In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “Sire!” Charles leapt up, astonished to the bottom of his heart. “I don’t know what I can say…”

  He detected for the first time a semblance of a smile in the King’s sad pale blue eyes, and something else which he could not explain. Struck by a sensation of unpleasantness, he lowered his eyes and sat down again.

  “Say nothing, cousin,” the King said softly and calmly, “but do me a favor and return to your estates. You are settled in Blois, aren’t you? A beautiful region. I can think of no place preferable to the banks of the Loire. I envy you.” He sighed; his eye slid to the curtain which had been stirring when Charles entered. “It’s a great pleasure to linger amidst fields and forests in the company of…of one who is dear to us. Thank God, cousin, that you have been vouchsafed this pleasure. It will, I hope, cost you little trouble to sever the bonds which hold you to certain lords? You acted only as a mediator. Besides, the congress is ended. I have been busy answering each petition separately, a long and boring occupation, I can tell you that. As for the Duke of Burgundy, what prevents him from reciting his grievances to me personally? Does he need a group of men who have no connection with the treaty of Arras to promote his interests? I’m ready to receive Burgundy or his spokesmen. Perhaps you can arrange this in due time, cousin.”

  The King stood up and walked slowly, somewhat stiffly, to the wide open window, past which pigeons, flapping their wings, flew continually back and forth, as though they were being fed at a neighboring window. The King, still smiling, stared outside, lost in thought. But suddenly his attention appeared to be caught by the noise of returning hunters in the inner court. He leaned forward and frowned; a line of pain ran around his large coarse mouth. Charles, who had followed him to the window recess, looked in his turn at the bustle below, at the nobles who stood talking together loudly in the center of the paved court, while servants and grooms led the horses away and collected the still-excited dogs. In this group a young man stood out because of his odd demeanor and slovenly dress. He had a sallow, sharp-featured face, lanky drooping hair and large hands. He stood with his shoulders slightly bent, his riding whip curved between his hands like a bow and glanced sardonically from one speaker to the other. Finally he said something in a low voice; the knights around him burst into loud, forced laughter which rang in Charles’ ears.

  “My son Louis,” said the King, not without bitterness. “The thorn in my flesh, as they say. Your future King, cousin. Those who now turn against me and choose him as the pivot for these rebellions do not realize what they are doing. They think to use him, but believe me, he uses them all. The spider sucks his prey and leaves the shrivelled creature hanging in his web—one may take warning from that image.”

  The King sighed again and stepped back from the window. He glanced at Charles’ surprised face and went on.

  “The machinations of Monseigneur my son are not unknown to me, cousin. I know that he has corresponded secretly with Burgundy, that he repeatedly talks with feudal lords. I know that he encourages their oppositon to me. He does this only to upset me, although God knows that he hates no one in the world as much as he hates me. He has his own plans, he pursues his own path. Believe me, this treason within my own camp would be difficult to bear if trusted friends did not stand beside me. It is extremely important for me, cousin, to have good friends. It is worthwhile to be faithful to me.”

  Charles bowed again. In the quiet, dim reception room, face to face with the King, whose tremulous smile sorted oddly with his calm self-assurance, he was overcome by a feeling of oppressive uneasiness. The King’s face seemed more enigmatic than ever. Charles did not know whether he should feel pity or aversion, suspicion or respect.

  This man with his penetrating but timid sidelong glance had once been a sickly, nervous youth who bit his nails at receptions and chose to hide from all eyes; a weakling ruled by ambitious adventurers. Charles was conscious of a strong curiosity about the people who now stood behind the King. Unquestionably, the secret of his composure, his self-confidence, must lie in the nature of his support. Charles knew all too well that clever councillors and able magistrates could, by inducing a king to sign decrees and resolutions, give the impression that he was an authoritative and independent administrator. But which of these men behind the throne could point the way to self-discipline and self-control, the development of his own gifts, to an ailing, fearful prince? Jacques Coeur, perhaps, the banker, the King’s councillor and moneylender, a well-travelled man, nearly as rich and powerful as a prince himself? De Brezé, Dammartin, Bureau? All these patricians whom he had heard mentioned—until now—only in disparagement? But he doubted that they could succeed where even Dunois and Richmont had once failed. There were many who believed that the King’s mother-in-law, the skillful Yolande d’Anjou, had succeeded in bringing about the gradual transformation.

