“I believe,” he said, slowly and softly—Bourbon leaned forward with one hand cupped to his ear—”I believe that we must do neither one nor the other; I agree with Monseigneur de Berry that a petition will not help us. I have already had the opportunity of seeing how that works. On the other hand, I do not yet believe that this is the right moment to take up arms; I will not fight before I have made a final effort to persuade the King to administer justice. I propose that we advance upon Paris with our men, that we dispatch a manifesto to the government there, demanding that Burgundy be punished and exiled and offering the King our services, wherever and whenever he desires, to fight against Burgundy, if he should resist the King’s measures. We should come with our troops to show that we are able-bodied and prepared for anything. I am ready to hear what you think of this, my lords.”
A short silence followed these words. Armagnac screwed up his eyes and thoughtfully gnawed the handle of his whip. He tried to calculate what opportunities Charles’ suggestions offered to him. Finally he snorted, made an assenting gesture and threw his whip upon the table. Berry, who had been watching him closely, could not restrain a smile of satisfaction; he nodded slowly and approvingly. Bourbon whispered to his son—both of them, inclined as always to take the middle road, deemed it a most excellent proposal. Alençon was secretly relieved; like Charles, he felt that the Gascon’s behavior would make an unfavorable impression. The Constable d’Albret, who saw his hope of reaping military fame going up in smoke, was vexed, but he did not dare offer any objections now that he saw the attitude of the others. Brittany, with downcast eyes, toyed with the hilt of his dagger.
Charles was slightly stunned at the readiness of his allies to accept his proposal; he had not expected it. He tried to ascertain what motives were playing a role here; during the last months he had become mistrustful enough to attempt to find out what lay behind an all-too-willing agreement. However, he had no time for reflection. Berry had already risen from his seat and said that he and all the others were completely in accord with the solution which Monseigneur d’Orléans, like a second Solomon, had put forward. Armagnac laughed loudly and shouted Berry down.
“Worthy father-in-law, let me get a word in now. I am your man, Orléans, even though I venture to predict to you that it will turn into war sooner or later. Get to work on that manifesto—that is a task for the two bishops which Monseigneur de Berry has brought with him. And tell them at the same time to keep their pens and ink ready to draw up still another document. Look here, why don’t I speak frankly, we are all together now.”
Shifting his chair so that he faced Charles, he leaned his elbows on his spread knees and tapped the arm of Charles’ seat softly with the butt of his whip. “We have a saying in Armagnac: a really true agreement should be sealed with a wedding. Now I am one of those who hold that a bride or a bridegroom form a stronger link between two parties than a couple of signatures or a seal. You are a widower, Orléans, but surely it cannot be your intention to remain one permanently.”
Annoyed, Berry gave a warning cough. But the Gascon refused to be driven from the field.
“We can still talk in a business-like way about these things,” he continued. “We are among men. Look, Orléans, I have a daughter. I will give her to you with a handsome dowry besides. Monseigneur de Berry, her grandfather, will see to the dispensation. He has already promised me that. I don’t doubt that everything will turn out all right.”
Berry nearly choked from coughing; he held his sleeve before his mouth. He was crimson with rage and shame. Never had he seen so tactless a braggart as his son-in-law. No one would doubt that he had suggested the marriage proposal to Armagnac. Charles looked up; his eyes betrayed astonishment and antipathy. He was at the point of retorting that he had no intention of contracting a new marriage at this time, but Armagnac, who sensed young Orléans’ reaction, resumed hastily and still more loudly.
“My daughter Bonne is only eleven years old. You do not need to see her for the time being if you don’t wish it. They tell me that she’s a comely lass, healthy and cheerful. What more do you want? And I repeat: the dowry is royal with favorable terms—only a few instalments and a great sum all at once!”
“Forgive me, Monseigneur,” said Charles, arising. “I cannot go into your proposal now. I should like to adjourn the session for today, at any rate. With my chancellor and the bishops of Bourges and Nantes I shall draw up the text of the statement tomorrow and send it to the King with all our signatures.”
