In a Dark Wood Wandering

I. LOUIS D’ORLÉANS, THE FATHER

n a July day in the year 1395, the King sat in the open veranda which bordered his rooms on the garden side of Saint-Pol. A green canopy had been set up over him to protect him from the blazing sun; on both sides of it tapestries hung down to the floor. Inside this tent, the King had been playing for a considerable time with oversized, gaily colored cards; he arranged them on the table before him, built tottering towers, and now and then swept them all together with trembling fingers. The court physician, Renaud Freron, personally appointed by Isabeau after de Harselly’s dismissal, walked back and forth over the red and white tiles of the gallery, his hands behind his back. A few courtiers stood, bored and weary, in the shade under the archways.

The aviaries had been brought outside to amuse the King; birds of all sizes and colors hopped twittering about the gilded cage. The hot white light quivered above the slate roofs of the palace; for more than a week the sun had shone from a cloudless sky — the heat grew from day to day, scorching grass and shrubs. The streets of Paris lay deserted as though the city had been struck by plague: the stench of garbage hung over the squares and along the banks of the Seine. Under the bridges the river water flowed sluggishly, turbid, full of silt and filthy. Only in the fields outside the walls of Paris work continued without interruption, despite the scorching heat. The farmers wanted to get the grain inside the barns before the storms began. From the windows of Saint-Pol and the oudying castles, the mowers could be seen moving over the fields like tiny specks; the sun flashed on sickles and scythes. Half-naked, dripping with sweat, the men cut row after row of stalks of grain. The women came behind them, with cloths bound around their heads and shoulders, stooping and squatting, binding the sheaves. Blinded by sun and sweat, swarming with flies, they gathered the bread for the city of Paris, fodder for the beasts.

The King, who had stacked the cards neady, pushed them to one end of the table and sat quiet, with downcast eyes, waiting for his brother Louis d’Orléans and the Provost of Paris, whose presence he had requested. The haze in which his mind had been enveloped continually since the previous year, had lifted. He recognized the people in his suite, was aware of events and joined in the festivities honoring the delegation which had arrived from England to make a formal request for the hand of the child Isabelle.

Although the physician Freron had, on the Queen’s insistence, advised him to rest and avoid state affairs, the King wished to take advantage of the brief respite between periods of insanity. He knew only too well that the calm clarity, the comfortable feeling of being free, would not last long; that he would be overcome again by mortal fear, fierce pain in his head, darkness filled with hellish visions — but when? How? He saw with despair how much time had passed since he had last been sane. He could still remember hazily a few of the things which had happened afterward; a conversation with his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Orléans, who lay in bed — why? When? And the birth in January of his youngest daughter, Michelle. Charles shook his head slowly, and pensively bit his nails. He had a strong desire to see Valentine; he had wanted to send her a message but he gathered from what the courtiers said that she was no longer in Saint-Pol. Shame and pride prevented him from asking questions of the gentlemen of his retinue who sneered at him haughtily, or smiled at him with compassion. Only from his intimates could he learn about those things which interested him deeply. He considered himself fortunate that his brother was nearby and that the Provost was an able, honest and upright man, who knew how to hold his ground in the face of all opposition.

The King was secretly relieved that the pressure of business prevented Isabeau from coming to see him. The full responsibility of receiving the English legation rested upon her shoulders. Above all else, he feared an interview with his wife; although no one alluded in his presence to the affronts which he, blinded by madness, had offered the Queen, he knew enough. He remembered Isabeau’s tears and reproaches, her nocturnal revelations; frozen with horror at his own unwitting cruelty, he had lain listening to her whispers.

That had been in the spring of the previous year. What have I said or done since then, he thought uneasily. He looked quickly and diffidently at the courtiers who chatted under the arched entrance. Before him on a table stood a silver tray heaped with fruit; he removed the peaches one by one and raised the tray before his face. He did not yet have the courage to complain about the absence of mirrors from his rooms, because he surmised, with considerable anguish, the reason for this absence.

Now, partially concealed within the tapestries, he looked at himself in the polished bottom of the tray, touching his cheeks and forehead with clammy fingers; his lips parted involuntarily in disbelief and horror. The sound of footsteps and voices reached him from the adjoining corridors; the birds twittered loudly and beat their wings against the bars. Hastily, the King set the tray back on the table. He saw his brother approaching; Louis’ lips trembled with emotion.

“Sire, my King,” he said, kneeling before the King without taking his eyes from his brother’s face. “Are you well again?”

The King patted the cushioned bench. “Come sit beside me,” he said in a low voice, “and tell the others to leave us alone.”

Gentlemen and pages retired to the end of the gallery; Renaud Freron, annoyed, continued his pacing back and forth. The King was receiving against his advice; he feared Isabeau’s displeasure. The brothers sat side by side under the canopy: Louis, tanned from frequent exercise in the open air, his posture that of a man who knew how to control every muscle of his body; and Charles, pale, drab, huddled together like an old man.

“Tell me, how goes it with you, brother?” said Louis, laying his hand on the King’s. “Are you free from pain now? Is your head clearer? Nothing has made me so happy in a long time as this — that we can speak together in good health.”

“I am like someone who has temporarily exchanged hell for purgatory,” replied the King with a melancholy smile. “No, I feel no pain, but I suffer even more from uncertainty.” He looked at his brother timidly, from the corner of his eye. “I cannot remember anything,” he whispered, with a sigh.

Louis was silent. He could find no words to express the pity which consumed his heart. The King sat very still, huddled within the folds of his mantle, blinking his slightly inflamed eyelids.

“You must tell me everything now,” he went on, after a pause. “No one knows how long I shall be able to busy myself with affairs of state. Have you kept a watchful eye, brother, in spite of everything, as you promised me?”

“I have been vigilant,” said Louis, in an equally soft voice. He picked up the playing cards from the table and fanned them out; there was the smiling Queen, who bore a falcon on her wrist, the armored King, and the Jester with bells on his cap.

“Yesterday I received the English delegation in an audience,” the King went on. “It seems I gave them permission to come here just before Christmas.”

“Our uncle of Burgundy was strongly in favor of it,” said Louis lightly, while he examined the handsome cards one by one. “And so Messeigneurs de Berry and Bourbon gave their consent also — at last. As to the Queen — the Bavarians maintain friendly relations with England. There is no better and easier way to strengthen an alliance than by contracting a marriage, especially when one is so indirectly connected to the bride that no financial obligation is entailed.”

“What do you think, then, brother?” asked the King without looking up; he was preoccupied with braiding and unravelling the fringe of the tablecloth. Orléans smiled bitterly.

“I agree with those who say that if s senseless to conclude a treaty between two kingdoms which still have a few more years of armistice between them. And it is meaningless politically, because I don’t believe it is possible to end hostilities. And it will be a crime against the child Isabelle who will suffer if the war goes on when she is queen over there.”

The King shrugged. “They are here now,” he said hesitantly. “They bring gifts and friendly letters from King Richard. This Norwich — he’s Earl of Rudand, isn’t he? — he seems to be a capable, courteous ambassador. Richard must really crave peace,” he added doubtfully, “if he approaches us and leaves us to name the conditions.”

“Ah!” Louis made a passionate gesture. “Don’t think that England — to say nothing of Burgundy — will fare badly after a treaty has been signed. I’m even willing to assume that Richard does not intend to fight again — why shouldn’t I? They say he is a trustworthy man, ready to settle any dispute quickly. But it remains to be seen whether a new armistice will really mean the end of raids and looting. For two years I’ve been working on the plan you and I discussed before you became ill the first time. Surely after Poitiers and Crecy anyone who knew anything about it could see that our soldiers were no match for the English bowmen. It’s incredible that none of our captains thought of teaching our fellows to use English weapons. Now I have that in hand; you can rest easy. Now most towns and cities have bands of archers who can use handbows as well as crossbows. That was really useful last year in Normandy and Brittany when the English kept raiding the coast.”

He was silent for a moment, and the bitter lines appeared again at the corners of his mouth. “It’s really hard to have to watch the constant efforts of our noble lords to disband well-trained groups of fighting men. They are so frightened of rebellion that they would sooner hand the land over to the English.”

The King’s sigh was so deep that it was almost a groan. The physician turned on his heel abruptly and came toward him. The King, who, not without reason, hated and feared Freron, began to ramble, but he managed to pull himself together and call out with a semblance of his former authority that he wished to be left in peace. Freron backed away, bowing, and joined the group of attendants.

“I do not want that man near me anymore,” the King said nervously. He drew the curtain and shifted the bench so that the physician could not see him. “He takes too much blood from me; I am weak and dizzy from it. No, no, brother, let me finish! God knows when I will get the chance again. I commiserate with you,” he said vehemently, pushing away the beaker which Louis offered him, “your lot is more difficult than mine. Few will thank you for your efforts, and you will be thwarted at every turn — and I am not able to help you. God, God, why don’t they kill me when the madness comes upon me!” Tears trickled from under his enflamed eyelids; he sat motionless, a shattered man.

“Be still now, control yourself.” The Duke of Orléans spoke almost roughly. “I do what I can, but I cannot move mountains. We must help ourselves, brother, the wolves are stealing through the snow; they will not spare us. I shall have to put up with great frustration, but I do not propose to abandon the struggle because of that. I shall be too clever for Burgundy. He thinks he has put me in checkmate by effecting the marriage pact with England; but he is mistaken once again, our lord uncle. I shall seek my strength where he has sought it himself — in friendship with Richard of England. I have already taken steps to that end.”

The King wrinkled his brow; he could hardly grasp the state of affairs, so much had happened since he had last been lucid. He strained to understand. A fierce throbbing behind his eyes warned of the onset of a headache. He put a hand to his forehead and sank back in his seat.

“Am I tiring you, brother?” Louis spoke self-reproachfully. But the King quickly shook his head. “Tell me more,” he whispered. “Do you advise me to continue negotiations then?”

“You don’t have any alternative. The English lords are here and the Queen has let them know they can call upon Madame Isabelle this afternoon. The Dukes are meeting continually to define conditions. Take a piece of advice from me …” He leaned toward the King and laid a hand on his knee. “Insist on the insertion of a clause in the treaty which excludes Madame Isabelle from succession to the throne — even from inheriting French territory. Be royal with a dowry, brother, but demand that clause!”

The King bit the knuckles of his left hand. He gazed into his brother’s face, so close to his own: he saw the healthy glow under Louis’ brown skin, the long, muscular hand raised in warning. The King shuddered with disgust at his own decrepitude.

“You could insist upon it,” he said, groping for words. “You are always there, aren’t you?”

Louis sighed with impatience.

“This is too important,” he said emphatically. “God be praised, you are now able to enforce your views in this matter. They have kept me in the dark about everything, as usual: Burgundy has seen to it that I was kept busy elsewhere. Do you know anything about our difficulties with the Pope?” he asked, after a brief, prudent silence.

The King nervously shook his head. For a few moments Louis stared into space. It was a difficult task to enlighten the King; nonetheless he wanted to tell him as much as he could, for the Regents would no doubt attempt to force their views upon him during his temporary recovery.

“Can you remember,” Louis went on slowly, “that you allowed a poll to be taken among the clergy more than a year ago, on the advice of the University? They favored then making concessions on behalf of re-elections.”

“Yes. True.” Charles still spoke hesitantly. “But — surely — they were correct — these doctors at the Sorbonne, were they not? You have always disagreed with them, brother, haven’t you?”

Louis shrugged. “That is beside the point,” he said testily. “I admit that I could not — and cannot — tolerate their blatant arrogance. ‘Rectify and judge—et doctrinaliter, et indecialiter?” Softly he mimicked Gershon’s hoarse voice. “They act as if they know everything. Besides, they supported Rome, which was to be expected — the learned doctors almost always come here from abroad. They cursed Avignon whenever they spoke. But then last fall Pope Clement died …”

The King nodded a few times; his eyes began to shine.

“Yes, yes.” He talked fast. “I know all about it. I signed letters to the Cardinals at Avignon, asking them not to choose a new pope.”

