In a Dark Wood Wandering (87 page)

The day of the great tournament approached; expectations in Châlons rose even higher when it was announced that the King intended to take part in the tourney.

By chance Charles witnessed an encounter between his wife and Jacques de Lalaing that increased his worry and uneasiness. A beautiful house in the city of Châlons had been put at the disposal of the ducal couple; the members of their retinue were housed there too. Usually Charles returned late in the evening with his cortege; Marie not infrequently arrived from the castle after him. On the eve of the tournament the Duchess and her retinue had halted before the gate while Charles, attended only by a page, had just entered the obscurity of the arched doorway. Servants had dashed out holding aloft torches; by this light Charles saw his wife dismount, assisted by de Lalaing, who had accompanied her. Marie did not release the young man's hand.

“Jacques, dear friend,” she said in a tone which Charles had never heard her use before, “when I was a child I saw you with my brothers. I have known you for so long that I believe I am not making an illegal request if I ask you to wear my colors in the tournament.”

De Lalaing looked at her, smiling. “Madame, he who cares with all his heart for the brothers must also serve the sister.”

“Jacques, you've been so busy the last few days preparing for the tournament that we've seen each other only to say goodbye in the evenings.”

“Better late than never, Madame,” de Lalaing replied in a subdued voice while he stepped back bowing. Marie's women had also dismounted and now approached to lead the Duchess into the house. Marie was visibly disappointed and uncertain; she seemed to be torn for a moment by an inner conflict. Finally she drew a ring from her finger and thrust it toward de Lalaing with a brusque, almost desperate gesture that brooked no refusal. Without waiting for a response she dashed through the arched doorway, brushing past Charles who had withdrawn into the shadows. She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she did not see him.

Stands had been set up around the arena and hung with banners and tapestries; since Charles was condemned to spend the greater part of the following day there, he had ample opportunity to observe from close by that Marie was scarcely able to control herself. She showed no interest in the opening skirmishes between knights on foot in heavy armor. But her listlessness vanished when de Lalaing
rode into the arena on a charger hung with gold and silver decorations. Charles saw that many eyes were fixed upon her; but his annoyance changed to pity when he became aware of the cause of her confusion.

On his helmet and his arm de Lalaing wore not only Marie's colors, but also those of the Duchess of Calabria, King René's daughter-in-law; he had taken care to protect himself from suspicion with a prudence that Charles found less than commendable. For both women the only recourse was to treat the affair as a joke. Madame de Calabria laughed and applauded in apparent unconcern, but Marie d'Orléans sat pale and motionless beside her husband behind the railing hung with tapestries, and did not speak a word. Charles, who was afraid that she was going to burst into tears, took her hand and pressed it hard. She gave him a terrified look, but took the hint to heart.

The next day when Charles returned from the solemn church service which marked the closing of the tournament, the King's heralds came to inform him that Jean d'Angoulême was expected to arrive in Châlons toward evening. Charles spent the succeeding hours in mounting restlessness; the meeting with his brother signified for him not only the fulfillment of a long-cherished wish, but also the end of all his political and diplomatic worries.

He was now fifty years old; his physical stamina, never put to the test during his years of captivity, was obviously not equal to a life of travel, often under difficult circumstances. He tired easily; dizzy spells and a pain near his heart dictated a quiet life. Besides, his eyesight was not good; he had already had a half-dozen pairs of spectacles made with succeedingly stronger lenses and he had a recurring fear that his eyes might fail him when he had most need of them. He wanted to go back to Blois, to spend a few quiet years on the banks of that sparkling river, at long last to fill his days with thoughts and occupations that were not vain or fleeting. Looking back on his life, he could find only a haphazard tangled cocoon of deeds and thoughts of which, after all, nothing remained except torn webs like those which hang in the hedges after an autumnal evening shower. He was sometimes troubled by the fear that when his time came, he would leave this life dissatisfied, embittered, disappointed, believing that he had missed every opportunity to gain peace of mind and real happiness.