  While Charles stared pensively at the figures on the tapestries before him, he thought he heard once more light rustling on the other side of the curtain. He recognized the sound: women now wore long trailing sleeves which rustled at every step and each movement. Between the folds of the curtain appeared the hesitant fingertips of a small hand. The King, who saw it at the same time, said quickly, “Worthy cousin, I regret to learn that you can be my guest for a short while only.”

  The fingers slid back behind the curtain. Charles knew that, deceived by the silence in the room, whoever stood there had assumed the King was once more alone. He smiled and looked away.

  Later at dinner he looked attentively at the ladies of the court; wives of lords from the retinues of the King and the Dauphin. The Queen, with whom the King, it was well-known, rarely remained under one roof, was elsewhere. The ladies who sat quietly with downcast eyes amid even less cheerful courtiers—the taste in the King’s court was for dull sobriety—seemed to Charles to possess about as much spirit as beautiful dressed-up dolls. It was not until the last day of his visit to Limoges that he found the answer to the question which preoccupied him. He was strolling, accompanied by a few lords from the royal retinue, in the gardens. The Dauphin Louis, who seemed to have gone out of his way to avoid him over the last few days, joined him now and lingered at his side between the hedgerows, the beds of clipped grass and flowering shrubs. He said little, but Charles felt his sharp, somewhat mocking gaze fixed constantly upon him. The King’s words flashed through his mind: a spider indeed, who while apparently busy spinning his web, does not take his eyes from his prey.

  “Greet your son-in-law Monseigneur d’Alençon on my behalf, if you should see him soon,” said the Prince at last. “Tell him, if you will, that I look forward impatiently to news from him.”

  Charles looked into his dark, sparkling eyes.

  “I was not aware that you knew my son-in-law so well, Monseigneur.”

  “We are actually very good friends.” The Dauphin laughed shortly. “We can hardly do without each other.”

  A disagreeable sensation crept over Charles. Were they trying to lure him again into the dangerous world of intrigue? Was he supposed to recognize some sort of signal in the Dauphin’s words? Was he perhaps being put to a test? He was seized by annoyance and distrust of Alençon: a man ambitious and even unprincipled enough to become involved, if necessary, in the most repulsive conspiracies. Charles was at the point of making his distance apparent to the Dauphin when the latter clutched him rudely by the sleeve with curved fingers. Charles looked up, surprised and displeased; with a nod of his head the Prince indicated a side path. Under the linden boughs some women approached, carrying armfuls of roses. She who walked ahead was dressed like a queen; a veil, delicate as a cobweb, covered only a part of the luster of headdress and necklace. When she saw Charles and the Dauphin, she stopped and curtsied deeply; then she walked slowly past with lowered eyes. She had a young round white face and a very small mouth. Charles glanced at her hands. He knew for a certainty that this was the woman who had waited behind the curtain.

  “Don’t you know her?” Louis the Dauph
in whispered in his ear. “Her name is Agnes, Agnes Sorel, my royal father’s mistress, and not only mistress but council and parlement as well. There goes the real ruler of France, Monseigneur; don’t forget it.”

  Charles complies with the King’s wishes. He returns to Blois for a longer stay than he has yet enjoyed. Now for the first time he has the opportunity to choose his apartments and make them really comfortable. He selects a series of chambers in the west wing of the main building with a view of the river. There his many books are arranged in specially constructed cases; there is the large table at which he likes to sit reading or writing; there the curtained chair can be pushed near the hearthfire or one of the windows, as Monseigneur wishes.