“The Cardinals left the letters unopened and immediately chose Pedro de Luna.” Louis’ laughter was jeering; he was thinking of his own hopes at the time. “I thought then that this was a positive action, because I knew that Luna supported cession. Well, I soon had reason enough to doubt his good intentions. The University did not leave us in peace; daily it sent doctors and orators to plead the cause of cession. Then this spring Monseigneur de Berry and I went to Avignon with an embassy from the Sorbonne. We talked with de Luna day and night but he is a sly fox who does not let himself be tempted by promises — not even for a moment. And what is the result? A pope sits in Avignon — his name is Benedict — who never for a single moment considers resigning his office in order to have a second ballot. And so farewell to the unity of the Church.”

“My God,” said Charles softly. “How are we to find solace to ease the pain of existence when our comforter, the Church, is torn by discord and dissension?”

Louis made an irritable gesture. “The Church, the Church … Sometimes I think that we ought to seek our solace, as you call it, anywhere where there are no priests and prelates. Who can enlighten us in our dark ignorance? For we are in the darkness, brother, we hardly dare to feel our way …”

The King was becoming restless. He felt tired and hot. “What are you babbling about now?” he muttered. “What you have just told me is bad enough, but what can I do about it? What do you expect of me? Where is Madame d’Orléans?” he asked suddenly, sitting up straight. “Why hasn’t she come to visit me yet? I would like to see her. It is a long time since she was last here — is she ill? Why don’t you answer me?” He looked at Louis with suspicion. Orléans sat with bowed head.

“My wife is no longer in Saint-Pol,” he said finally, without looking at the King. “She lives in the Hotel de Behaigne — she has been there since January, since she went to church after the birth of our son Charles.”

The Hôtel de Behaigne was one of the many houses which Louis d’Orléans owned in Paris. It was comfortably furnished and set amid beautiful gardens.

Two red spots appeared on the King’s cheekbones. He too lowered his eyes. “Why?” he whispered, inexplicably choked by feelings of guilt and shame.

“Your friendship for Madame d’Orléans has aroused suspicion and mistrust,” said Louis formally. “I thought it advisable that she should leave Saint-Pol.”

“My God,” said the King, “this is a gross insult. Is Burgundy behind it?”

Louis shrugged. “It can’t be tracked down. You might as well try to surprise a viper in his hole as try to trace the origin of an ugly rumor; you know that as well as I, brother.”

The King, already restless and overwrought, could not restrain his emotion. He hung over the arm of the bench, racked by sobs. In vain Louis attempted to quiet him with soothing words, rebukes, promises.

The physician, Freron, who had not taken his eyes from the royal tent even for an instant, approached in haste, followed by the King’s old valet. Despite the physician’s mild manner and his courteous, even submissive demeanor toward the Duke of Orléans, he retained an aura of cold determination, verging on brutality. Freron was considered to be a skillful doctor; only Isabeau knew that he put his own interests before the welfare of his royal patient. It required no effort for him to do what his predecessor, de Harselly, would never have done; at Isabeau’s request he administered to the King potions and powders prepared by the exorcist Guillaume; sometimes he brought the ascetic into the King’s bedroom at midnight to perform spells in secret.

As Louis d’Orléans emerged from under the canopy, the physician cast a venomous glance at him; he intensely disliked the King’s brother, who always argued against him as well as against Arnaud Guillaume. Orléans bit his lip; he blamed himself for his impulsiveness. But he knew from experience that he must take quick advantage of the King’s lucid moments before Isabeau or the Regents could stop him from speaking privately to his brother by taking up his time with trifles. Isabeau and the Dukes were preoccupied at the moment with the important visit of the English nobles, but they would notice the King’s recovery soon enough.

“Rest now, Sire my King,” Louis said gently to the sick man who, supported by his valet, had taken a draught of some medicine; the physician stood nearby, watching coldly. “I shall come back later; there is still a lot to talk about.”

The King nodded and waved his hand. He had recovered himself somewhat, but his lips still trembled and his eyes were bloodshot.

A stir ran through the group of nobles standing at the other end of the gallery. The Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, preceded by sentries and pages from the royal retinue, and accompanied by a secretary and a few clerks, appeared at the gate which joined this section of Saint-Pol with the state rooms. Orléans acknowledged the magistrate’s grave salutations and took formal leave of his brother. “The birds should be brought inside; it is too hot,” he said to one of the pages as he left the gallery. Fréron, who had given the order to bring the birds outside, blinked several times.

The King invited de Tignonville to sit opposite him under the canopy. “Don’t talk about my health, Messire. I want to use these few hours which God has granted me to put my affairs in order.”

De Tignonville, an older man with a tranquil, sober demeanor, closed his eyes in a gesture of understanding. He nodded to the secretary who stepped forward with some rolls of vellum: accounts, surveys, petitions. While de Tignonville was busy with these papers, the King hurriedly removed the pile of playing cards from the table.

“How goes it in Paris?” he asked, staring uneasily at the many closely written pages which the Provost was carefully smoothing out before offering them to him.

“The city is sorely concerned for Your Majesty,” replied de Tig-nonville slowly, “and also about the schism in the Holy Church. The populace is disquieted and fearful; the winter was severe. There is much suffering in the city and around it and now the land is stricken by drought. I have often noticed,” he continued after a pause, “that in times of stress, men behave in different ways: some seek penance and a sober life; others fall into crime and licentiousness. So it is in Paris, Sire: there are processions and gatherings in the churchyard of the Innocents — but the taverns and bordellos are as full as the churches and the Chatelet, the pillory and Gallows Hill are overcrowded. I do not believe that such a rabble has ever roamed through the city streets as in recent years. The houses are falling down, the streets are filthy. I do not bring you good news, Sire, but I bring you the truth.”

The King sat huddled together for a few minutes, without touching the papers spread before him. In the green reflection of the tapestries his was the face of a drowned man — flabby and translucent, drained of blood.

“How can the body be healthy when the mind is ravaged by disease?” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “Surely savagery and disorder must prevail in the cities of France, de Tignonville; for when the King was well, he had neither the inclination nor the insight — and now that he wishes to do his duty like a good prince — God knows — he has lost his senses.” He turned his head from side to side as though he were in pain.

The Provost sighed and said nothing.

Louis d’Orléans walked slowly through the reception halls in the old part of the palace, followed at a distance by Jacques van Hersen and two gentlemen of his suite. The halls were crowded; the arrival of the English envoys had drawn nobles and dignitaries to Saint-Pol from far beyond the confines of Paris. Orléans acknowledged their formal greetings with brief replies; he had no desire to chat or even to exchange civilities. He knew this behavior was unwise; he was making his displeasure clear to all these people. But at the moment he was not capable of masking his real feelings. He set out for his own apartments; although his official residence was the Hôtel de Béhaigne, he spent six days a week in Saint-Pol.

He dismissed his followers and withdrew to the dusky coolness of the armory. Here he was seized by the same feelings of despondency which had overwhelmed him during the winter and spring; in his uncertainty and anguish at his own helplessness, he paced back and forth between the wall hangings with their autumnal colors and the racks of swords and knives. He thought bitterly how unrewarding the task was which he had taken upon himself; the only thing he was striving after was to undo Burgundy’s work, to weaken the Regent’s every move by a counter-move. He could not see yet where his actions were leading; he could not himself take control of the situation by pushing Burgundy off the stage. He thought of himself as one of those water insects called whirlygigs which are in constant motion but never make any headway. He moved incessantly between Isabeau, the Duke, the King, almost always a little behind events. If he should ever move a little ahead, his uncle of Burgundy was hot on his heels. Valentine’s removal to the Hotel de Béhaigne, the abortive negotiations with the Pope at Avignon, the plans for the royal marriage — these were all personal defeats for him.

He knew that he had to act again to thwart Burgundy, that he had to change his plans and do what Burgundy least expected him to do, and he knew that this behavior smacked of desperation; he hated this constant maneuvering, these abrupt changes of direction. His attention had been diverted from the Italian situation: Gian Galeazzo had been made Duke of Milan by the Holy Roman Emperor, Wenceslaus; this expanded the tyrant’s power. Louis guessed that in the future his father-in-law would want to settle his own affairs without any outside help. And it was doubtful that Pope Benedict of Avignon would abdicate of his own free will, especially after what had happened in the spring. The advocates of cession found a staunch supporter in the Duke of Burgundy; for that reason Louis considered throwing his own support to the Avignon Pope, however much he distrusted him, but first it was his duty to revise his attitude toward the English question. The only thing he could find no solution for was Valentine’s exile; he watched helplessly as the enmity against her grew day by day in the royal circle at court — although they sent her letters and gifts — and among the people of Paris.

Louis d’Orléans stood motionless before one of the arms racks, his hands behind his back. He had once heard a tale of a knight whose evil fate hung around his neck day and night in the shape of a demon. Now he himself felt the constant weight of a leaden, oppressive presence. Even at the hunt, or at games, or during the brief amorous adventures which he pursued from a craving for oblivion, he was never free from the burden of melancholy. He thought of his brother the King, huddled apprehensive and distraught under the green tapestries of his pavilion, afraid of the physician, of new attacks of madness.

Over the course of a few years the good-natured, pleasure-loving young man had become a wreck, a hopeless invalid, who tried vainly in moments of lucidity to make up for what he had frittered away during the ten years of his reign. This man, tormented by feverish bewilderment, wore the Crown of France. His hand, which could not hold a glass of wine without spilling it, all too quickly took up the pen to sign decrees and edicts, the significance of which he could not possibly grasp. He alternated rapidly between suspicion and unquestioning trust: if in the morning he allowed himself to be convinced of something by Louis, at noon he let himself be equally persuaded of an opposing view by Burgundy. Louis knew that this was true, from his own experience; not infrequently after a talk with Burgundy the King had revoked a decision which he had made earlier at Louis’ insistence.

He sighed and resumed his walk through the armory. The Holy Virgins who were leading Mary to her Coronation in Paradise smiled down from the walls, the stiff folds of their garments spread around their feet over the celestial fields. Among roses and lilies, Saint Catherine, Saint Barbara, Ursula, Veronica, walked in procession wearing crowns and veils like worldly princesses. Louis gazed at their sweet, mysterious, laughing faces, at their hands, folded demurely on their breasts. Mariette d’Enghien had looked like that as she stood among the women of Valentine’s entourage. Neither his considerable powers of persuasion nor the magic ring which the astrologer Salvia had brought him seemed able to shatter her resistance. She spurned gifts, thrusting them shyly but firmly away; whenever, in the seclusion of house or court, he endeavored to approach her, she stood motionless, with lowered eyes, in anguished apprehension. Had it been any other woman, Louis would undoubtedly have abandoned his hopeless courtship earlier; he did not usually go to such pains for the sake of beauty alone. Besides, he never needed to, for women as a rule offered themselves before he was even ready to approach them. He did not know himself why he desired the Demoiselle d’Enghien more desperately from day to day; in the couplets which he sent her he compared her to a meadow buried under snow, to a frozen crystalline mountain brook or an icy spring wind. She seldom answered him when he spoke to her; sometimes she only looked at him and her glance was green and sparkling — something smouldered there, which he did not understand. He tried to forget his chagrin and annoyance in the arms of other women; fleeting adventures with strangers encountered in streets or taverns; a few days’ fling with a court lady of the Queen’s, the frivolous wife of a nobleman who lived in Saint-Pol. Valentine he treated with the greatest delicacy; since her confinement she had not yet regained her strength, and although she hid it well, she suffered from the calumny which threatened to make her life in Paris impossible.

Louis smiled sardonically, gazing at the placid saints on the wall hanging. “Has she a talisman which protects her from love?” he said in a low voice. “But why is she uncertain then? She flees, but she herself does not know why.” An enticing image rose before him: Maret, her auburn hair loose upon her shoulders, her chaste garment about to slip away … He covered his eyes with his hand and turned hastily from the tapestry.

Valentine, Duchess of Orléans, sat in a small bower in the ornamental garden of the Hotel de Behaigne. Trees shaded the grass; within the border of wallflowers and lilies, a fountain leaped from a marble basin. Surrounding the garden was a hedge of clipped shrubs; it was like a fragrant green chamber. Shadows and droplets from the fountain cooled the air; the dry, stifling heat which burned down on stone and sand outside the garden did not reach the women in the arbor. Valentine was bareheaded and wore a light undergarment; on her lap she held a harp, a beautifully painted instrument which she had brought with her from Lombardy. Around her in the grass lay rolls of music. She played the harp with great dexterity; writers eagerly offered her their compositions.