Jean d'Angoulême arrived at the castle before the evening meal.
Charles was in the King's retinue; pale and upset, he looked on as his brother was led into the hall. He scarcely recognized the man who approached, bowing and paying his respects. An ample robe of state hung in loose folds around his thin body; he was somewhat stoop-shouldered and coughed from time to time. He had a large head, a lined, wrinkled face and mournful dark brown eyes. His hand, which he raised when the King greeted him, was so thin that the knuckles protruded. He spoke formally to the King in a soft, toneless voice, but his eyes were seeking Charles'. When at last the brothers embraced, they were overcome by bitterness rather than joy. Silently, each put his arm about the other's shoulders; each ran his eyes sadly over the face of the other.

My God, what ugly old fellows we have become, thought Charles. What a life we have led, he and I, since we embraced at Blois, so filled with noble, heroic sentiments, when he offered himself as a hostage. He must often have bitterly regretted his willingness to do that.

But in the days following the meeting, Charles had ample opportunity to perceive that in his brother's heart there were no feelings of regret or reproach. During his captivity, Jean d'Angoulême had become a pious, gentle, philosophic man; he had meditated a great deal, studied a great deal and read extensively. The world and all its turbulence seemed strange to him. He looked on at court life with somewhat childish wonder; to Charles' surprise he announced that he would like to take part in one of the round dances which were held after the evening meal. “I have never danced,” he said apologetically. “I should like to try it once.”

With a grave expression on his face, he performed the steps he was shown. But he did not let himself be lured into a second attempt. From that time on he was satisfied to remain an onlooker at the amusements of the young people.

At court the carefree stimulation of spring weather brought new excitement and new discontent. Everything seemed as dashing and festive as before, but under the surface streams and counter-streams were beginning to flow. The King had not let the pleasant summer, the period of peace and happiness after so many reverses, go idly by. While his guests amused themselves he, accompanied by Agnes Sorel, had attended the meetings of his Council; the new decrees, so long in preparation, were adopted, the plan for reforming and improving the army had now taken definite shape.

Charles prepared to set forth; his reasons for travel were not the same as those of his equals in rank. He was heartily sick of his stay at court. And more important than that, he thought he had better take Marie away before she inflicted damage on herself and her good name. Marie protested against leaving with tears and entreaties, but Charles remained adamant. They would go to Paris, accompanied by Jean d'Angoulême, to have a full discussion of the affairs of Orléans and the paternal inheritance with Charles' sister. The prospect of the journey and the stay in Paris could not rouse Marie from her state of dejection. She sat silently beside her husband in the coach, staring listlessly at the landscape bathed in summer sunshine. Charles would have liked to have been able to console her; he tried incessantly to think of ways to express his sympathy for her unhappiness, but he could not find the propitious moment for so intimate a conversation. He was afraid that any attempt on his part would only cause further estrangement between him and his young wife.

In Paris they took up residence in the somewhat dilapidated Hôtel des Tournelles, but they spent most of their time with Charles' sister Marguerite, Countess d'Etampes, who received them hospitably and with great joy. The problems of the inheritance and administration of the domain were settled amicably. Angoulême wanted to stay in Paris for a while, but Charles, grateful that his labors had ended, decided to leave at once for Blois. However, before he left Paris he wanted to visit the chapel of Orléans in the Celestine monastery; he had never been there before. For a long time he knelt in prayer at the gloomy stone slab beneath which rested his father's body and his mother's heart. A few steps away he saw the tiles with the family coat of arms set above the graves of his three brothers, whom he had never known.

He knelt unmoving, lost in thought. Perfect silence reigned in the chapel; a singular odor of incense and faded flowers hung in the air; sparkling motes of dust swirled in the rays of light which entered through the stained glass windows. At last he rose, sighing with the effort. In his prayers he had received no answer to the question which troubled him: whether those who slept here had found peace, whether they knew tranquillity, whether at long last their desires were stilled.