  From the city of Orléans come new tapestries depicting the course of the Loire from its source to the point near Saint-Nazaire where it plunges into the sea. So within his own walls Charles can follow the beloved river, past castles and cities, between sandbanks and rows of poplars, between hills or high mountains, between vineyards and broad plains. And when these images seem somewhat lifeless to him, he has only to ascend two steps to one of the window niches. At the foot of the precipice on which Blois stands, he sees the water sparkling, he sees the leaves of the poplar trees gleam alternately bright green and silver grey in the sunlight, he sees the windmills turning on the bridge, ships gliding over the waterway.

  Also in the multitude which surrounds him, individuals begin to appear. He appoints officials and functionaries, sets their salaries, assigns them duties. Many of them are Burgundians and Picards who joined him when he left Burgundy’s court for Paris, but from day to day the number of servants who hail from Orléans and Blois increases. The Governor of the domain of Orléans is Messire Jean des Saveuses who succeeded the faithful, vigilant Pierre de Mornay; while Charles was a prisoner des Saveuses repeatedly crossed the Straits of Calais to deliver money to the banker Vittori. In return for these services Charles has heaped favors upon him. Des Saveuses is his right hand and his friend.

  Then there are the court chamberlains, the gentlemen from Charles’ Audit Chamber who enter income and expenditures on the books, and the tax collectors, the almoner, the clerks, the priests, the choirboys, the chamberservants with their staffs of tailors, cobblers, and furriers, the librarian, the armorer, the draper, the bookbinder, the goldsmith, the kitchen chefs and wine stewards, the cooks and scullery lads, the table servants and cup bearers, the gardeners, the stablemaster and his men, the horsemen and squires, the pages, the musicians, jesters, mountebanks and, finally, the man who enjoys the boundless confidence of the Duke and his household—Jean Cailleau, the court physician.

  The Duchess has her own retinue, with maids and pages, harpists and fools, tailors and chamberwomen.

  Living in the castle of Blois is like living in a small city; all day the stairs, corridors and galleries between the adjacent buildings teem with busy people who do their more or less important work with good cheer. All of them are partial to the Duke, who behaves like a lenient father, with a good word, a friendly greeting, a small gift at the proper time for everyone. He knows the names of all the children who play in the square and the inner court; he is always up to date on baptism and wedding celebrations, of those matters which bring sorrow and happiness into everyone’s life. When anyone is sick he comes to see him; he sends Messire Cailleau with medicines and salves; he gives money so that necessities can be taken care of.

  In his books and trifling occupations, in his interest in the people around him, Charles finds the diversion which he needs. In Blois, that hive of diligent bees, he forgets his worries, his bad luck. His brief political activity has left a bitter aftertaste, a feeling of disappointment, of failure, of futile effort. He has told Burgundy in careful phrases that he wishes to abstain from further participation in the assemblies of the princes; however he is always ready to ask the King to grant an audience to Burgundy or any of the lords who should eventually wish to speak personally with the monarch.

  At the same time he makes it clear that he will always be an advocate of peace with England, and that he will take advantage of any opportunity to work toward that end. He writes in this spirit, too, to the Earl of Suffolk, who belongs to the English peace party. But when will the long-awaited opportunity arise? When will the King find the auspicious moment to put forward proposals, when will the war party in England come to its senses? Thinking about his brother of Angoulême, Charles is filled by despondency bordering on despair. How much longer now?

  But there is more. Charles is worried about his son-in-law Alençon, of whom it is said that he is ready to serve anyone who will provide him with money for gambling and debauchery. He is considered to be a drunkard and a rake, untrustworthy and dishonorable. It is whispered that he has already, in exchange for money and favors, bartered away into English hands a series of forts in Normandy and Brittany. Again and again Charles attempts to approach his son-in-law through letters and messages, to tempt him to visit Blois. Charles would like to break the alliance, but he is held back by the thought of his grandchildren. He must now seriously entertain the possibility that his daughter’s children may be his only heirs. The chance to have his own offspring seems dead; Marie, Duchess of Orléans, has a weak constitution; she has already been ill many times since her arrival in Blois.