She did not play now, but brushed her fingertips along the strings of the harp, absorbed in thought. She had sent all the women who had kept her company during the course of the morning back into the house, except for Mariette d’Enghien. The girl had requested an audience with her. Valentine knew very well where it would lead; she dreaded a conversation but at the same time she yearned to hear the truth. Intuition told her that Mariette d’Enghien abhorred lies and secrecy. The girl could not flatter; she lacked the taste for intrigue.

The Duchess of Orléans, who watched her constantly, had had the opportunity to compare Maret with the young ladies of her retinue who were adept at court ceremony. At first she was somewhat surprised at Mademoiselle d’Enghien’s modest self-possession, her brusque speech, her look of inward reserve. Her companions made fun of her for what they called her country manners; it was known that she came from an isolated province, having spent her childhood in an uncomfortable, remote castle among kinsmen who did not concern themselves with courtly ceremony. However much Valentine might loathe the fact that Mariette seemed to captivate Louis as no woman before her had ever done, she could not help admitting that the girl’s honesty and cool simplicity were artless and disarming. She did not believe that a love affair was going on between her husband and this quiet, shy young woman. On the contrary, she knew instinctively that there could be greater danger in the relationship evolving from Louis’ uncontrollable passion and Mariette’s cool resistance than from one of mutual ardor. Confused by anguished grief, Valentine surveyed the situation: she had been given no reason to demand an explanation, to utter a reprimand or even a warning.

The Duchess of Orléans thought sadly of the day — four or five years ago — when she heard for the first time that her husband had sought the favors of a pretty bourgeoise. She had summoned the woman and threatened to punish her if she ever yielded to Louis again. Many hours of exasperation and disillusionment had followed that first painful interview, but never again had she called any of Orléans’ paramours to account. She could not hold Mariette d’En-ghien to account; she had no proof, not even justifiable suspicions. But Maret sought an audience.

The two young women sat facing each other in the shadow of the shrubbery. Spots of sunlight quivered on their clothes, on the scrolls of music, and on the thick short grass. Even the birds were silent in the heat. No single sound rose from the nearby streets.

“Madame,” said Mariette d’Enghien quietly, fixing her large bright eyes on Valentine, “I implore you to dismiss me from your service.”

The Duchess made an involuntary gesture of surprise; she had not expected this.

“Do you wish to return to your family, Mademoiselle?” she asked gently. “The dismissal of a maid of honor from the royal suite is a serious matter — it could create a mistaken impression; I would like to spare you that. I am not dissatisfied with you,” she added quickly; she regretted her familiarity immediately, for Maret turned pale with shame and annoyance.

“I do not have to go home,” she replied slowly, with her eyes down.

Unconsciously, Valentine continued to stroke her harpstrings; soft, vague sounds issued from under her fingertips.

“Where can you go then, Mademoiselle?” she asked, not looking at the girl.

Mariette folded her hands stiffly in her lap.

“As it happens, Madame, I have consented to become the wife of Sire Aubert de Cany, who serves in the King’s retinue.”

Now Valentine raised her head quickly; between the braided tresses her small narrow face seemed paler than usual.

“I had not heard that a promise of marriage existed between you and the Sire de Cany,” she said.

“My kinsmen arranged the matter. Messire de Cany will ask for the King’s consent. But that is a mere formality, if I understand properly. No one can hinder the marriage.”

Valentine’s heart throbbed so loudly she felt it must be audible in the deep silence. She attempted to ask in a light, jesting tone the question which tormented her.

“Your heart was not then at the Court of Orléans during the time that you served me, Mademoiselle?”

Mariette stood up; the folds of her dress rustled over the grass.

The Duchess saw that the girl’s green eyes were filled with tears; her mouth, however, remained firm and her expression austere.

“My heart was with you, Madame,” said Maret, almost roughly. “That is why I am leaving. I beg you to excuse me now.”

Valentine released the harp and took Mademoiselle d’Enghien’s hand in her own.

“Can we not speak honestly with each other?” she whispered. Mariette stood motionless; the Duchess felt something in the girl tighten with resistance; the hand which she held firmly was cold despite the heat.

“Madame,” said Maret d’Enghien with an effort, “it is my wish to become the wife of Messire de Cany. He is a noble man, Madame … too good to be deceived. Where I was raised they had little sympathy for adultery, and no pretty words for it. So I was taught; I cannot think otherwise. It is a great honor for me to marry a man like Messire de Cany, whose views are no less strict.”

“Maret, Maret.” The Duchess of Orléans was moved by an emotion which she could not name. “Is this an escape?”

A spark of impatience flickered in Mariette d’Enghien’s eyes.

“You doubt my courage and the firmness of my will, Madame,” she said. Valentine sighed and released the girl’s cold, damp hand. The damsel stooped to pick up the rolls of music.

“May I go now, Madame?” she asked at last. Valentine nodded.

“I wish to remain out here a little longer,” she said, attempting to regain her usual airy, benevolent manner. “Send my women — but not too quickly.”

Mariette curtsied and left the enclosed garden. The Duchess of Orléans sat motionless, gazing after her. That this resilient young body, this firm mouth and deep green eyes had aroused Louis’ lust disturbed and alarmed her, but she could understand it. Her sorrow deepened as she realized that within Maret lay the power of enchantment — a power which, precisely because it was so deeply concealed, was more irresistible than any beauty and grace of form.

Was it perhaps the strength to resist, once she had made up her mind to it? Valentine stood within the hedges of her garden like a prisoner; the fountain murmured in the silence. Coolness seemed to have vanished from the arbor with Maret’s departure; despite the shade, hot air rose from grass and shrub. The water dropped into the brimming basin of the fountain like a rain of tears. The odor of the wallflowers reminded her suddenly of the sweet but poisonous perfume which her father in Milan gave freely to those who had lost his favor. She thought of her youth, spent in the gardens and palaces of Pavia, amid greater opulence and greater cruelty than she had known since then; she thought of her girlhood, her deep sadness over the misery of the world, her yearning for warmth and happiness, all the vague forebodings of future sorrow which had already disturbed her under the radiant skies of her native land. She knew while she sat motionless amid the greenery of the arbor that storm clouds were gathering on the horizon of her life. She was condemned to wait as though she were the victim of some evil spell until the tempest burst loose above her — until wind and hail blighted and tore the delicate blossoms of her ornamental garden.

Queen Isabeau received the English legation in the palace of Saint-Pol. The English lords had insisted on seeing the bride as soon as they reached Paris. Although the eight-year-old Madame Isabelle had not yet reached the marriageable age, it was still possible to conjecture what sort of flower would develop from such a bud. The King’s eldest daughter, deeply impressed at being the main object of interest at the ceremony, stood behind Isabeau, hand-in-hand with her brother the Dauphin. The royal delegation stood in the reception hall of the Queen’s apartments. Isabeau had ordered the walls hung with new, beautiful tapestries, patterned with crowned doves of peace, golden against a dark red background. Except for the Queen and her two eldest children, only the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, the mistress of ceremonies, Madame d’Eu, and Marguerite de Nevers were present; in the rear of the hall were a number of members of the King’s Council, among them the Chancellor, Arnault de Corbie, who had spoken at the assembly in favor of accepting the marriage proposal. The King was not there; they had decided to present the English lords to him when Isabeau’s reception ended. Louis d’Orléans led the envoys to the dais where the Queen stood beside her children. Isabelle freed her hand with some difficulty from the Dauphin who was, as usual, confused by so many strange faces.

“My daughter,” the Queen said, smiling; she put her hand on the child’s shoulder. But Isabelle needed no encouragement. She knew what was expected of her; maternal counsel had not been wasted on the precocious, haughty little princess. Folding her hands on the front of her stiffly embroidered dress, the child walked to the edge of the dais; she wore a crown and veil like an adult and held her fingers tightly together to avoid losing her rings. The Earls of Rudand and Nottingham knelt in homage.

“My lady,” said Rudand in slow, careful French, looking up at the controlled, smooth childish face. “God willing, you shall be our mistress and Queen of England.”

A silence ensued. Nervously, Isabeau clenched her fists; she stood too far away from the child to help her. She smiled at the envoys, but her eyes were uneasy. The royal kinsmen, the retinue, the members of the council, looked on; the English lords knelt with bowed heads. Outside the arched windows the sunlight was blinding; flies buzzed in the silence. Isabeau breathed quickly; she wanted to help her daughter. If Isabelle was anxious, she did not show it. She stood impassive in her state dress, which cast a gold reflection on the tiled floor, and kept her fingers pressed carefully together. With the interested respectful smile required by etiquette on her face, she stared straight before her over the heads of the envoys, trying to remember what words she was supposed to say. She was not frightened but annoyed at having stupidly forgotten the phrases she had studied so diligently. Behind her she heard her mother’s nervous cough; a feeling of apprehension crept over her. Behind the English lords stood her uncle of Orléans. Playfully he put his hand over his heart. The child realized that he was trying to attract her attention; he closed his eyes in reassurance, and bowed his head. The blood rushed to Isabelle’s cheeks — now she remembered what she must say. The high-pitched, childish voice did not quaver; it seemed as though she had deliberately paused for effect, to heighten the impression she made.

“Messires,” said Isabelle, “if it shall please God and my father that I become Queen of England, then am I well content, for I have always heard it said that I shall then be a mighty sovereign.”

Carefully she put out her five tightly closed fingers and requested the Lord Marshal to rise. The envoy took in his own the childish hand bedecked with heavy rings and allowed himself to be led to Isabeau by his future Queen. Isabeau was deeply moved, but more from relief than from maternal pride. The child had made an excellent impression; the English declared that their fondest expectations had been surpassed. They praised the appearance and behavior of the princess — above all, they admired her self-possession and well-chosen words. Isabeau listened to the envoys in silence, still smiling. Now that the reception, the high point of five months of negotiations and preparation, had been a success, she had achieved her goal — at least in regard to the English marriage. Isabelle seemed in every way a perfect bride for a king. So far as the signing of the marriage contract was concerned, Richard’s spokesmen would presumably raise few objections. New labors awaited them.

Isabeau withdrew; she had sent away the children with their nurses. The Englishmen set out together with the Duke and Council members to pay their respects to the King in his apartments.

In the coolness of her bedroom, Isabeau attempted to prepare herself for the meeting with her husband. During the last few days she had seen him only at state dinners. She knew that he was somewhat recovered, but strangely enough, this filled her more with apprehension than with hope. She could not identify the sickly, prematurely aged man who avoided her eyes, with the King her husband. The passion was dead which had driven her into his arms a year and a half ago; instead of pity she felt aversion, as though for a stranger. But she could not shun him, even if she wished to; she needed his co-operation. She had to bend him to her will as long as he was capable of judgment.

Isabeau, who suffered sorely from the heat — after her last confinement she had gained even more weight — allowed them to remove the high headdress and all her jewels. While her chamberwomen busied themselves about her, she stared sullenly, her lips pursed, at the potted shrubs blooming along the wall. Her brother Ludwig had arrived with news that in all its aspects required careful consideration. Isabeau knew from experience that Ludwig had a sharp nose for being on hand when important events took place; she trusted his judgment implicitly. She had heard that the German electors intended to depose the Emperor; Wenceslaus the Drunkard had in the course of years convincingly proven his ineptitude. A new candidate for the throne of the Holy Roman Empire had already appeared in the person of Ruprecht of Bavaria, Duke of Heidelberg, a member of the Wittelsbach family. Isabeau’s kinsmen were strong supporters of Ruprecht; they had never forgiven Wenceslaus for conferring the title of Duke of Milan upon their arch-enemy Gian Galeazzo. It was a matter of winning France to Ruprecht’s side. Ludwig who, with some justification, saw in his sister the strongest advocate of the Wittelsbach interests, considered that his goal was very nearly accomplished. Isabeau, on the other hand, was not quite as certain of success; many influential members of the court favored Wenceslaus — pre-eminent among them was Louis d’Orléans. Isabeau saw a possibility of influencing the court in Ruprecht’s favor only with Burgundy’s support. She considered that she might win the Duke and Duchess over to the Electors’ plan; in large measure Burgundy and Bavaria shared the same interests.