He bowed and left the chamber.
“You are an idiot,” said Berry in an undertone to Bernard d’Armagnac.
The Gascon grinned and stretched himself.
“I have caught him all right,” he remarked. “I won’t let go of him. Come, where is the dining hall now? Let’s go there, my lords.”
“I still do not see how you will set this matter right,” Berry muttered to his son-in-law. While he passed through the door he slipped his fur-lined hood over his head. The shutters behind the airholes were for the most part rotten and full of cracks; cold draughts of wind blew down the corridor. Armagnac, who walked ahead with great strides, looked over his shoulder at his father-in-law. In the light of the torches held by servants who had come running to light the gentlemen on their way to the dining hall, Berry looked like a malignant gnome; with his crooked fingers, sparkling with gems, he wrapped his mantle more closely about him; his eyes gleamed in the shadow of his hood.
“Orléans is as poor as a church mouse,” said Armagnac with an eloquent gesture. “That boy is so hard up for money that he cannot refuse my offer. Let him think about it for a moment: he will have to see that he can only gain by this. You said yourself that Orléans is as pliable as wax—if that’s so, we shall have no trouble shaping him as we wish, father-in-law.”
The meal was boisterous; since no women were present no one had to watch his words. Although tables had been pushed together, Charles’ stewards still found there was not enough room for all the members of the lords’ retinues. Men sat, or even stood, eating in the adjoining chambers and in the corridors. After the wine had been passed around a few times, no one bothered with table manners; Bernard d’Armagnac sat with one leg thrown over the arm of the bench and tossed bones to six or seven mastiffs who roamed through the hall. The Gascons and the Provencals set the tone: there was shouting and loud singing and knives were slammed against the table. Armagnac’s followers were accustomed to scantier fare in their poor fatherland than they were offered here. They did not let the opportunity escape to enjoy the good things of the earth.
Charles, who had never seen anything like it, made an effort to show no surprise or displeasure; he remembered how the soldiers in Blois, ruled by the captains with an iron hand under his mother’s watchful eye, had always conducted themselves in an orderly way, like monks. But this was what happened under the leadership of men who knew no life outside war and adventure, who greedily seized what the day brought, who were free of bonds and obligations. Their eyes and teeth shone; they dominated the tables, drowning out the men who had come with Bourbon, Berry, Alençon and Charles and who attempted to rise to the occasion.
For an instant, Charles felt an impulse to abandon all self-control; he wished he could for once be drunk, shout hoarsely, rest his leg on the table, forget that his name was Orléans, that he wore mourning and had to carry a heavy responsibility. He wanted to be exuberant and unabashed, to curse and mock in a drunken fit, to express his long pent-up bitterness, to give himself up to the wildest, most reckless diversions. The blood mounted to his head; he looked at the goblet which stood on the table before him.
But it flashed suddenly through his mind that he wanted to speak with his Chancellor, with both bishops and with the Sire de Mornay, the governor of Orléans, in his own apartments after the meal. He had already summoned them; it would surely be undignified to discuss, in a drunken condition, so important a subject as the manifesto to the King. He tried therefore to keep his dista
nce from what he saw happening around him. He leaned toward his great-uncle of Bourbon who sat, drowsy and sullen, munching a piece of pastry, and began a conversation with him. Bernard d’Armagnac still had a surprise up his sleeve. When at the conclusion of the meal, the customary dessert—spiced wine—was brought in, the Gascon bawled an order to the men standing by the door. Amid applause, two stableboys led a coal-black stallion into the hall, a vigorous, handsome beast.
“Orléans,” said Armagnac, rising, “will you be so good as to accept this horse from me—a warhorse, foaled in my own stables? Perhaps you will find it a more suitable gift to seal our alliance.”
