Charles’ thoughts too were incessantly with his small daughter, the more so since the King had let it be known in a manner which brooked no contradiction, that it was his intention to request the hand of Mademoiselle d’Orléans for his younger brother. Charles understood all too well where this must lead: if the King had made up his mind, Orléans would fall under his control once again.
In the spring Charles and his wife reached Blois, where they were overjoyed to find everyone well and everything in good condition. A few days after their return Marie, smiling, approached her husband who was standing in the library looking at a new manuscript.
“What is it, ma mie?” Charles asked absently; he did not look up from the richly illustrated page.
“Monseigneur,” said Cailleau, carefully straightening the sleeves of his robe, which he had pushed up above his elbow. “Monseigneur, do you recall that we once—ten, twelve years ago—made a wager?”
Charles and the physician stood in one of the anterooms to Marie’s bedchamber. Charles had announced that he would wait there while his wife was in labor. From time to time Cailleau came to tell him how the labor was going; there was, he repeated emphatically time and again, no reason at all for alarm.
“Wager?” Charles, who was constantly straining to catch sounds from the closed lying-in room—was it really going well with Marie?—could remember nothing about it. Cailleau kept his head bowed low while he fastened the laces of his sleeves.
“Yes indeed, Monseigneur. When I once told you that you could still have an heir, you wagered five hundred livres that that would never happen. My lord,” he looked up, no longer able to suppress his delight, “my lord, I cannot tell you how pleased and thankful I am to be able to come now and tell you that you have lost your wager. Your wife has just given birth to a son.”
The church bells pealed in Blois, Beaugency and Orléans, in all the cities and villages along the Loire. Flags and banners fluttered blue and gold against the summer sky, heralds traveled everywhere across the land to proclaim to the sound of clarions what the people along the roads already knew: that in the castle of Blois a son, an heir, had been born to Orléans. Those who visited Blois in those days saw that Monseigneur behaved as though he were rejuvenated; he still did not know how to express his delight. He distributed rich presents to everyone who came to congratulate him and entreated each one to pray for the child’s well-being; he considered the birth of his son to be a miracle. While the bells of the district rang out, the infant was rocked to sleep to the tune of an old nursery rhyme—just as Charles himself had once been rocked:
Orléans, Beaugency,
Notre Dame de Cléry,
Vendôme, Vendôme!
Hark, we peal—what sorrow—
All day, all night—willing or not,
All hours, all hours!
Charles ordered everything to be made ready for the christening ceremony. The boy would be called Louis after his grandfather; his godfather must be his nearest blood relation—in this case, to Charles’ annoyance, it was the King.
He hoped and expected that the King would refuse the invitation, but now it appeared that he had misunderstood his sovereign’s character. Louis XI came, although in a far from benevolent mood. He, who as Dauphin had made use of the services of the discontented vassal princes and the ambitious nobility, had, after his accession to the throne, acted against this group more mercilessly than his father had ever done. Ignoring their objections and complaints, he had curtailed their privileges and restricted their independent control of their own territories. During the time when he was still feigning friendship for the great lords, he had learned many things which now proved very useful to him.
He had them in his power, he found their rage and disappointment amusing, but he remained on his guard. He knew quite well that they were conspiring against him; his excellent network of spies had given him all the names and facts which he needed. He bided his time, paying no attention to the hatred of the feudal princes. He had never heard the name of Orléans connected with talk of conspiracies; he suspected, however, that Charles would reveal signs of ambition now that he had a son.
On the way to Blois, the King had summoned one of his trusted retainers and asked him acidly, “How much truth is there in the little tale which I hear is spreading in Orléans and Touraine? Did Orléans predict that his son would wear the crown of France?”
The man could report only that an old woman had indeed said something like that to the Duke of Orléans.
“Hm,” said the King curtly. “My worthy uncle of Orléans may be a dull old fellow, but apparently he has not been too dull and too old to make his wife pregnant. Keep an eye on him, the grey …” The King swallowed the epithet and signalled his servant to withdraw.
On his arrival in Blois, the King did not want to waste his time on compliments and ceremony. The baptismal procession was formed at once in the courtyard near the donjon; from there the noble company, preceded by torchbearers, set out for the church of Saint-Sauveur in the great castle yard where the Archbishop of Chartres welcomed the royal company.
The King, his lips pursed in an expression of slight aversion, held the child over the baptismal font; the infant, alarmed by the touch of less than loving hands, did what would, under other circumstances, have caused no comment. The King quickly delivered the baptized baby to his nurse, wiped his sleeves and said with a sour laugh, “Look what this child—his only achievement is to come into the world—Look what he dares to do!”
Charles apologized hastily for his son, and suggested that they move to the lying-in chamber, where the Duchess awaited the guests. The King walked ahead with his somewhat shuffling gait; apparently he felt no compulsion to laugh or make friendly jokes. He greeted Marie curtly, complained to her about her son’s misbehavior and refused to remain in Blois for the christening feast. As he turned to quit the chamber, he stumbled over one of the tapestries which hung from the bed to the floor.