In her brother’s presence, Isabeau had already spoken to the Duchess of Burgundy; but Margaretha, always cautious, said only that she would need time to consider in tranquillity before she could respond. The Queen was positive that Burgundy would be told that same day and that the couple would act appropriately. And indeed Margaretha took advantage of the fact that Isabeau would be alone after the reception, to continue the discussion. The Duchess of Burgundy, alone of the highly-placed women of the court, entered Is-abeau’s chambers unannounced; she assumed that her role as the Queen’s right hand guaranteed her this privilege. Isabeau, who disliked the cold, all-too-shrewd Fleming, would not have allowed this presumption if she were not convinced of Margaretha’s value to her. She forced herself, therefore, to smile when the Duchess of Burgundy appeared in the doorway. Philippe’s wife considered it unwise to irritate Isabeau by showing too much self-confidence; she could hardly believe that she could enter the Queen’s presence again and again without ceremony. She entered in her slow, stately manner and curtsied deeply.

“Does it please Your Majesty to receive me?” she asked, knowing that Isabeau would acquiesce. The chamberwomen withdrew.

Margaretha politely declined the proferred chair. She remained standing at a proper distance from the Queen, her hands folded together on her breast. She spoke first of all of the successful reception; she praised the child Isabelle and wished the Queen joy in the brilliant debut.

“Yes,” Isabeau said impatiently. “Have you considered meanwhile what you will say to the Duke of Bavaria?”

Margaretha raised her brows slightly; she could not become accustomed to Isabeau’s lack of finesse.

“One cannot form a judgment on a matter of such importance in a few days, Madame,” the Duchess of Burgundy parried in respectfully gentle rebuke. “We have never been supporters of the Emperor Wenceslaus, as you know. But Your Majesty knows also that the Emperor has many friends here at court — that the Duke of Orléans your brother-in-law is well disposed toward him.” She paused and shot Isabeau an inquiring glance. “I take it that it is worth a lot to Your Majesty to win the King to your point of view.”

“I know that in all circumstances the opinion of Monseigneur of Burgundy is extremely important,” the Queen said irritably. She picked up a comb from the table and ran it through her thin hair which hung loose to her shoulders. Isabeau had had good reason to introduce the fashion of wearing elaborate headdresses which concealed the hair.

“Well, Madame,” said Margaretha softly, “my husband has heard with interest the news from Germany. Your Majesty may rest assured that he will study the matter thoroughly. I think that he may still find an opportunity to speak with the Duke of Bavaria before His Grace leaves the court.”

Isabeau nodded; she was not displeased to hear this.

“And now I should like to discuss another matter with your Majesty.” The Duchess of Burgundy voice became rather brusque. “It concerns my granddaughter, my son Jean’s oldest child. It is a year now since Monseigneur my husband spoke to the King about the possibility of a marriage between Marguerite and the Dauphin. Such an arrangement would be highly beneficial to our mutual interests, Madame. Moreover, as it happens,” she moved a few paces closer to the Queen, “my sons have sons — and Your Majesty a very few young daughters for whom, I believe, plans have not yet been made.”

Isabeau dropped the comb into her lap.

“Monseigneur d’Orléans also has two sons,” she replied, with some hauteur. “And I seem to recall that the King has already made an agreement with Orléans concerning the Dauphin.”

The Duchess of Burgundy gave a short, malicious laugh, while her cheeks flushed with anger.

“There is no assurance that Monseigneur d’Orléans will ever have a daughter. Such an agreement can have little value. I hope with all my heart that Your Majesty can convince the King to make a wiser decision, especially in the light of the news from Bavaria.”

“Yes, yes.” Isabeau sighed and threw back her head. A familiar feeling of rebellious rage swept over her. How much longer must she allow them to dictate to her? “You say I have so much influence with the King,” she burst out hotly. “Has it not been obvious in the last few months that it is not I who have influence with the King?”

“Ah, Madame,” said Margaretha, with emphasis, “a clever wife can alwavs influence her husband. We all saw how the King turned to you before the illness overcame him. Your Majesty undoubtedly knows how to charm the King.” She paused a moment and then continued. “It seems to me that your Majesty can begin by ordering that the door be unbolted which separates your apartments from the King’s.”

Isabeau sprang from her chair. The Duchess of Burgundy saw that she had said enough; she backed from the room, curtseying deeply once again.

In the course of the day the weather changed. The sky clouded over; a heavy mist began almost imperceptibly to cover the dazzling blue of the sky. Within a few hours it became dark; the summer lightning darted over the hills. The reapers worked hastily to haul the sheaves inside the barns until they were halted by the rain which tumbled down in torrents; earth and sky became indistinguishable from each other. The crash of thunder echoed incessantly from the walls and high towers of Saint-Pol.

The great reception rooms were crowded. The hundreds of nobles who were sojourning in the palace to honor the English envoys and had been driven from the gardens and fives courts by the storm, were seeking amusement in cards and dice. Louis d’Orléans had managed to shake off his despondency; he was in a boisterous mood and moved from table to table, joking loudly with the players.

The rain squalls whipped through the inner courtyards, a wet mist blew through the windows and corridors as far as the great halls. Torchlight flickered on the walls. Orléans was offered a place at each gaming table as he approached it, but he waved his glove, watched the game for a short while and then moved on, humming to himself.

In a side room Jean de Nevers sat with friends, playing dice at a table strewn with gold pieces. A crowd of spectators — members of de Nevers’ suite — stood around the table.

“Ah, cousin,” Louis cried loudly, pushing his way through, “I see that you are seriously occupied, raising money for your crusade against the Turks. How many tents and lances have you assembled by gambling today?”

Jean de Nevers looked up. He could not bring himself to smile.

“You need not tell me how good the wine was,” he replied sarcastically. “Your breath tells me that already, cousin, and in any case your infantile behavior does not lie. Not that I begrudge you the drink,” he continued quickly, when he saw that Louis, still laughing, was about to move away. “You can raise your spirits with food and wine. You do not need to fight.”

“Ah la …” Orléans said slowly, in the same jocular tone. “It is not my fault, my dear cousin, that we have never measured our strength in a duel …”

Jean began to get up, but his friend Philippe de Bar, who sat beside him, put his hand on his arm. Jean curled his lip.

“It may interest you to know,” he said, “that everyone who has a name and can hold a weapon has declared himself ready to come with me. But no doubt you knew that already. Your old friend, the Sire de Coucy, who has served you so well in Lombardy, will have brought you the news.”

‘The Sire de Coucy is too busy organizing your crusade, cousin.” Louis tossed his glove in the air and caught it. “It is a wearisome job to recruit soldiers and arm them, even for an experienced general — one who has no time for games or idle chit-chat.”

Nevers flushed darkly; he clenched his fist on the table in an effort to control himself.

“Well, that depends,” he said in a voice choking with anger. “There are reports that there is much merriment at the court of your father-in-law, Gian Galeazzo, although he sends auxiliary troops to the Turks.”

It became suddenly very quiet around the gaming table. The rain clattered against the roofs and the thunder crackled and boomed. The side room was crowded with spectators; it was the first time since the banquet in the abbey of Saint-Denis that my lords of Orléans and Nevers had publicly betrayed their enmity. Louis stood motionless, the glove in his upraised hand. He was no longer smiling.

“If I did not know, cousin, that spreading slander had become second nature to you, I would perhaps in all seriousness take up arms for my father-in-law,” he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, despite the wine he had drunk. The dark, piercing eyes of Jean de Nevers were fixed upon him; the others waited for him to lose his self-control. For a moment Orléans was tempted to throw his glove into that face distorted with hatred and contempt. Only in combat between the two of them could they give vent to their mutual feelings. Louis knew that Burgundy’s son would like nothing better than to attack him — especially if the challenge for the fight between kinsmen came from Orléans himself — but Louis would not permit this just yet. It would be particularly ill-advised at this moment to engage in a public brawl with the House of Burgundy. He contented himself, therefore, with shoving his glove into his belt and announcing to the bystanders with a smile:

“My lords, things will have come to a sorry pass when we can no longer joke with one another at the court of the King of France. Perhaps you would have taken it better, cousin, if I had begun by asking you whether you had squandered your tents and lances.”

He saluted Nevers and left the room with a nod and a cheerful word for everyone who spoke to him. But he was filled with shame and anger; he craved more wine and the boisterous excitement which could be bought in many of the public houses of Paris. He sought out among the players a few intimate friends who usually accompanied him on his nocturnal expeditions through the city, and beckoned to them to follow him.

Isabeau sat beside the King. The burning candles illuminated the parchment covered with close writing, that lay on the table. The King, already exceedingly weary after a day of conversations and receptions, and upset by the storm, squinted nervously at the papers which Isabeau had put before him; here he could see with his own eyes what it cost the Treasury to maintain the Queen’s palaces, estates and properties, what money she was forced to pay out for clothing and entertainment, what gifts she had given to kinsmen and household on New Year’s Day, on the occasions of fetes and holy days.

“I do not do this to upset you, Sire,” she said. Her tone was soft but business-like. “I do not like troubling you with numbers and lists, but the Audit Office must make a decision about my income. I have been waiting almost two years now for an adjustment. First they assigned me a number of estates which are too remote from one another. To collect taxes I would need an army of officials. Now they tell me again that I shall receive more lands when Queen Blanche dies. But that must be codified somehow. I have no real assurance. I have my household and my children to feed and to clothe. It is an impossible situation that I must beg the Audit Office for every livre.”

Isabeau spoke hody. She had brought up the subject as soon as she was left alone with her husband. The King looked at her blooming young Isabeau always ready for laughter and kisses, with no interest in anything resembling official documents and numbers. The plump, bejeweled woman who sat facing him bore no resemblance to the Isabeau to whom he had once sent a golden triptych as a token of his love. Her dark brown eyes were hard; they looked at him without tenderness. They were alone together for the first time in a year and a half, and she spoke of revenue, territories — gold, gold, gold!

“I shall instruct the Audit Office to setde the matter at once,” the King said wearily, shoving the papers away from him. “And to fix the annuity which you will be paid upon my death, Madame.” He turned his head to listen to the crackling of the storm. “How it rains,” he continued nervously. “Could the flood have started like this in Noah’s day? We don’t deserve a better fate.”

Isabeau did not answer; she tightened her lips and began to put the papers together. From time to time she glanced at the King. Wine, cake and fruit stood untouched on the table. The wall hangings stirred in the draughts. The roaring of the wind and rain drowned out all other sounds, giving the King and Queen a feeling of utter seclusion in the heart of the palace. They sat for a while, facing each other in silence, Charles with uneasy, wandering eyes, Isabeau staring vacantly at the golden candle holders. But the silence oppressed the Queen. She began to talk quickly, in a forced way, about her children: about the Dauphin, who knew his prayers by heart; about how dignified Isabelle was during the reception. She mentioned her discussion with the convent where Marie would be accepted and she talked about the infant Michelle whom she had named after the King’s patron saint. The King listened uneasily, tapping his fingers on the table top; he rocked back and forth in his chair, rubbing his face and his clothes. He sensed his wife’s feeling of aversion toward him, and he was frightened by this hard-eyed stranger.

They were both relieved when Colin de Bailly, a nobleman of the King’s retinue, entered the room and requested an audience for a messenger from Lombardy who had been waiting for more than half the day in one of the anterooms. The King remembered suddenly that as early as that morning he had given instructions to let the man wait. He declared himself ready to hear the messenger.

The Italian brought a letter from Gian Galeazzo. The Duke of Milan wrote stiffly that he had been shocked and dismayed to hear There were, he wrote, reports concerning the exalted and excellent lady, his daughter, the Duchess of Orléans, of whom it was apparently being said that she attempted to impede the King’s recovery by means of sorcery. He expected that the King, may it please God to grant him good health, or the King’s closest relatives, would spare no efforts to refute publicly the malevolent rumor — that the slanderers would be tracked down and then suitably punished.

