, in courteously constructed sentences which held an undertone of ridicule and irony perceptible only to himself. But what were they, those who had gathered here, but a pack of hypocrites? He saw with deep shame Philippe’s surprised and indignant glances; it was scarcely three months since they had buried their mother and already Charles behaved as though he had never in his life known a moment of grief.
“I am pleased that my daughter has such a cheerful husband,” said Isabeau with a searching sideways glance. “I have often thought that she must surely pine away from boredom there in Blois.”
The Queen’s remark seemed to drain away Charles’ self-assurance as though by magic. He flushed and stared at his plate, crumbling a piece of bread between his fingers.
“We have yet to hear news of our daughter,” said the Queen more coldly. “We had expected to see her here today, Monseigneur.”
“Madame Isabelle is not feeling well,” said Charles, with a quick look at Philippe.
“Is she ill?” asked the Queen sharply and loudly; many of the guests broke off their conversations and turned their heads toward the corner where the royals sat.
“Nay,” replied Charles; he felt his ears burning with embarrassment. But he had to speak; the Queen was eyeing him with suspicion. He said as quickly and softly as he could, “She is not ill. That is to say … she is … she thinks that in September she … Her doctor says …”
Isabeau threw her head back and burst into loud laughter, which drew more attention than anything which had gone before.
“Surely that is a most unusual way to announce the arrival of an heir, my lord.” Isabeau could not restrain herself. Usually prospective fathers were proud at the mere mention of such a thing. Charles gazed straight before him, annoyed and embarrassed. He saw the news traveling from mouth to mouth, beakers being raised toward him, some people laughing secretly—everyone knew that he was not yet fifteen years old.
To Charles’ inexpressible relief something happened then which directed attention away from him and his news; the gentlemen of Burgundys retinue rose in great haste at the lower end of the table. The Duke had sent a messenger to the hall to summon all those in his entourage. The impropriety of this behavior provoked great indignation.
“Does Burgundy forget again that he made peace only an hour ago?” the Chancellor de Corbie asked furiously. “What sort of crazy behavior is this?”
“I shall tell you, Messire!” A small, hunchbacked man in the checkered livery of a jester leapt onto the seat beside the Chancellor; laughing shrilly, he fingered an object which he wore around his neck: a small, flat disc such as priests wore when they received the kiss of peace from the faithful. The object was called a pax. “What do you see here on my breast, Messire?” called the fool; he was part of Burgundy’s retinue, where his malicious tongue was much admired. “What do you see here? A pax. You will say, ‘Ah, Messire, do you think I will run to close up shop for a pax such as any priest can wear?’ But look, look—I turn it round—it is a lined peace, as you can see—a so-called peace with a double bottom—do you understand, Messire?” The fool’s strident laugh drowned out every other sound; he leaped up from the chair and ran hobbling slightly after the gentlemen of Burgundy’s entourage who were moving in groups toward the door. “A lined peace—a peace with a double bottom!” he repeated, jingling his bells.
The guests did not dare to laugh, although the fool had said only what nearly everyone there already thought. None of the secular and spiritual dignitaries who sat at the festive board and drank a toast to the great reconciliation believed in the permanence of the pact. Moreover, the fact that Burgundy had quitted the table without eating or drinking spoke for itself. Curious, sympathetic glances were cast respectfully at young Orléans at the head of the table. It did not augur well for the young man; how could he save himself? Most of them believed that Burgundy would easily make himself master of the barony of Coucy and the duchy of Luxembourg, that he would fleece Orléans when and how he pleased—that would be child’s play. Burgundy did not intend to be merciful, nor was there any reason why he should be; the royal kinsmen would let him go his way unquestioned. Why should anyone interfere now that peace between them had been openly announced?
Charles knew this all too well; the assurance with which, in the cathedral, he had resolved to pay Burgundy back in his own coin had vanished. How would he manage? Who would advise or support him? When he finally rose from the table he was tired and filled with somber misgivings. Now in well-chosen words he must take leave of his kinsmen and all the highly-placed, influential persons whom he had met that day. A civil word, a courteous salutation, might win him future friends—he remembered that Valentine had told him that. He rebuked his younger brother who stood yawning, pale with lack of sleep; he would have liked nothing better than to follow Philippe’s example: he could scarcely keep his own eyes open.
In the great hall confusion reigned, as it usually did after a feast: spilled food and trampled decorations were strewn over the floor. Pages stood near the partially-cleared tables, waiting to see whether more food or wine would be required. But none of the guests thought of eating any more. Now that the royal family and its entourage had left the hall, no one needed to behave with restraint. Many people strolled about and an equal number had made themselves comfortable and fallen asleep.
At one of the tables a group of older men sat talking. In an undertone they discussed the inauspicious omens and ate nu
ts which one of them kept cracking almost mechanically. Among this company, which was still reasonably sober, was Nicolas de Baye, clerk of Parlement; he sat listening with his head resting on his left hand. He made a hill of nutshells and then began thoughtfully to draw figures and letters with a sharp piece of shell on the tablecloth. While his friends and colleagues tried to guess at Burgundy’s plans and once more reviewed Orléans’ poor chances, Nicolas de Baye scratched the oudine of a lily into the linen between the wine stains and the crumbs and under it the words, “Paw, pax inquit propheta, et non est pax—peace, peace says the prophet and there is no peace.” He decided to use this phrase in his account of the ceremonies at Chartres which he would have to prepare in the next few days.
It was April; the skylarks soared once more into the clear sky; the trees wore light-green leaves, daisies were scattered like stars across the grass. The fresh wind, the incandescent clouds, the sparkle of the sun on the stream—who could see all this without feeling a deep desire to melt into the bright beauty of the landscape? Madame Isabelle had become restless within the dense walls of Blois; she wished to escape the castle’s chill and shadows. Charles, no less tempted by the hazy golden glow which seemed to hang above the land on the horizon, suggested to his wife that they take a journey; this would be, he thought, a good time to pay a visit to Isabeau and the King who were spending the spring in the castle of Melun.
In a Dark Wood Wandering Page 30