“This is the second time!” he said angrily; he jerked his mantle tightly around him and left the birth chamber without further ceremony.
Charles was soon to discover that King Louis was not a man who forgot quickly. The events in Blois seemed to have furnished the King with the pretence he had long sought to include Charles in the warnings and criticisms he directed to the feudal princes. He had been right in one respect: Charles had been stimulated by the birth of his son to renew his efforts to secure possession of Asti for his offspring. He applied with considerable reluctance to the King, who responded with obvious enjoyment that the thought of defending the interests of Orléans on the other side of the Alps was the farthest thing from his mind; he considered that he had the honor to be the friend of Sforza and not his enemy and he had no intention of fighting with him.
“Why not sell Asti to Sforza?” he asked at last, with raised brows. “You can always use the money, can’t you, worthy uncle?”
Charles declined this suggestion and left to return home. Not long afterward the King dictated a letter to Francesco Sforza in which he said, among other things: “The Duke of Orléans does not want to give up Asti. However, it seems to me that his health is failing. I am quite sure that Asti will be there for the taking as soon as he is dead—and then we will also own his son.”
Indeed, Charles was feeling far from well; for some time he had been suffering such violent attacks of gout that he could not walk without a cane. But it troubled him more that his right arm was stiff and painful: he found it impossible, after several fruitless attempts, to wield a pen. He was obliged to attach a seal to official documents to signal his approval, because he could no longer sign his name. From time to time his eyes refused to serve him; even with his strongest spectacles, bent forward over his book, he could make out nothing more than vague grey marks. He sought refuge with Marie, or in the nursery with his little daughter and his son—in that safe company he overcame his own fear of the blindness, the infirmity, which perhaps awaited him. As long as he w
as able, he wanted to act in his children’s interest; he reproached himself bitterly for having wasted so many years in pleasant tranquillity. For his son’s sake he had to enter into important relationships, to conclude alliances; to accomplish this he was prepared to go so far as to join the ranks of the rebel princes. He felt that he had no time to lose; death, or worse, the absolute helplessness of the living dead, could strike him suddenly and when he least expected it.
He sent messengers to Brittany; his nephew François Etampes had succeeded Richmont, who had died childless some years before. The young man promised his uncle to defend Asti by force of arms if necessary, to capture Milan and to stand by his young cousin of Orléans at all times. In addition, Charles ordered a marriage contract to be drawn up in great haste between his daughter Marie and his foster son Pierre, Bourbon’s youngest son. However, before he could make an equally satisfactory arrangement for his son and heir, envoys of the always well-informed King had arrived in Blois with a proposal that gave Charles a new headache: the King offered his daughter Jeanne as a bride for the heir of Orléans, in a manner which was more a command than a request. Charles, annoyed and upset, put off giving a definite answer from day to day in the hope that in the meantime the possibility of another arrangement would arise. And threats of serious disagreements between the King and the vassals of the Crown did in fact shove the matter of the marriage into the background for a while.
The princes, who had vainly attempted through petitions and personal visits, to effect the restoration of the honors which they believed were rightfully theirs, had finally realized what the King’s objectives were: he wanted their participation in the administration of the Kingdom to be reduced to a minimum; he did not want them at his court, nor did he want their advice in the Council—for that, he would choose his own people. The cities and territories which he had peremptorily confiscated from them upon his accession to the throne, would not be returned. He said repeatedly that he would not allow his regime to be poisoned by a group of men who were driven and impelled only by self-interest and ambition and who had always shown hostility to any confident, capable sovereign. Charles, through his negotiations for alliances with Bourbon and Brittany, was embroiled once more in the affairs of the feudal princes; he had to declare his solidarity with the struggle of that group in which, because of his birth and rank, he held so important a place.
He attended the protest meetings convened by Brittany; that Burgundy’s envoys appeared there at every turn did not please Charles. Their complaints and accusations far exceeded all the others in intensity: the King had occupied the cities along the Somme and, through men whom he had met in Flanders years ago, maintained relations with the rebellious commercial cities. Finally, the participants in the meetings decided to unite openly in a coalition “for the interests of the common welfare.” They would gather together to show that the King’s behavior was damaging to the landed interests and the honor of the Kingdom. But before they could proceed, the King summoned them—in a document which demonstrated how well-informed he was—to a meeting in Tours. The vassals of the Crown set out in a less than hopeful mood; they knew they could expect nothing good from a man who, for political reasons, had feigned friendship and familiarity with them for twenty years.
Charles came to Tours accompanied by Dunois; he was present at conferences presided over by the King himself. Coldly and sharply Louis put his case to them once more, arguing that the measures he had taken were necessary because of the confusion into which affairs of state had fallen during the last years of his father’s reign. In connection with the princes’ demands, he made a long speech full of generalities about obligations, about obedience and loyalty. Finally he said, looking at the rows of faces with a somewhat sour smile, that he would be sorry if the maintenance of his authority forced him to victimize anybody.