As he read the letter, the King became very excited.

“Who said that? Who dares to say that?” he repeated; trembling with agitation, he crumpled the sleeves of his mantle into a wad. “Is that why she went away?” he asked abruptly. He stared at his wife; she read the letter, smiling oddly. He watched her eyes move to and fro under her eyelids. Isabeau let the letter fall onto the table as though the parchment were tainted. She shrugged.

“Lombardy is the cradle of the black arts,” she said loftily. “Everyone knows that.”

The King shook his head with impotent violence. “But who dares to accuse our dear sister?” he asked, nearly weeping; his lips trembled.

“Who?” Isabeau’s voice shot out, suddenly shrill. “Who, Sire? The people of Paris throw stones at her carriage when she ventures outside the walls of her Hotel de Behaigne. The servants here will tell you that the people call her the Witch of Orléans. Her rooms swarm with soothsayers and alchemists … her servants disfigure corpses …”

“Who says that, who says that?” screamed the King; the blood rushed to his head, sweat stood on his upper lip. The Queen was frightened; was the madness overcoming him again?

“I have someone in my service,” she said, calming herself. “A man who possesses remarkable powers of healing. With his own eyes he saw—”

“That living corpse?” The King leaned over the edge of the table and stared at Isabeau with distended eyes. A horrible image came into his memory: a face like a death’s head appearing over a can-dleflame between the bed curtains at midnight. ‘The man who lays dead frogs on my breast and forces stinking powders down my throat? Is it he, the necromancer, who accuses Valentine? Get away! Get away!” he cried suddenly, stamping his feet with rage and striking the table. “I’ll have him hanged, the filthy swine …! De Bailly! The watch!”

Isabeau rose hastily.

“Sire,” she said, attempting to quiet the King by a soothing tone, “Arnaud Guillaume tends you with my approval. My lord of Burgundy is aware of it. Be calm, be calm, Sire …”

“He slanders our sister-in-law!” The King sank back in his chair, still gasping with excitement. “Our brother of Orléans and his wife are dear to us, Madame, very dear to us. I want Valentine to return to Saint-Pol at once.”

“Sire, Sire …” Desperately Isabeau moved toward him; she pulled at her train, which was caught on the table. “Rest now. Any excitement is dangerous. It is for your sake that I — that it was suggested that Madame d’Orléans leave the palace.”

“But I will not see those frauds again,” the King muttered, suppressing his rage in the folds of Isabeau’s long sleeves. The Queen had thrown her arms around his neck. “Send them away, the physicians and the … the … Deliver the liar to Orléans — let my brother punish him, the slanderer!”

“Yes, yes.” She began anxiously to whisper the endearments that had been customary between them so long ago. These words so long unspoken seemed strange on her lips. She closed her eyes so that she would not see that distorted, sweating face so close to hers. Filled with bitter aversion, she held the King in her arms; she knew that she could maintain her position only by feigning passion, at least as long as his temporary recovery lasted. He sat quietly relaxed against her, occasionally racked by a small shudder. Isabeau’s caressing hands roused half-forgotten sensations within him … Did she still exist, the wife whom he had once known, did she forgive his madness? Without looking at each other, they exchanged a kiss.

Tears sprang into the King’s eyes; he wanted to heap gifts upon his wife, to reward her for her devotion and patience; he could not thank her, could not admire her enough. Isabeau thought of the many plans she wished to bring to fruition, of the concessions she could wheedle from him on family affairs, on questions of money, on foreign and domestic policy. The Florentine emissaries were waiting for an answer; how could she induce him to send help to Gian Galeazzo’s enemies, especially now that it was clear he wished to keep the Duke of Milan as a friend? How could she prevent Valentine from nesding once more within the walls of Saint-Pol?

In March of the following year, the Duchess of Orléans quit Paris. From day to day the threats of the incited populace increased in intensity — she was now openly suspected of attempting to poison the King and his children — until it was impossible for her to remain any longer in the Hotel de Behaigne. Crowds gathered repeatedly before the gates, screaming for justice: why were witches being condemned every day when the most evil sorceress of all remained at large because of her rank? Louis d’Orléans’ armed servants drove away the troublemakers, but they came back often, and each time in such large numbers that the roads leading to the Hotel de Behaigne were impassable. When it became known, in late autumn, that the King had gone mad again, suspicion and hatred of Valentine boiled over.

The subject was brought up before the Council; in the presence of the Regents a councillor demanded the speedy removal of the Duchess from Paris. Louis replied with vehemence: although he feared for Valentine’s safety if she remained in the Hotel de Behaigne, he felt that her departure from the city would be regarded as an open admission of guilt. He knew, moreover, that this would cause a separation between him and his wife. He must, if he did not want to give up his activity in the political sphere, live in Paris, or at any rate in the immediate neighborhood of the King and court. Finally, he was forced to yield; after New Year’s Day preparations began for the Duchess’s journey.

It was Louis’ wish that she should leave the city in a regal manner, with a procession of carriages and armed riders. Her household and a great retinue of servants accompanied her; she conveyed tapestries and furniture, works of art, books; dwarfs, musicians, a physician, a librarian and her court poet, Eustache Deschamps, would share her exile.

On a windy day in early spring, Valentine rode out of the gates of the Hotel de Behaigne. The people, packed together in the streets, watched silently as the procession filed past them toward the royal palace. The Duchess remained invisible behind the closed curtains of her coach. At the great inner court of Saint-Pol she alighted; Louis d’Orléans greeted her there and escorted her to the Queen’s anterooms. The demoiselle who had carried Valentine’s train now adjusted its heavy folds over her mistress’s arm. Without attendants, the Duchess of Orléans bade her formal farewell to Isabeau.

The Queen sat on a chair beside a made-up ceremonial bed, surrounded by a large number of high-born women: Margaretha of Burgundy, Marguerite de Nevers and the young Duchess of Berry stood in order of rank beside her. In a deep silence Valentine made the three curtsies prescribed by etiquette. She was dressed in heavy mourning; in September Louis, her oldest son, had died from an intestinal ailment. Isabeau released the Duchess of Orléans from her third curtsey more slowly than was customary; only after some minutes did she reluctantly extend her hand to her sister-in-law as a sign that she could rise. There was a brief pause; then Margaretha of Burgundy stepped toward Valentine to render her, for the last time at the court, the homage due to the second lady of France.

“Well, my fair sister.” When the long ceremony had been properly executed, the Queen spoke, with some hauteur. “I hear that you are going to leave us, to visit the lands and territories of Monseigneur d’Orléans.” This was the official reason for Valentine’s departure.

“Yes, Madame,” replied the Duchess of Orléans in a low but steady voice. “I am going to the castle of Asnieres in Beaumont. It must be really lovely there in the spring.”

Isabeau smiled, not without malice, and ran her thick ringed fingers over the arm of her chair. “When do you plan to return?” she asked sweedy. Margaretha of Burgundy looked up quickly and frowned in disapproval.

“Madame, that rests with God alone,” Valentine said calmly.

The Queen looked away; the sentences she had so carefully prepared, the words which, under the cloak of ceremonious friendliness, had been intended to wound, would not leave her lips. She was conscious that she could scarcely hurt that slender woman with the sorrowful eyes who stood before her, and who bore a deeper grief than any insult could inflict. A vague feeling of shame stirred in Isabeau; for one lightning moment, she almost wished she could undo the enmity that she had roused against Valentine, that she could take back the slander.

Curtseying three times once again, Valentine prepared to leave the Queen; the ladies curtsied to her, each in their turn. Among them was the Dame de Cany, Mariette d’Enghien, who had, since her marriage, entered the Queen’s service. Valentine smiled at her, but with a heart filled with pain; she knew that Louis desired the chaste, faithful wife even more fiercely than he had the shy maiden of the past.

In the anteroom the damsel again took up Valentine’s heavy train; the Duchess of Orléans left the palace of Saint-Pol on her husband’s arm. Before she climbed into the coach, she looked up once more at the rows of windows, the galleries and battlements. Somewhere within those grey walls was the King, raving with fever and madness, kept like a ferocious animal behind bolted doors. She had not seen her brother-in-law since the day of the christening, a year and a half ago. She whispered a farewell, her eyes dimmed with tears. Then she seated herself in the carriage; she pushed aside one of the leather curtains so that she could see Louis, who would accompany the procession on horseback part of the way.

Riders and carriages began to move; slowly the heavy vehicles rolled over the inner court; the restless horses strained forward. The people who had gathered outside the palace stared in silence at the handsome painted carriages, the armed horsemen, the standard-bearers and heralds. They caught a glimpse of Valentine’s pale profile; they saw Louis who, clad in gold and black, rode on a spirited horse. Finally, in one of the coaches a small child could be seen, who sat prattling on his nurse’s lap, unaware of the uproar around him — the sole surviving child of Louis and Valentine, their last born, Charles d’Orléans.

The departure of the Duchess of Orléans created less disturbance than had been initially expected. Before long the minds of the royal court, of the city of Paris, of all France, were engrossed with a more important event: the army which was to fight against the Turks marched out of Paris, commanded nominally by Jean de Nevers but in actuality by Enguerrand de Coucy. The army consisted of groups of knights and barons, accompanied by squires, bowmen and foot soldiers. Nobles without retinues and able-bodied men without leaders could also be found among the troops. The largest contingent of followers belonged to the four Princes of the blood, Comte d’Eu the Constable, and the Sires de Coucy and Boucicaut. Most of the nobles, especially those who had never before been to war, had spared no expense on equipage for themselves and their retinues. The ranks brisded with banners and gleamed with caparisons embroidered with gold; silk tents and silver dinnerware were conveyed in processions of wagons; ships came down the Danube laden with victuals and vats of good wine. A train of camp followers brought up the rear.

In October, the young Queen of England — the child Isabelle, who had been married by proxy to Richard II — departed for Calais, where she would meet her husband and embark with him for England. Never had there been a more splendid exodus. All royal personages and nobles of high rank at the court set out for Calais in the bridal train. Richard, having stayed on in France for a few months to settle the details of the marriage contract, had been, with his retinue, the guest of the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy in Saint-Omer. In addition to the Dukes of Rudand and Nottingham, who had come the previous year as envoys, the English King was attended by the Dukes of Lancaster and Gloucester who fiercely opposed peace with France; they delayed the negotiations at every turn.

Burgundy did not view this without concern; the war party in England was becoming more powerful every day — of what benefit would the royal marriage be, and the peace treaty provisionally set until 1426, if the princes and the people still strongly wanted war?

Accompanied by her father — the King was at this time relatively calm, if he could not be called lucid — and by the Dukes of Orléans, Berry and Bourbon, Isabelle reached the coast. On the beach, a city of tents had been set up, glittering with gold, azure and purple, decorated with banners. Four hundred English, and four hundred French knights in armor, bared swords in hand, formed a double hedge between the two tents of the Kings.

At ten o’clock in the morning the Kings went bareheaded to meet each other, Charles attended by Lancaster and Gloucester, Richard by the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy. The King of France, who looked very ill, kept his eyes fixed on the ground before him; the glint of sunlight on the swords and armor of the guard of honor was making him uneasy. After they had dined, Isabelle was delivered to her husband. Surrounded by duchesses and countesses of the two kingdoms, she appeared in the tent, a small eight-year-old girl, pale with excitement. When she placed her hand in her father’s, the King seemed to realize for the first time where he was and why he was there. He cast a timid glance at those present.

“I regret,” he mumbled, “I regret that our daughter is still so young. If she were fully grown, she and our son from England could celebrate this day with greater joy.”

Isabelle looked up uncertainly. The royal kinsmen and their wives stifled smiles. Richard saw the child’s confusion; he found the little girl charming in her state dress covered with golden lilies. He replied quickly, “Father-in-law, we are exceedingly pleased with the age of our new wife. If France and England should ever be united in love as I hope I shall one day be with my wife, no power on earth could ever disturb our peace.”