Charles went up to the stallion and looked at him; he had not seen such a beautiful animal in a long time. The horse’s skin shone like silk, he stood free and erect on powerful muscular legs. The grooms had difficulty restraining him; he reared back wildly and kicked; the straw covering the floor of the hall flew in all directions. He shook his head, snorting, and clouds of vapor streamed from his nostrils. He opened his mouth wide, showing his sound teeth. Charles patted the stallion’s flanks and fed him sugar from his hand. He really wanted to own this horse, but he could not dismiss the thought that Armagnac was trying somehow to trick him.
He wished that he knew what lay concealed behind the fierce yellow-brown eyes, behind that boisterous façade, what thoughts were in that head. He thanked Armagnac for the gift; while the horse was being led away, the Gascon proposed a toast to Orléans’ health. In accordance with an old custom he flung the beaker over his shoulder against the wall and then strode to embrace Charles. The grooms had delivered the horse to the stableboys outside the door to the hall and now stood expectantly, staring at the royal table. Charles knew what they were waiting for; he had to reward them. It became quiet in the hall; everyone was looking at him. At his own table he saw expressions of indifference, amusement, impatience. A prince did not forget things like that; he had to know how to dispense money smoothly, but not too openhandedly or carelessly—if the knowledge was not innate, it had to be taught by careful education. One could tell a great deal about the character and savoir-faire of a man by the way in which he discharged this honorable duty.
Charles fumbled for the purse which hung from his belt, annoyed at his own negligence. As he loosened the cord, he calculated rapidly to himself. He knew that only some loose silver and a few valuable gold pieces remained in the purse. That was virtually all he possessed; he had been forced to sell books and tableware in order to pay the travel and entertainment expenses of his allies. He could not give the boys the silver coins—that was too little. And he could not give them one gold coin; custom demanded a gift for each of them. He had no choice. He took the two heavy gold coins from his purse and tossed them into the caps which the grooms hurriedly held out to him. This act was received with murmurs and shouts of approval. Armagnac’s followers were especially pleased; they saw in the royal gesture a conscious mark of homage to their master. The latter, however, laughed to himself; he suspected that the young Duke of Orléans had nearly ruined himself by his generosity to the grooms.
Charles sat alone in the tower chamber of Gien where he and his advisors had met almost daily for a week. Before him on the table lay the unrolled parchment of the manifesto addressed to the King, written in large, beautiful, even letters. Maitre Garbet had labored over it for two days; he was a skilled calligrapher. Charles nodded approvingly and bit his thumb while he pored over the lines. He read the end of the statement softly aloud: “And so we humbly beseech you, most powerful and sovereign Lord, to consider our petitions and take account of the goals for which we strive, to wit: the rightful restoration of Your Sovereign Majesty to the state of honor which is your due. And we beg you further to give us leave to fight in your name for the preservation of liberty and justice in your Kingdom, first for the greater glory of God, secondly for your honor and lastly for the well-being and welfare of your subjects. That this struggle may unite all your truly loyal and devoted subjects, all those genuinely friendly toward you, is the sincere wish of …” And here would be appended the signatures of Orléans, Berry, Bourbon, Clermont, Alençon and Brittany.
While Charles stood bending over the document, the leather curtain before the door parted behind him. Even without turning the young man knew who had entered: a musky smell met his nostrils; he heard the clank of mail and the tap of a riding whip against boots.
“Will you not sit down, Messeigneurs?” Charles shoved the parchment to one side. Berry and Armagnac greeted him and seated themselves on a bench under a green canopy. Armagnac had just come from the hunt; he had spent the day in the fields with a number of nobles, killing ducks and rabbits to chase away boredom.
“The document is ready, my lords,” said Charles with satisfaction; he found the manifesto nicely worded and beautifully executed. He was content with his work; not for nothing had he lain awake nights reflecting on the precise meaning of a word, choosing a specific turn of phrase. “I trust we can sign it tonight.”
“Nephew,” said Berry abruptly, “my son-in-law Armagnac and I consider it our duty to warn you. We have learned from a very reliable source that Monseigneur of Brittany will probably refuse to sign the manifesto.”
