In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  When Waterton comes at last to tell him that the Constable d’Armagnac had been seized and killed, and that his naked corpse had been exposed for three whole days (in order to ensure that he would be recognized, he had been adorned with the insignia of his own party: white bands, which in this case had been sliced from his own skin), when Waterton tells him this, the prisoner betrays neither amazement nor horror. He can believe it.

  Now that his father-in-law is dead and the power of the Armagnacs appears to be on the wane, the prisoner has only his followers and kinsmen to turn to. He writes urgently, in detail, to Bonne, to Philippe, to Cousinot, to his brother of Angoulême, whose ransom still does not seem to have been collected. It is not long before he receives an answer. It comes in the person of the devoted Chancellor who must once more undertake the journey by sea and land to bring his master news and a bag of gold. A small amount of gold—the collections have been scant, there is nothing left to be sold; it has cost a great deal of money to fortify the castles of Orléans!—has already been delivered to Giovanni Vittori in London.

  Cousinot sits facing the prisoner at the table; Waterton, who insists on being present at the meeting, stands at the window; he listens attentively to every word of the conversation. Before being admitted to his master’s presence, Cousinot has been searched for weapons and secret documents, but nothing incriminating has been found. The Chancellor is noticeably more subdued and somber than in the past. The thin hair at his temples is now completely grey; his cheeks are hollow. He slumps wearily in his chair.

  The journey to Pontefract has been long and tiring and since his last meeting with his lord, Cousinot has led a life of privation in the impoverished cities of Orléans, in the barren castle of Blois. He finds the prisoner greatly altered—not so much outwardly as in his bearing and attitude. The young man appears to be indifferent, distracted; he seems to be only partially present, although he asks and answers questions in his usual courteous, tranquil manner. He listens impassively to the news: the partisans of Orléans and Armagnac have now entrenched themselves in the provinces and in the hastily fortified castles in the heart of the Kingdom.

  Messeigneurs de Vertus and Dunois are incessantly recruiting troops again, preparing fortresses for attack. Cousinot gives a long list of those who have been appointed captains and heads of garrisons. Waterton coughs and comes to the table; he does not consider this information essential.

  “Any news of my wife?” asks the prisoner; for the first time Cousinot sees a gleam in the rather dull, dark brown eyes. The advocate has consciously avoided this subject until now. He fears that Monseigneur will not find the news to his liking.

  “Madame d’Orléans no longer lives in Blois,” he responds quickly, without looking at the young man. “It was considered advisable for many reasons that she should return to her mother. There are a number of former allies who are willing to come back to our party now that Monseigneur d’Armagnac is dead … but they wish to be certain that we do not fall under the influence of Armagnac’s nearest kinsmen.”

  A blow on the table by a clenched fist silences him. Waterton, back at the window again, turns hastily around, but the prisoner has already regained his composure. He swallows the words which rise to his lips.

  He asks only, “Where is my wife now?”

  “Madame d’Orléans is with her mother in the Cordelier convent in Rodez,” says Cousinot, with bowed head. “Monseigneur Jean d’Armagnac, her brother, has declared himself ready to pay her a yearly stipend so that she can at least provide for her own needs in a suitable manner. Your daughter and your sister, my lord, remain at Blois. We could defray the costs for only two servant girls for Mesdemoiselles.”

  “That’s all right, Cousinot.” The prisoner waves his hand. There is silence for an instant in the gloomy tower chamber. Sir Robert Waterton grows impatient.

  “May I implore Your Grace to proceed with the interview? The King has permitted you this visitor so that you can arrange your affairs.”

  Again sums are discussed. Cousinot takes out sheets of accounts, statements of receipts and expenditures. The young man reads in silence; finally he signs the necessary papers.

  “I see that we still owe my lord of Clarence 75,000 ecus,” he remarks with a sad, somewhat mocking smile, as he returns the documents one by one to Cousinot. “I fear my brother of Angoulême and I will have to find the Philosophers’ Stone, if we do not wish to remain under lock and key for the rest of our lives. In God’s name, Cousinot, see first to my brother’s ransom. I have promised him that.”