He took Isabelle’s hand from her father’s; while the court bowed, he whispered to her that a beautiful dog, white as snow and with a golden collar, awaited her in England. The child gazed up silently into his shrewd, friendly eyes. She thought he was a much more impressive king than her father; he was not so young as her uncle of Orléans, but surely he was taller. Her hand warmed in his. After many ceremonial farewells, the King and Queen of England embarked with their retinues. They arrived in Dover the same day.

At first, his wife’s departure had left Louis feeling gloomy. His melancholy would not yield to hours of prayer and meditation in the Celestine monastery, nor to continual concentration on affairs of state, nor yet to absorption in games and the hunt. Jealously he had watched the departure of the crusaders; at that moment he could conceive of no more enviable lot than had fallen to these men, who were free to seek valorous adventure. He could — and this thought especially tormented him — have been riding at the head of the armies, instead of Jean de Nevers. The state of affairs in Italy had grown increasingly confused; the cities of Florence, Genoa, Savona, Adorna, played a double-dealing game with one another and with France and Milan; negotiations which accomplished nothing, pacts which none of the parties observed, equivocal statements which only clouded the issues further.

It seemed to him often during the course of that year that every enterprise he undertook or had ever undertaken was doomed to failure. The negotiations with the Pope in Avignon had collapsed; the Prince of the Church, entrenched in his city, had solemnly declared that he would never be dislodged. The University incessantly pressed for action, while the princes of Europe, on the other hand, whose opinions and help had been requested, answered generally in an evasive way. No one seemed to want to involve himself with this painful matter of the schism. The King was hardly in a condition to render a judgment. Berry and Bourbon chose to remain aloof. And because Burgundy always worked more and more zealously for cession, Louis felt constrained to support the authority of Avignon. At the moment, however, he could not do much; there was too much discord and dissension, and in any event the public was distracted by the crusade and the marriage of the princess.

In the month of August, Louis visited his wife in the castle of Asnieres, on the occasion of the birth of his son Philippe — named not without irony after the Duke of Burgundy. During this visit Louis had an opportunity to devote his full attention for the first time to little Charles. The child was now about two years old, of a rather delicate constitution and, in his father’s opinion, a littie too quiet and gentle. He would sit for hours in the same spot in the garden or hall playing with a stone, a flower, a piece of colored cloth.

“Doesn’t he ever laugh, this son of mine?” Louis asked the Dame de Maucouvent. She replied that the child was grave because Valentine had been depressed during her pregnancy, and because his first year had been spent in the Hotel de Behaigne in an atmosphere of tension and uncertainty. Louis picked the child up and let him play with his gold chain and the hilt of his dagger, which was shaped like a rolled-up hedgehog. The child stared at the gleaming ornaments with bright grey-green eyes, but he did not attempt to touch them or crow with joy as his dead older brother would have done.

To Valentine, Louis gave costly gifts and a considerable sum of money to spend on decorations for her apartments. But he did not stay very long with his wife; he had to return to Paris to help with preparations for Isabelle’s bridal journey.

The days he spent in Saint-Omer gained significance for Louis chiefly because he met a remarkable and interesting man there: Henry Bolingbroke, the eldest son of the Duke of Lancaster. In this taciturn, somewhat rough and moody young man, Louis saw a companion in distress: here too was a gifted, ambitious prince’s son who condemned his government’s policies. Orléans and he were about the same age — it was natural that, among the other princes, they should seek each other’s company at meals and at the hunt. Their relationship hovered on the brink of friendship; they got on well with each other, but despite jests and courtesies neither of them forgot that they pursued absolutely opposed interests. Secretly each attempted to gauge how useful the other might be to him in the future. Their parting was comradely enough to awaken in Richard of England and the Duke of Burgundy the hope that Lancaster’s son could perhaps be won over to the peace.

Toward the end of November, the King of France and the Regents returned to Paris. Orléans took advantage of a temporary improvement in the King’s condition to enlarge his landed property considerably and to acquire command of the usufruct. When all the relevant documents had been signed, he saw with satisfaction that his possessions were, in extent and value, hardly second to those of any other princes of the blood. The Dukes, greatly angered by this move, commented on his avarice. So the Christmas season came — but peace was still far off.

Following an ancient tradition, the King of France gave an elaborate banquet on Christmas Eve, at which not only royalty, the court and eminent officials sat at table, but also numerous burghers. In addition, on the ground floor of Saint-Pol an open table was provided for the people of Paris. The Christmas feast of 1396 was not less lavish in any way than its predecessors; as always, vast amounts of game and pastry appeared on the tables, and plenty of good wine was on hand. In the palace banquet hall, high-ceilinged and wide as the nave of a cathedral, the King entertained his guests. It was very crowded and sweltering; so many torches were burning that one could almost believe one was dining in daylight. At the royal table, beside the King and Isabeau, who was pregnant again, sat the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry with their wives; old Bourbon and Louis d’Orléans, surrounded by a number of highly-placed people, including many wives of men who had gone to Turkey with Jean de Nevers. Since early summer, little or nothing had been heard of the crusaders; the messengers repeatedly dispatched by the King to Hungary and Italy had brought back only vague reports.

The mood at the Christmas feast, at least at the royal table, was constrained. The King stared sleepily at the performance in the center of the hall, a battle between armored knights and a dragon; Isabeau, weighed down by her ungainly body, did not feel up even to feigning interest in what was going on around her. Conversation at the table was dull, despite the wine; even Louis d’Orléans, who was usually the center of attention on these occasions, spoke little. His glance wandered again and again to a certain spot at one of the lower tables where, among the lords and ladies of the royal retinue, beside her husband, the Dame de Cany sat, dressed in dark green. Aubert de Cany showed his wife every conceivable attention, but Mariette did not laugh and seldom responded — she was constantly aware of Orléans’ eyes upon her. Whenever she raised her head she saw him, sitting next to the royal chair; he rested his chin upon his fist, scarcely touched his food but took some wine. When their eyes met, the young Dame de Cany was overcome once more by the emotion which had tormented her day and night during her service with the Duchess of Orléans. Her heart began to thump, slowly and violently. She forced herself to look only at her husband, or to keep her eyes on her plate. But she heard nothing that was said to her and could scarcely remember where she was.

About nine o’clock in the evening, a commotion started at one of the entrances to the hall; the sound of raised voices was audible above the hubbub at the tables. Out of the throng at the door a man appeared, booted and spurred, in torn clothes, sweating and exhausted. He crossed the hall, heedless of the sham fight that was going on there and threw himself, still breathless and unable to speak, onto his knees before the King. At first no one knew who he was; Louis d’Orléans finally recognized the dirty, deadly tired man as Jacques de Helly, one of the knights of de Nevers’ retinue, a vagabond and adventurer who had the reputation of being very familiar with the routes to the East. The King looked at him apathetically, without comprehension; his expression did not change when de Helly cried out hoarsely, “Sire, my King, I come from Basaach’s camp — our army was destroyed near the city of Nicopolis on Saint MichaePs Day!”

At the royal table there were gasps; many sprang from their seats. The news spread quickly through the hall; there were exclamations of fright, the clatter of chairs; then, under the standards and banners, under the thousand torches, it became quite still. The performers vanished quickly through a side door; only the scaly cover of the dragon lay in the middle of the floor, a painted rag.

“Monseigneur de Nevers, the Lords de Bar, de Coucy and Bou-cicaut, and twenty-three others are prisoners,” murmured de Helly, almost inaudibly. “Their lives are not in danger because Basaach intends to deliver them in exchange for ransom.”

“And the others?” Orléans leaned toward him over the table.

Jacques de Helly hid his face in his hands.

“Basaach ordered all those who did not perish in battle to be put to death,” he said in a smothered voice. “No one is left alive except those whom I named, and me. I don’t think anyone else can have escaped the slaughter.”

Louis took firm hold of the King who, thinking that the meal had ended, was about to get up.

“Give the names of the survivors,” Orléans said shortly.

The knight obeyed; although his voice was low, everyone heard him in that deathly quiet room. A woman shrieked; it was the signal for a great outbreak of weeping and wailing.

For little Charles d’Orléans, the days passed as peacefully and at the same time as festively as a procession which he had once seen at the church of Asnières. First of all, there were the many journeys, the purpose of which he did not understand; but he went through the colorful landscapes with great delight. Standing at the carriage door, he looked out over the wooded hills, the vineyards and fields, the sloping land softly green and brown, the broad sparkling rivers. Sometimes the fields were filled with flowers. If they rode through a forest the greenery murmured over their heads; sometimes red and gold leaves hung on the trees and rustled and crackled mysteriously under the carriage wheels. The sky was black with swarms of birds. Sometimes he had traveled, wrapped in furs and velvet, with a hot stone under his feet; then the trees were bare, streaks of snow lay on the fields and the wind blowing through the narrow openings of the carriage made the court ladies shiver. The child was later to remember clearly that everything about those journeys fascinated him: the steam that the horses exhaled, the parcels and things that they brought with them, the soldiers and horsemen who rode beside the carriages and the handsome standards flying from their lances.

Charles always lived with his mother, little brother and all the gentlemen, ladies, demoiselles, servants and pages in other castles: from the outside they looked alike, one and all; he could not remember all their names, there were too many of them: Chàteauneuf, Blois, Montils, a whole series of them — but if you tried to follow a familiar route along passages and staircases, you could make a bad mistake. Only the little windows, the thick walls and circular stair cases were the same everywhere. Charles always slept in his own bed because that was taken along. And in every inner court of every castle he had his own painted wooden horse to play with.

The child did not trouble himself about the how and why of all this moving: he was easily satisfied and happy; the world teemed with things one could amuse oneself with. He did not notice that he always played alone; he could amuse himself with a small stick, a stone, a piece of colored glass. His mother’s maidens tried to teach him games — tag, hide and seek, leapfrog — but although Charles played willingly, he was not really interested. He preferred to look out through the narrow peepholes of tower or gallery over the land which, bathed in sunlight or covered with shadowy clouds, alternately glowed and faded. He could see the roofs of the small houses clustered in a hamlet around the citadel, and the tapering steeples of a church or a far castle against the horizon. It was not so much this looking at what could be seen through the windows that he loved; it was rather the standing still, the waiting, which enthralled him — that curious feeling that at any moment a miracle would happen. What — he did not know. He knew about miracles only from stories he had heard and from wall paintings in churches and chapels. An angel with golden wings, holding a lily in his hand, who appeared to the Virgin Mary… he had heard it said that that was a great miracle. And the dead man who rose up again, and the pilgrim’s staff on which roses began to bloom. No, he did not expect anything so amazing as that.

The Dame de Maucouvent, his governess, usually put an end to his secret pleasures. The tower stairs and galleries were too dangerous for a five-year-old child, he could easily break his neck. So then he had to go to the room where his little brother Philippe pushed himself in his walker, where the women sat the whole day talking to one another or yawning and looking out of the windows as soon as the Dame de Maucouvent showed her heels. Eagerly, Charles went by himself on secret searches through the vast, usually empty halls, where the tapestries stirred mysteriously against the walls. His mother told him about the tapestry pictures: in one castle the tapestry told the story of Charlemagne, in another of Saint-Louis, or Lancelot, or Theseus and the Golden Eagle. The figures of heroes and saints seemed to come alive in the dusky halls; in the evenings, in the light of wax candles and torches, Charles saw their eyes glitter and their lips move; their heads nodded, they raised their hands, the dogs sprang through the brushwood, the horses reared; yes — he could even hear the banners flapping.

He did not tell anyone about these fantasies, not even his mother, whom he loved more than anyone else. He was glad to sit close to her on winter afternoons when the corridors were dark and uneasy feelings lay in wait for him on the silent steps, in the empty doorways. His mother sat by the fire and played the harp or embroidered with golden thread. The light gleamed in the little colored jewels in her necklace and in her eyes; she told long stories which he found splendidly thrilling, although he did not completely understand them. Or she sang songs with her maidens, very sad songs. Often she sat silent. At those times she put her arms around her small son and held him close against her. An odor of honey and roses wafted from the deep folds of her dress. Charles looked close up at her sweet face, her narrow pale lips and her soft tresses. Her sighs made him feel sad. It was always something of a relief when she had the chess set brought to her so that she could play with Marie d’Harcourt, or when she told the librarian, Maitre Giles Malet, to fetch a book — one of her breviaries with little paintings in gold and azure, or the great book of King Arthur.