  In a confidential discussion, the physician Cailleau, shaking his head, has informed Charles of his conclusions: Madame is as fragile as glass: she is moreover anemic and suffers attacks of vague melancholy and listlessness.

  The young ladies could tell him something about it: for days on end the Duchess stays in bed, weeping continually and refusing all food; then suddenly she wishes to bedeck herself as though for a fete. She orders her horse saddled or her boat prepared. Despite the admonitions and pleas of those concerned for her welfare, she goes out, in rain or sunshine. She laughs incessantly, appears untiring, gallops her horse through the meadows or stays all day on the water. She is as unpredictable as the weather in March; but her constitution suffers from this waywardness.

  Charles nods and sighs, but does not reply. He knows that Cailleau, his old friend, is as aware of the source of Marie’s moods as he is. He remembers Isabelle’s tears, her fits of convulsive laughter; he had been too young then to be a good husband and now he feels he is too old to please his wife. He is well-disposed toward Marie; in his eyes she is a child with little in her head except concern for clothes, jewels, pleasure trips and similar things; she has birds and dogs, fools and musicians in abundance, a good horse and a whole retinue of young people around her. For his part, she may amuse herself to her heart’s content; what could she want with the company of a man whose years of worry and affliction have lasted longer than her life? He doesn’t want to trouble her; what would be the point? He is courteous and friendly to her and does his best to fulfil her wishes, but no one could expect him to behave like an ardent youth when he is one no longer. Never is it brought home to him more clearly how sluggish, fat and unattractive he is than when he walks beside Marie at receptions or on the way to church—a rather stout, grey-haired man trudging wearily beside a slim young woman who is taller than he.

  When Cailleau thoughtfully suggests possible remedies, Charles shakes his head: pills and herbs cannot make Marie contented and happy. He watches her from a window above the inner court as she rides out among laughing, blushing maids, adroit young horsemen and frolicsome pages. Their clothing, in Charles’ eyes, is ridiculous: fierce colors, crenellated and scalloped sleeves, loops of small bells, shoes with long, turned-up toes that constantly threaten to trip them. But they are young: warm-blooded, seething with a lust for life. He is filled with deep pity for Marie: is she doomed to wither at his side?

  Sighing, he turns back to the book which lies open on the table. It is a day when Marie and her cortege have ridden out to celebrate May Day. They have planted a maypole in the flower-covered meadow outside Blois. He cannot distract himself with reading and study. For the first time in many
years, for the first time since he foreswore poetry after Bonne’s death, he picks up again the old copybook in which, during his captivity, he jotted down verse after verse. The bittersweet melancholy which he feels seems to him too narrow and transient for a ballad; he manages to capture it in a few rondelets. When the young people return laughing and singing from the meadow, carrying bouquets of flowers, Charles too has plucked his souvenir of the first day of May. Standing before the window he repeats under his breath the lines now written on the pages of his Thought Book:

  Les fourriers d’Eate sont venus

  pour appareillier son logis,

  et ant fait tendre ses tapis,

  de fleurs et verdure tissus,

  The servants of Summer have come

  to prepare his residence

  and have hung his tapestries

  woven from flowers and green leaves.

  En estendant tapis val us,

  de vart herbs par Ie pais,

  les fourriers d’Este sont venus.

  Spreading thick carpets

  of green grass over the land,

  The servants of Summer have come.

  Cueurs d’annuy pisca morfondus,

  Disu mercy, sont sains et jolis;

  Allez vous en, prenez pais,

  Hiver, vous ne demeurez plus;

  les fourriers d’Eate sont venus!

  Hearts long sunken in misery,

  Thank God, are now healed and gay.

  Go away, find another realm,

  Winter, you live here no longer,

  The servants of Summer have come!

  In the spring of the year 1444, Charles at last received the long-awaited summons from the King. The English armies of occupation, driven back everywhere to the coastline, were more than weary of the struggle. At long last the government in London appeared mellow and ready to renounce all its demands. Although the King of France continued to besiege the cities still held by the English, he announced that he would receive a delegation, for the preparation of which Charles d’Orléans would act as intermediary.