Charles had been walking to his chair; he stopped and stood near the window.
“Why not?” he asked, with quick suspicion. He looked at both faces in the shadow of the canopy. “What do you mean?”
Armagnac began to speak, but Berry swiftly cut him off.
“Burgundy has reportedly offered Monseigneur of Brittany 20,000 gold écus, supposedly at the King’s request, if he declared himself ready to go over with all his men to the enemy.”
Charles began to object passionately, but Berry raised both hands in a soothing gesture, and went on. “Listen to me—of course it’s always possible that he won’t sell himself for that amount. But Brittany has huge debts and his quarrel with his mother has not helped him any; he’ll get nothing from that quarter. He can’t pay his men their wages.”
“In short,” said Armagnac, “whoever can pay his debts and his soldiers will possess him.”
Berry gestured at him vehemently and turned back to Charles. “For two days Brittany has been negotiating with Burgundy’s messengers a few miles from Gien. I tell you this to help you: a similar offer in time on your part could prevent you from losing an important ally.”
Charles turned and gazed out the grey-green convex window panes. Through the turbid glass he saw vague spots like shapes seen under water. Now he knew the meaning of Brittany’s silences and evasive glances.
“I can offer him nothing,” he replied. “For I have nothing myself. I am probably poorer than Brittany.”
Bernard d’Armagnac rose and approached him slowly with bent head, but his gaze was searching and he smiled with satisfaction, like a patient angler who has finally hooked a fish. He came close to Charles. The warm vapor, d’Armagnac’s constant odor of stables, wine and sweat, Charles found suddenly revolting. He found Ar-magnac’s habit of intruding himself intolerable.
“Look here, Orléans,” said the Gascon; he attempted for the moment to subdue his raucous voice. “My offer comes to you just in time. If you take my daughter Bonne to wife, you will receive 100,000 gold francs from me—30,000 on the marriage day and the rest in annual payments of 10,000 francs. I shall feed her and clothe her until she is old enough to live with you. Come now, you can’t call that a bad offer. Believe me, you can’t do anything without money. Your pockets are empty, Orléans—how can you accomplish what you set out to do?”
“We respect your grief, nephew,” whispered Berry, who stood now on the other side of Charles, “but think, we princes seldom enjoy the privilege of long mourning. We have other obligations. It seems to me that you ought to accept Armagnac’s proposal. The bride is still only a child. And you are over the worst of your sorrow, nephew.”
With a heavy heart Charles thought of his empty purse, of the far from encouraging conver
sation which he had had a few days earlier with his treasurer and the captains of his troops. A feeling of disgust and boundless weariness crept over him. Must he then always allow himself to be ruled by others, was it his fate to be goaded along just those paths which he did not want to take? They were right—without money there were no allies; without allies, no power; without power, no justice; without justice—for him at any rate—no honor, and what man can live without honor? With downcast eyes he pressed the hand which Armagnac held out to him.
All summer long Charles continued to recruit and arm the soldiers; he ordered his castles and the city of Orléans to be fortified. A proclamation was issued in the King’s name, banning the taking of service under the Duke of Orléans or his allies; despite this, at least 11,000 men were encamped around Chartres in the autumn. It seemed obvious that Burgundy had suggested this proclamation to the Council since he had raised a large army himself; these Bra-banters, Flemings, Bavarians and Burgundians were thrown, for food and shelter, upon the populations of the Ile de France and the countryside north of Paris. Burgundy saw the moment approaching for which he had waited so long: to be in a position to chop up his enemies to his heart’s content. He hoped and believed that it would be a massacre without equal, although there were moments when he had doubts: Orléans’ inexperienced milksops had sought advice and assistance at the right time. Brittany had not accepted the bribe, which seemed to be proof that Orléans’ party—despite all appearances to the contrary—could still come up with funds. All the more reason, thought Burgundy, to nip the growing danger in the bud quickly and for good.
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