In the spring, Charles’ mother became livelier, but at the same time more restless; then she usually wanted to travel to castles as yet unvisited. The prospect of a carriage ride quickly reconciled Charles to the bustle in the inner rooms, the running back and forth of women and servants, the moving of pieces of furniture, carpets and other household goods. Later, when summer came, with sun and flowers and deep greenery, his mother hurried each day to leave the castle and sit outside on the grass, braiding garlands or gathering herbs. Often too she went horseback riding; the harness was studded with gilded knobs and embellished with tiny bells; golden tassels hung from caparison and saddlecloth. So she rode to the hunt with a falcon perched on her glove. Charles’ mother never looked so beautiful as when she returned home after such an outing, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She talked a lot to Charles about his father, who was the King’s brother, a courageous knight and a splendid figure like the heroes of the romances.

That idea was strengthened on the few occasions when he saw his father. Surrounded by horsemen in armor, he came riding over the bridge and courtyard on a magnificent steed; when, with spurs jingling, he entered the great hall, he knelt to salute Charles’ mother, who waited for him in the seat of honor. When his father stayed with them, the castie overflowed with people, and each evening there was a feast; long tables were added to accommodate all the guests. After the meal the minstrels Colinet and Herbelin, who were always with his father, sang songs and Gilot the Fool somersaulted along the tables. Later, gifts, brought from Paris on donkeys, were brought in: mantles of silk and gold for Charles’ mother, household linen, fur and leather, silver dishes, books; for Charles and Philippe, mantles like the ones grown-ups wear, in green or black, embroidered with emblems: thisdes, vines, heraldic wolves. Once Charles was given a leather case which held three combs and a little mirror; he wore it proudly on his girdle.

Then during his father’s visits, there was hunting; that was quite a spectacle. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, a sleepy nursemaid held Charles, wrapped in a blanket, up to a window so that he could look down on the inner courtyard where torches burned, servants kept dozens of restless dogs together on long leashes, horses stood stamping and snorting. All day long the child could hear the blaring of the hunting horns in the forest, and the furious baying of the dogs. Later he found the deferred booty less attractive: he was filled with pity and revulsion when he saw the stiffly outstretched legs of the does, their great glazed eyes, the wild boar black with congealed blood, the limp bodies of the hares, and the dead birds, a heap of feathers stuck together.

Charles most admired his father when he blew on his hunting horn — no one made a prettier sound than he did. Sometimes, to please his little son, Louis, outdoors in the gallery or somewhere in the castle gardens, blew for him all the signals he knew, along with little melodies which he made up on the spot. These sounds remained linked in Charles’ memory with the image of a castle looming dark against the light of a pink evening sky, the twilight fragrance of herbs, flowers and earth. Always early in the morning his father was suddenly gone; each time these departures took Charles completely by surprise; he was angry then because no one had warned him.

Once — it was the middle of winter, when the trees stood frosty-white in the fields — there was a great feast. They were living then in a castle called Epernay: Charles remembered that because the journey there had required unusually long and full preparations. The castle was filled with so many tapestries and candlesticks, cushions and valuables, that Charles asked himself if it were Christmas, but no one seemed to have time to tell him anything. The Dame de Maucouvent kept her eye on the chamberwomen who folded and spread the linen; Charles’ mother supervised the polishing and display of the gold dishes and tankards; servants hammered in the stables; the court ladies embroidered crowned initials on a set of new bedcurtains. At last Charles was fetched to be fitted with a small cloak that glittered with gold and precious stones. Now he heard something about what was going on. The Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, Wenceslaus, was coming to see Charles’ parents; the Dame de Maucouvent told him this while she knelt before Charles to see if his state robes sat upon him properly.

“Emperor Wenceslaus, Wen … ces … laus,” she repeated. “Say that once, Monseigneur.”

“Wen … ces … laus,” said Charles hesitantly. The Dame de Maucouvent seemed to be very excited; her headdress was all on one side, which was not her usual custom, and her dress was rumpled. Later that evening his mother came to sit on the side of his bed; she laid her narrow, cool hand against his cheek.

“Tomorrow the Emperor is coming here, child,” she said.

“Wen … ces … laus,” whispered Charles quickly, to show that he remembered this remarkable name. His mother smiled. “Your father is bringing the Emperor to Epernay,” she went on. “The Emperor is coming to see you. Don’t forget that; be brave and carry yourself like a true knight. You are growing so big, my little son. Kneel before the Emperor when you are brought before him and say, Welcome, Sire.’”

“Welcome, Sire, welcome, Sire,” repeated Charles; he no longer knew whether he was dreaming or awake.

The day dawned with great hubbub and activity; from the kitchens where work had gone on all night, rose the odor of venison and fresh bread; servants in festive livery lit fires in all the halls. When clarion calls and the sound of trampling hooves were heard, Charles was not able to go and look out the window; he stood waiting in a corner of the great hall with the Dame de Maucouvent and his nurse Jeanne la Brune, both of whom wore new, fur-trimmed mantles in honor of this occasion. His father entered, followed by a train of knights and pages; he was leading a fat man with a red, smiling face to the seat of honor. For the first time in his life Charles saw his mother curtsey three times, very deeply; he held his breath. On the lake of the castle of Montils lived a black swan; in her rustling black dress, his mother curtsied the way the swan alighted with outspread wings on the surface of the water. After that he had to come himself. He did his best, kneeling before the fat man who chuckled looking down at him, and saying, “Welcome, Sire.” It was over in a moment. The Dame de Maucouvent brought him back to the nursery.

After the meal he was sent for again. The Emperor’s face was still redder than it had been in the morning; he hung back in the seat of honor and roared with incessant laughter. Even when Charles’ father rose to speak, he went on sniggering and chortling.

“Charles, my son,” said the Duke of Orléans, “it has pleased our lord, the Emperor, to promise you as your wife, his niece Elisabeth, the heiress of Bohemia.”

“Ja, ja, ja!” cried Wenceslaus in a hoarse voice, throwing himself back and forth in his chair, “Bravo, bravo!”

“Thank the Emperor,” Charles’ father went on calmly, but the child could see from the fixed look in his eye that he was displeased.

“A fine lad, a beautiful child!” Wenceslaus screamed with laughter. “He must drink; wine, wine!” He flourished his goblet so that wine spattered over the table. Charles took a few hasty swallows from the beaker which his father held before him. He knew now that the Emperor Wenceslaus was dead drunk and he was afraid of drunkards. His mother signalled to him with a reassuring nod of the head that he could leave.

“Come, come, she is getting a handsome dowry!” roared the Emperor, pounding the pommel of his dagger on the edge of the table. “A hundred thousand livres — squeeze that in your fingers!” He spoke French like a street vagrant, with coarse sounds and words, richly interspersed with incomprehensible Polish exclamations and expletives.

“And you,” Wenceslaus went on, pointing at the Duke, “as for you, Orléans, I will do what I promised — that is why I came here. Pm really no braggart!” He lunged forward. “Pll call my bishops together — and I’ll say to them, by thunder, this is the way it must be! Use your influence in favor of the unity of the Church — the unity of the Church. Keep your eyes on France, I shall say. And I shall not neglect to stress what you have requested of me, Orléans!”

The Duke of Orléans interrupted him quickly with expressions of thanks. Wenceslaus was too drunk to notice the interruption; tears of affection had sprung to his eyes, he hit Louis unceasingly hard on the shoulder. “It’s good to talk with you, Orléans,” he said, while he tottered up from his chair. “Better than with that brother of yours, the King there in Reims. When he is sensible — I am boozy. When I am sober — he is crazy! But with you I can talk, Orléans, at any time of the day.”

Louis bit his lips; the dinner guests were nudging each other and laughing behind their hands. It was common knowledge that anyone who wanted to confer with Wenceslaus had to approach the Emperor before breakfast; that was the only time that he was sober enough to know what he was doing. Valentine, who found her guest’s behavior extremely painful, and who, moreover, gathered from Louis’ demeanor that the Emperor was busily spreading confidential information abroad, nodded to the musicians and minstrels who were waiting their turn at the back of the hall. Wenceslaus, however, paid no attention to music or poetry.

“Did you see the hateful looks that fat Bavarian was giving me during the conference? Well, did you?” he shouted loudly. “That brother of hers — Ludwig — he was around there too! What are these Wittelsbachers plotting? Do they want to pull tricks on me? What do you think, Orléans?”

Louis sighed impatiently, and shrugged. He knew that Isabeau had gone to Reims filled with suspicion, fearing that an alliance with France would save Wenceslaus from the fate which the Electors planned for him: to depose him in the near future. Although Louis considered the Emperor to be a drunken swine, he wanted to see him retain his throne. If Ruprecht, a Wittelsbacher, were to become Emperor, French interests — or at least French interests as Orléans perceived them — would undoubtedly suffer. A Wittelsbacher would under all circumstances follow Burgundy’s advice. In Reims Louis had in passing overheard Ludwig of Bavaria say to Isabeau, “Don’t worry, sister. The Drunkard has come here against the Electors’ will. He has given himself the death blow.”

Louis hoped that the Wittelsbachers were mistaken. In any case he had forged strong ties between Wenceslaus and himself by bringing about Charles’ betrothal to the Emperor’s little niece. That child could one day inherit the thrones of Bohemia, Poland and Hungary. That which had been denied to Louis might perhaps await his son: a Crown.

Orléans had gone to great trouble to get Wenceslaus to come to France. The Emperor, who was virtually the only foreign prince who had not refused to become involved in Church affairs, was pleasantly impressed by Orléans’ continual, overflowing hospitality. He preferred Louis’ conversation to the endless dull monologues of Maitre Gerson of the University; he certainly preferred Louis’ company to that of the mad Charles, the hostile Isabeau, the cold, haughty Burgundy. He said aye and amen to Louis at the meeting in Reims and promised him his support. Although Louis expected few results from Wenceslaus’s cooperation, he felt he had, at any rate, accomplished one thing: he had prevented the Emperor from becoming a tool in Burgundy’s hands.

The relationship between uncle and nephew had entered a dangerous phase. Until now they had thrashed out their disagreements under the surface; no matter how they despised each other’s actions and ideas, they had never become open enemies. At court they behaved toward each other with painful care, giving each other the prescribed marks of honor, and discussing things in a calm, courtly way while their blood boiled. Only occasionally in Council meetings they lost their self-control and attacked each other without mercy. Now, however, the rift between Orléans and Burgundy had deepened — it had become an abyss which no courtesy or appearance of good will could bridge.

In the course of the year France had received a royal guest: Henry Bolingbroke, Lancaster’s son, whom Richard II had banished from England. In Paris the fine details of the matter were not known, but the man who had chosen to spend his exile in France was received hospitably and with respect. The King of England reproached his father-in-law for his lack of tact in honoring a rebel who had acted against the execution of the warmonger Gloucester, his kinsman. France was making itself ridiculous by sheltering an enemy. These arguments might have convinced the French court to shun Bolingbroke if reports of the death of the old Duke of Lancaster had not reached Paris at almost the same time, followed nearly immediately by the news that King Richard had seized most of his property to discourage Lancaster’s heir from returning to England.

This information roused great indignation in the French court. Richard’s conduct was condemned as a breach of chivalry. Influenced by Orléans, who had sworn fellowship with Bolingbroke, many courtiers stood up openly for the exile in one of those bursts of knightly magnanimity which so often militated against their own interests. Saint-Pol donned mourning for the deceased Lancaster and masses were read for him. Then the Duke of Berry entertained the Englishman in his castle in Bicetre. Louis often spent a few days at Bicetre while Henry was there in the hope of deciphering his enigmatic character and winning him as a friend and, perhaps, as a future ally. However, during his last visit to Bicetre, the scales had fallen from Louis’ eyes. He was later to think back on those days with bitterness: once, after the hunting parties and banquets, which were exceptionally lavish — Berry inexhaustibly invented new amusements for his guests — Lancaster had unexpectedly betrayed himself over a perfunctory game of chess. He talked about Richard and his government in a way which, to the attentive listener, reflected nothing but hatred and jealousy. Louis kept his eyes fixed on the chess pieces while Lancaster, cold and self-possessed, spoke with apparent casualness — but, with a sensitivity sharpened by experience, Orléans perceived the passion which the other tried so carefully to conceal.