Charles joined his retinue where they waited outside the choir gates, in the church. Accompanied by des Saveuses and Cailleau, his court physician, he walked slowly past the altars and tombs on his
way out. At this hour of the day the church was deserted; only one woman knelt praying before the image of the Mother of God, her face concealed by the folds of her headdress. While Charles lingered in the vestibule of the church near the statues of his grandparents—Charles the Wise holding a building on his open palm, Queen Jeanne with her tapering fingers folded in prayer—there was a loud commotion outside the church where the grooms were waiting with the horses.

Charles followed the gentlemen of his retinue who had rushed out together. A youth had tried to cut the purse of one of the squires; he had been caught immediately. Charles looked at the boy who was being held firmly between a pair of soldiers; a thin lad with a dark face and hostile eyes. He was nearly suspended between the two men; his sinewy bare feet were tensed, his eyes roamed uneasily. It was clear that he was looking for the first opportunity to escape. Charles, who knew what fate awaited a thief who was caught in the act, shook his head in annoyance—he did not know how to proceed with this boy. He had no desire to deliver the apprentice cutpurse over to the Provost.

“This means branding,” he said curtly. “At least if it is the first time you have tried to steal.”

“Anyway it is the first time I was caught,” the boy said in the rough, bold tone of one who had grown up in the streets.

Charles stared at him, not without surprise. “If that is proven, then you go to the gallows. Do you know that?”

A spark of mockery glimmered in the youth's dark eyes. “What do you think? We live on the road to Montfaucon!”

“At any rate, you have a ready tongue,” Charles said drily. “What is your name?”

The thin dark face tightened. “François,” he muttered in a surly voice.

“What are you doing here near the Celestines? I should think you and your companions would be wise to stay in the Halles quarter or on the other side of the Seine.”

François stared sullenly at the ground. But when des Saveuses remarked with irritation that Monseigneur surely did not need to give this boor the chance to defend himself, the youth said quickly, “I am waiting for my mother; she is in the church.”

Charles asked one of the pages to fetch the woman whom he had seen in the church.

“If it turns out that you are lying, I will hand you over myself,” he said sternly, while he drew on his gloves. The youth smirked, but he abandoned his fierce watchfulness; his body relaxed. When the woman was brought before Charles, she burst into tears.

Yes, that was her son, the nail in her coffin, the thorn in her flesh, she acknowledged, weeping, a youth like a devil, whom she could not keep at home, a youth full of tricks and caprices, as slippery as an eel and as cunning as a fox.

Charles gave the woman some money and then turned to François who had listened to his mother's words with downcast eyes but with his mouth twisted into an expression of contempt. “Do you know who I am?” Charles asked. The youth shrugged indifferently while he cast a quick glance at the banner held by the riders, and the trappings on Charles' horse.

“The King's family,” he said gruffly. He looked again and added somewhat hesitantly, despite his show of insolence, “Orléans, I think.”

Charles beckoned to the gentlemen of his retinue and prepared to mount. As he was about to set his foot in the stirrup he said, with a glance over his shoulder, “Let him go.”

The men who held the youth released him reluctantly, but François did not hesitate for a second. Even before Charles was seated in the saddle, the young thief had vanished like lightning among the houses opposite the church.

In the hottest days of August the Duke and Duchess of Orléans arrived in Blois. Marie retired immediately to her apartments, suffering from a fresh attack of melancholy. Charles was worried; he could do nothing but walk back and forth absorbed in thought in his study, or sit in the coolness of a window recess, gazing pensively outside. One evening after supper he broke his routine and went to the series of apartments which Marie occupied, and had himself announced to his wife. Marie lay in bed, but she was not yet asleep. The chamber was full of young ladies busy putting clothing away in chests, carrying jugs and basins, preparing a night drink. Two small dogs ran under everyone's feet, nipping and yapping angrily at the chambermaid who was pulling the bedcurtains closed. Belon, Marie's dwarf, sat sadly in a corner, eating figs.