  Sir Robert Waterton interrupts the conversation once more.

  “Perhaps Messire Cousinot would do better to inform you, my lord, that your party’s position is almost hopeless. Now that the Queen of France and the Duke of Burgundy occupy Paris once more, and have taken the King under their protection, it does not look as though your allies can go on resisting—despite the fact that the Dauphin might be on their side—which I, for that matter, strongly doubt. I believe rather that your Armagnacs force the prince to choose their side. Messire Cousinot should make the state of affairs emphatically clear to you: the government of France is inclined to accept King Henry’s proposals; the Dukes of Bourbon and Brittany too, have, as you know, come to their senses. It seems to me, Monseigneur, that it is high time that you also should be convinced that your resistance is foolish. Perhaps you will give your Chancellor letters to take with him, in which you instruct your kinsmen and partisans to join with the government in granting King Henry’s rightful demands. I want once more, my lord, to call to your attention the fact that any other course can have only catastrophic consequences. Your party and the Dauphin’s have supporters only in the central provinces and in the far south. The rest of France is in the hands of the Duke of Burgundy and our own troops. It will undoubtedly interest you to know that King Henry’s forces have by now taken the city of Rouen.”

  The young man, who has sat listening with averted face, leans suddenly toward his Chancellor and asks incredulously, “Can you really say without stretching the truth, Cousinot, that Monseigneur of Burgundy and the Queen view these English conquests with equanimity—that they are doing nothing at all to protect the country and the throne?”

  The Chancellor looks at Robert Waterton for a moment.

  “Yes,” he replies, “God knows I can, Monseigneur. I am deeply grieved that I must answer thus. But as matters stand in the Kingdom now, she who wears the crown and her mightiest vassal find it more advantageous to surrender the land to the enemy than to defend it. In the Council they are preparing to negotiate with King Henry. Forgive me, Monseigneur, but that is the truth.”

  “You hear that?” Robert Waterton has been charged by a high authority to exert pressure on the Duke of Orléans—not physical pressure, of course, that is unnecessary; there are many methods available to the man who is practiced in such matters. Solitary confinement creates an uncertain state of mind; and in addition it rouses an almost desperate craving for freedom at any price. A piece of discouraging news, the vacillation of his advisors—these can be the decisive thrust. Waterton thinks that the prisoner is ripe for persuasion; he is already trying to decide how he will presently inform King Henry that Orléans has acknowledged England’s sovereignty, that the King for his part need no longer be concerned about any organized resistance in France. The knight looks expectantly at the young man, who continues to sit motionless. Cousinot is torn by an inward conflict: although he hopes his lord will soon be free, he cannot refrain from making a comment, perhaps out of pride.

  “Monseigneur,” he says, clearly and calmly, “there is some comfort in all this misery. I know—I receive proof of it every day—I know that the people of France and the greater number of our knights will not suffer themselves to be tempted to betray King and Kingdom as quickly and easily as Burgundy has done. God knows there has been enough wrangling and discord among our people, but with my own eyes I have seen bitter enemies unite in anger over what is now happ
ening in France. The government abandoned the besieged city of Rouen to its fate; I cannot tell you what the populace must have gone through before they surrendered. Even many Burgundian sympathizers are coming to their senses; they are learning from experience that their leader is not acting in the interests of the French people. Believe me, Monseigneur, the Duke of Burgundy has at the moment only the appearance of power. The people are clamoring for action against the English invaders; they demand that the Kingdom be defended. They already distrust Burgundy more than you can imagine. If I wanted to give you a truthful answer, I will have to say this—the situation over there is miserable. King Henry is gaining ground daily and it looks as though his demands will shortly be flatly accepted by Burgundy and the Queen—God only knows on what terms. But all France will know, Monseigneur, that those who want to fight to keep the lawful government can find a place under the banner of Orléans. And apropos of this, I find it most auspicious that Monseigneur the Dauphin is in our ranks—”

  “That is enough. Messire!” Waterton cries angrily. He walks over and opens the door. “The interview is over. I doubt greatly that you will have the opportunity to speak with Monseigneur again. You do him more harm than good by behaving in this way. It’s not my fault if you did not come prepared to settle your business affairs.”