The lords heard these words in silence. They recognized his iron will and his implacable antipathy. They had no doubt that the sole purpose of this meeting was to impress upon them anew, before they pursued their reckless path, the threat of the King’s power. However, they remained resolute. Brittany, Bourbon, Anjou and, especially, Burgundy wanted nothing more than to take up arms openly against the man who had forthrighdy said that he intended once and for all to crush the political power of the nobility.
Charles d’Orléans sat huddled in his fur-lined mantle—these December days were bitter cold—among the peers of France. He felt extremely tired, and shivered now and then as though with fever. Cailleau had advised in the strongest terms against this journey to Tours; in such damp raw weather Monseigneur was usually half-crippled with gout. Moreover, his heart had been troubling him again for some time. But Charles refused to consider staying at home; he did not want to give the impression that he would shirk his obligations to his kinsmen and allies out of fear of the King.
In the meeting hall in Tours, he regretted his obstinacy; his heart throbbed so irregularly that he could scarcely breathe; his feet were ice cold; it cost him a great effort to sit upright and pay attention to the words of the speakers. Once he nearly dozed off; Dunois nudged him gently. He came to himself in time to hear the King express his lack of confidence in the good faith of François of Brittany who was on such a friendly footing with the envoys of England and Burgundy. Charles’ still-young nephew pressed his lips together in rage, but made no attempt to refute these accusations. When the meeting ended, he withdrew without saying a word. Charles, knowing that his sister’s son was deeply wounded, determined to see the King and attempt to cleanse his name of all suspicion. It was of great importance to Charles to bind the young man to him: Francis of Brittany could be a valuable friend for his son in the future. The King granted Charles a private audience.
When Charles was announced, a few gentlemen were just leaving the King’s apartments; to his deep amazement, Charles saw that one of them was Dammartin, who had been a trusted advisor of Charles VII.
“That surprises you, worthy uncle?” asked the King suddenly. He stood, Charles noticed, leaning his arms on the high back of a chair. “Go sit down—you look as though your legs will barely hold you. Great old age may be worthy of respect but its attendant symptoms are troublesome: tottery legs, trembling fingers, loss of hair and teeth—isn’t that right, uncle?”
Charles sat down, startled by these caustic, derisive words. Passion and pride stirred equally within him, but he controlled himself; for the sake of his son’s security he could afford to put up with a little abuse. “I remembered that Dammartin once aroused your boundless displeasure, Sire, because he served your father so faithfully,” he said calmly.
The King began to laugh softly; he rested his chin on his fists. His body remained invisible behind the chair. That moving head, with its black eyes gleaming with malice and contempt, made a grotesque, almost terrifying impression. “Dammartin is one of those men who always remains loyal to the king—whoever the king might be—the born devoted servant—a possession not to be squandered. What didn’t please me when I was Dauphin, I find excellent now that I am King, my worthy uncle.”
“Yes, I have noticed that, Sire,” replied Charles with a sigh. “Therefore I too have come to you to request your forebearance for my nephew, my Lord of Brittany.”
“Not necessary! Waste no words on that, my lord uncle of Orléans. Spare me your meddling and your pretty speeches. I am not pleasant and courtly enough to hear your platitudes to the end.”
Charles remained in his chair; he asked himself whether he had heard the King correctly. That Louis disliked him he knew very well, but surely his age and rank gave him the right to courteous treatment, at the least.
“You need not stare at me in such surprise,” the King went on, in a tone of cold amusement. “I will readily admit to you that I have always found you an extremely stupid old fellow. If you had only half the brains which you think you have, you would undoubtedly be the wisest man in France.”
“God knows that I have never held an exceptionally
high opinion of myself. I willingly admit that I am old and stupid—but I have enough sense to know that such words are not worthy of one who wears the crown of France. And I am your blood relative, Sire.”
The King sniggered again; he raised his hand and pointed a long, tapering finger at his guest. “You are my uncle, my father’s half-brother,” he said, visibly enjoying Charles’ incredulous consternation at hearing these words. “I at least have never doubted that Isabeau, that slut, spoke the truth when she called my father—may God rest his soul—Orléans’ bastard. Don’t think that it disturbs me. On the contrary, better this than to stem from a lunatic.”
Charles rose slowly. He had an answer on his lips. The King’s malicious, grimacing face, his forefinger raised in an almost grotesque gesture, roused irresistible memories of the man who had once been held captive like a wild beast—the man who had had to be hidden from the court and the people because of his bizarre grimaces.
“I do not wish to tire you any longer with my presence, Sire,” Charles said formally. For a moment the room sank into a grey mist; a strange buzzing filled his ears. I am ill, he thought, surprised, I must return to Blois. He heard his own voice as though it came from a distance; the words came slow, dull, with silence between them. “I deeply regret that you doubt the nature of my intentions—that you consider my actions to be meddlesome. All my life I have sincerely endeavored—sincerely endeavored—to serve my king—to fulfil my obligations to friends and kinsmen. I have—been—a—man—of peace …”
In a Dark Wood Wandering Page 70