  The prisoner has risen too. He holds his hand out for the Chancellor’s farewell.

  “Cousinot,” he says, looking his visitor calmly in the eye, “here are my orders for my brothers of Vertus and Dunois, for my captains and officers and all my allies, vassals and partisans: I wish them to place themselves completely under the authority of Monseigneur the Dauphin and his council. If I understand you correctly, Cousinot, our party has become the party of the Dauphin and of France. I can do little but pray God to help Monseigneur de Viennois and ourselves to uphold the honor of the Kingdom and to show them the road which leads out of the wilderness. Urge my brothers to place the interests of the Dauphin above all else. If this should mean a delay in my deliverance, so be it, in God’s name. Send this to my wife, if the occasion arises.”

  Waterton takes the stiff rolled parchment from the prisoner and unrolls it. When he sees it is only verses, he rolls it up again and hands it to Cousinot with a shrug.

  “Tell her that I am well,” the young man goes on. “Other than that, I have nothing more to say. God be with you, Cousinot. I am exceedingly grateful to you for your loyalty and your service. Perhaps we shall meet again—perhaps not.”

  The Chancellor kneels before his lord and salutes him with great courtly deference. Suddenly he knows with certainty that he will never see the Duke again. He would like to say something, to express somehow the affection for the young man which he has felt from the days when he served the Lady of Orléans and her son for the first time. At this moment he recalls vividly the assembly in Paris at which the Abbé de Sérizy had delivered his impassioned defense of the Duke of Orléans; it is as though he sees Valentine sitting once more among the hostile courtiers with her son at her right hand. Again through Cousinot’s head flash the words he murmured when he first saw the somber lad in mourning: “These are exceptionally young shoulders to bear the weight of such an inheritance; I fear that Monseigneur will sink beneath it.” He cannot hide from himself the fact that his lord has staggered under the burden; he searches for words to express his devotion in spite of everything to the young man who has demonstrated at the least a great dignity, uncommon in one of his age.

  “Monseigneur, forgive me if I have ever doubted the wisdom of your views, of your actions. I have often argued against your proposals.”

  Waterton, who is standing by the door, snaps his fingers. The prisoner helps his visitor rise and leads him himself a few steps to the entrance.

  “I am well aware of what you want to say, Cousinot,” he says; his nostrils quiver in his light, somewhat bitter, laughter. “You need not apologize. We live in stormy times which demand great men, capable leaders. It is my misfortune that I am neither a great man nor an able leader, Cousinot: I am only a man of good will, but the political game is beyond my comprehension. I don’t have the ability to turn cards to my advantage. Go now, my dearest friend, God be with you and with France … Remember my brother of Angoulême,” he calls out before the heavy door slams shut behind Waterton and Cousinot. In the gloom of the hallway he sees the face of the departing Chancellor for the last time. He raises his hand in salute. Then he is alone again.

  Je fu en fleur ou temps passe d’enfance,

  Et puis après devins fruit en jeunesse;

  Lors m’abaty de l’arbre de Plaisance,

  Vert et non meur, Folie, ma maistresse.

  Et pour cela, Raison qui tout redresse

  A son plasir, sans tort ou mesprison,

  M’a a bon droit, par sa tresgrant sagesse,

  Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

  I was in blossom in my childhood,

  But before I could come to fruition

  I was knocked, green and unripe from the tree

  Of Plaisance by my mistress Folly;

  Therefore Reason who redresses everything

  At her pleasure, without wrong or misprision,

  Rightly in her very great wisdom

  Set me to ripen in the straw of prison.

  En ce j’ay fait longue Continuance,

  Sans estre mis a l’essor de Largesse;

  J’en suy contant et tiens que, sans doubtance,

  C’est pour le mieulx, combien que par peresse

  Deviens fletry et tire vers vieillesse.

  Assez estaint est en moy le tison

  De sot désir, puis qu’ay esté en presse

  Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

  Here I have stayed since that time,

  Not allowed to soar into Freedom;

  I am content and think without doubt

  That it is for the best, although disuse

  Has caused me to become wrinkled with age.

  The torch of foolish desire has almost

  Burned out in me since I have been stored away,

  Set to ripen in the straw of prison.

  Dieu nous doint paix, car c’est ma desirance!

  Adonc seray en l’eaue de Liesse

  Tost refreschi, et au souleil de France

  Bien nettié du moisy de Tristesse;

  God give us peace, for that is my desire!

  Then the waters of Delight will soon

  Refresh me and the sunlight of France

  Clean the mould of Sadness from me;

  J’attens Bon Temps, endurant en humblesse.

  Car j’ay espoir que Dieu ma guerison

  Ordonnera; pour ce, m’a sa haultesse

  Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

  Humbly, I endure to await the Good Days,

  For I hope that God will cure me;

  He must have intended this when He

  Set me to ripen in the straw of prison.

  Fruit suis d’yver qui a meins de tendresse

  Que fruit d’esté; si suis en garnison,

  Pour amolir ma trop verde duresse,

  Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

  I am a winter fruit, less tender

  Than summer fruit, so I am kept in store

  To soften, to become less green and hard,

  Set to ripen in the straw of prison.

  Silence reigns in the tower chamber of Pontefract. Never has it been so difficult to endure as in the days following Cousinot’s visit. Once again the lonely tenant is restless: books cannot distract him, he cannot forget himself in the polishing of verses, he tries without success, by thinking and writing about Bonne, to regain the near contentment he felt before the Chancellor’s arrival. His desires were the desires of love; his sorrow mostly regret for the happiness which had so quickly fled, and dread that he would experience this happiness no more. But despite the bittersweet memories, despite melancholy and fits of violent despair, life had never seemed to him to be intol
erable. He had spent his days in stagnation; only effortless song moved him—and yet in spite of all this he had had a vague feeling of satisfaction. But now he cannot recover that blessed calm, that indifference to the world and its turbulence. He is forced to think constantly of what Cousinot had said. He is tormented by concern: anxiety for Bonne and the fate which has befallen her—the fate of an impoverished woman who must seek shelter in a convent; anxiety for Philippe and Dunois who have inherited the heavy threefold task of guarding the dukedom, collecting ransom, fulfilling feudal obligations; anxiety for the defenceless little girls in Blois, anxiety for the outraged and violated Kingdom of France. Since his earliest childhood, he had always punctiliously performed his religious devotions without, however, becoming emotionally involved in the significance of prayer and ritual. Year in, year out, filled with reverence, he had attended the ceremonies, public and private, which play so great a part in the life of a Duke of Orléans: the flicker of candles, the smell of incense, the singing of the mass and the glow of gold and rich colors were somewhat intoxicating to a mind so amenable to beauty as his. He knows well the concentration of prayer, the emotion caused by the words of Our Lord—but it is only now in this period of his imprisonment that he becomes fully conscious of the suffering of Christ—he can experience now what was formerly only a vague notion.

  Here in this chamber of Pontefract he offers prayers, morning, noon and evening, to the image of the crucified Christ which stands on a table before an open triptych of painted wood. For the first time he understands, in the deepest recesses of his heart, the meaning of the figure nailed to the Cross—the wounded, emaciated limbs, carved faithfully from ivory, contorted on the Cross in more than physical pain. The prisoner raises his eyes to the image and sees on the crucifix the dead of the battlefields, the tortured inhabitants of Soissons, Saint-Denis and all the other cities occupied and ravaged by soldiers; he sees the stiffening corpses of victims of cruel warfare—the dead children, the ravished women; he sees finally the image of the horrors he knows only from hearsay: the dry moats outside besieged Rouen where women, children and old people huddled together for days, half-naked under the open sky, driven out of the city gates by the starving garrison, hurled back by the besiegers, condemned to rot like garbage.