“The King of France is crazy,” said Henry of Lancaster harshly, “and that is bad. But there are those in England who consider Richard a more dangerous lunatic. I have never seen anyone risk his crown so recklessly as my worthy cousin. He doesn’t seem to understand the simplest elements of reigning — he himself destroys the pillars which support his throne. Only a madman would act like this. Since he became king, he has done nothing but antagonize the people whom he needs the most: the Church, Parliament, the nobility. He puts them off, he kicks them into a corner — he can do that very well. Now he accuses seventeen vassals of high treason, seizes their estates and possessions — and then he sells them back to the former owners because he needs money. Tell me if that makes any sense — apart from the fact that he is conducting a foreign policy which no one can understand.”

“I see,” said Louis in a courteous tone. But disappointment and distrust crept over him.

Burgundy too came to Bicetre a few times with a large retinue to visit the English guest. Orléans was sure now that his uncle was following a carefully prepared plan; he was seeking highly-placed allies who had reason, or thought they had reason, to turn against France. Despite all outward appearances, the atmosphere among the royal kinsmen was oppressive; the King, who had been in his right senses only a few weeks before, suffered from violent headaches and renewed fits of melancholy; the Queen was uneasy because there was no news from England — the last report she had was that many of Isabelle’s retinue had been dismissed and were on the point of returning home. To her brother-in-law, Isabeau was extremely cool — she knew that he supported Wenceslaus, and in Church matters followed a policy opposed to that of Bavaria and Burgundy. Her brother Ludwig had called her attention to the role played by Orléans; she understood fully for the first time that he was an adversary who should not be underrated. She had considered trying to win him over by pledges and promises, but she rejected the notion. She had — for the moment — strong support in Burgundy. A rapprochement with Orléans could alienate that powerful ally.

In Normandy the summer days went by slowly. The King sat in a cool dark chamber or rode, surrounded by nobles, on a gentle horse, through the vast forests. Louis d’Orléans alternated between his brother’s retinue and the Queen’s. The members of the House of Burgundy spent the summer in their own domains.

As a gift from the King, Isabeau had received an estate in Saint-Ouen with farmhouses, fields, meadows and livestock; there she spent the beautiful days with her children and her retinue. She wanted to recreate the rustic atmosphere of one of her father’s Bavarian mountain retreats, smelling of hay and pigs, where geese fluttered about the courtyard, and where she had run barefoot through the mud with milkmaids and stableboys. She had no desire, of course, to give herself up to these simple pleasures again, although she scattered barley and grain for the fowl with her own hand, and, attended by a procession of court ladies, gathered currants in the kitchen gardens.

It was during one of these visits to the Hotel de la Bergerie, as Isabeau called her estate, that Louis wandered away from the company and strolled into the forest. From there, among the tall bushes, under the trees, he could see the lords and ladies amusing themselves on the lawn which sparkled in the sunlight. At some distance from the others, one woman stood alone, staring at the edge of the forest. Louis wished that he, like the magician in the old ballad, knew a charm which could bring Mariette de Cany to him to remain always, without a backward glance. Concealed behind the foliage, he watched her. What did she possess that kept his desire for her alive, undiminished, even after long years of fruitless waiting?

Behind the fence which separated the lawn from the field, stood grimy, half-naked children, staring at the glittering spectacle; the children were called again and again by the peasants in the fields, who had been told that the high-born company did not wish to be stared at. Louis laughed softly, glancing at the orchard where Isabeau, dressed in silk and gold, sat eating fruit. The court had come to enjoy country life; they had no interest in country people. He turned away and walked slowly through the long, dark green grass in the shadow of the trees. He could not help but think of two conversations he had had in the past year: one with Boucicaut, newly returned from Turkish captivity; the other with his old friend Philippe de Maizieres while he lay on his deathbed. Both had asked him the same questions, reproached him in the same way, asking him whether he sought power to serve his own interests or to look after the welfare of the people.

To Boucicaut Louis had given an evasive answer, but he had been speechless before the old man in his death agony. It was the contest with Burgundy that weighed upon him more than anything else; more than once in the course of the last two years he had even considered seizing the Crown himself so that he could put Burgundy in checkmate. The King’s attacks of madness were growing longer and more violent; no one believed now that he could recover.

“Do I really want that?” Louis asked himself aloud. Around him the smooth trunks of the trees rose up from the undergrowth like pillars in the nave of a church; blueberries gleamed darkly amid the low greenery. Both the laughter of the courtiers and the shouts of the peasants sounded far away; he was alone in the deep green silence of the forest. The path before him split into two forks which vanished in the dusk under the trees; he did not know where they led. For a moment it seemed infinitely important to him which path he took. But behind him a cuckoo’s call came high and clear in the silence; he turned away without making a decision and went to search for the source of that enticing sweet summer sound.

In the fall the court returned to Paris, to the palace of Saint-Pol. The epidemic had spent itself; it was true that great fires still burned in the public squares and on street corners as precautions, and that near the houses where the sick had lain the pungent odor of vinegar still hovered in the air. But the danger of infection seemed to have passed.

Under a gloomy sky streaked with rain clouds, the royal retinue rode into the city, past the abbey of Saint-Germain de Prés, through the Augustine gate beyond the temple where the royal treasures and the gold of France were stored under guard. The people filled the streets; they were eager to see the King again. The King and Louis rode side by side preceding the carriage where Isabeau sat with the Dauphin. The King sprawled in the saddle, weary after the long ride, his head drooping slightly; he shivered in the chill wind. The crowd on Saint-MichePs bridge shouted, “Noel! Noel!” These cries roused the King from his torpor; he was reminded of the days when he had ridden in triumph under a canopy through streets strewn with lilies. He smiled vaguely at the people along the way. Many of the spectators — especially those who had not seen him for years — burst into tears; they hardly recognized him. Secretly Louis supported his brother; he rode close to the King so that he could hold him by the elbow under cover of his cloak.

In the rue Saint- Antoine, directly in front of the church of Saint-Pol, a commotion broke out among the people. Someone called out, “Down with Orléans, the sorcerer, the traitor!” The armed constables of the Provost, who walked before and on both sides of the procession, pushed their way into the crowd. The horses reared, frightened by the shouting and the people. The Queen’s carriage stopped.

During the entry to the city, Isabeau had stared straight before her; the streets, stinking of smoke, the avid faces and the greedy glances of the populace filled her, as always, with a certain secret fear. She preferred to look up at the windows of the castle and the houses of the rich merchants, where well-dressed burghers, nobles and their families looked down on the procession, smiling in greeting. The poverty and hunger of most of the people was apparent in their faces and their clothing; they seemed ravaged by sickness and adversity. Among the artisans, hawkers and little people with their wives and children, among the students and priests, clerks and officials, there appeared everywhere rather terrifying figures who, in the course of the last few years, in ever-growing numbers, from near and far, had invaded Paris. Dressed in rags, dirty and neglected, gaunt, hardened and insolent, they roamed in packs through the city; they made the country roads unsafe, started brawls in taverns, committed murder and manslaughter.

While the constables shoved the uneasy multitude back to a narrow strip of ground before the houses, Isabeau, with her arm around the Dauphin, looked on with apprehension and anger. She thought she saw two men slink hunched over, to melt among the bystanders. One looked up for a moment, not far from the royal carriage. Isabeau recognized Guillaume the exorcist, whom the King had turned over to Orléans four years earlier. Louis had considered having the man executed, but finally, as a sign of greater contempt, he had released him without questioning him. And not long afterward he had dismissed the astrologer Ettore Salvia, whose glib tongue and inscrutable demeanor had begun to irritate him. Isabeau leaned forward and stared sharply at Guillaume’s companion. Both men, however, fought their way to the side street Sainte-Catherine and vanished into the crowd.

Orléans did not betray in any way that he had noticed the ominous shout or the presence of Guillaume and his comrade; it required all his attention to control the King’s horse as well as his own. The Provost’s servants cleared a path; the heralds blew the trumpets and the procession began to move again.

Not long afterward the court was upset by the sudden return to Paris of the Dame de Courcy, the mistress of ceremonies, who had been sent to England with Madame Isabelle. The Queen heard the news from a chambermaid in the early morning of December seventh; violently disturbed, she ordered that the King be notified at once. Even before the sun was up, the Sire de Courcy appeared in the palace; he was taken to a small reception hall where the King and Queen, as well as the Dukes of Orléans and Burgundy, awaited him. Isabeau could scarcely control herself during the courteous greetings.

“By God, Messire de Courcy,” she cried out at last, half-rising from her chair. “Tell us your news of our daughter, the Queen of England. We hear that Madame de Courcy returned to the city quite unexpectedly last night.”

De Courcy did not look up.

“My Lady,” he said in a low voice, “the Queen of England has not a single French subject remaining in her service. The entire retinue was summarily dismissed within twenty-four hours by … by the King’s command.”

“I don’t believe it!” cried Isabeau; she looked at her husband, but he only twisted his long fingers nervously together until the knuckles cracked. Orléans and Burgundy stood motionless next to each other. “I do not believe it,” Isabeau repeated vehemently. “King Richard is well disposed toward us; he would never insult our daughter so grievously.”

“Nay, Madame,” said de Courcy sadly, “he would not. But Richard is no longer King of England. He has freely delivered the Crown and all to his cousin… he who was here last year, the Duke of Lancaster.”

Isabeau became deathly pale. She staggered and sat down with an effort.

“Freely? Of his own will?” Louis d’Orléans cried out loudly and derisively. “What does one call ‘freely* in England, Messire de Courcy?”

De Courcy mopped his forehead; never before in his life had he been required to perform a more painful task than this.

“The people of London hailed Lancaster as king the moment he arrived in the city,” he said. “The Lords of Arundel and Gloucester and many other nobles whose nearest kin King Richard had had killed or banished supported Lancaster. With an armed force they fetched Richard from Conway castle and brought him back to London and locked him up in the fortress they call the Tower of London. My wife tells me that King Richard himself asked for a private audience with … with the Duke of Lancaster. They were together for more than two hours and apparently at that time King Richard abdicated his throne. A short time later, in the presence of Parliament, the lords of the Kingdom and the clergy, with his own hands he gave crown and scepter to Lancaster — who has already been crowned in Westminster. He calls himself Henry IV.”

“Yes, yes, but my child?” Isabeau clenched her fists. “My daughter, Messire de Courcy, what has happened to my daughter?”

De Courcy shook his head slowly. “All I know, Madame, is that she has been given a new retinue — with only English ladies and lords who have been stricdy forbidden to discuss King Richard with her. My wife is completely beside herself because she has been forced to abandon Madame Isabelle,” he added softly. The Queen sat un-moving.

The King had listened with his mouth open. When the Sire de Courcy had finished, the King’s whole body began to tremble.

“How is it possible?” he asked in that high, whining voice which was typical of him during his attacks of madness. “How is it possible that our son-in-law of England has given away his kingdom as though it were a crust of dry bread? By God and Saint-Michael, how could that happen?”

Now the Duke of Burgundy spoke for the first time.

“Princes often fare badly when they cannot rule. Richard has brought this fate upon himself. He who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind.”

“Precisely, my lord uncle of Burgundy,” cried Louis d’Orléans; he had thrown aside restraint now that Burgundy had dared to make such an allusion to the King. “Indeed there are ambitious traitors everywhere who need little encouragement to strike. He who is trusting by nature is easily deceived by such scoundrels.”

During these words Burgundy kept his head turned away from Louis, as though he were not being addressed. When Orléans was silent, he sighed calmly, but he did not reply. He walked up to the place where the King sat and said spitefully, “I knew perfectly well this was coming. The marriage between Richard and Madame Is-abelle was a senseless undertaking. When the envoys came here four years ago, I warned against the bond …”

“That is a lie,” said Louis harshly. The Sire de Courcy shivered in dismay; Isabeau raised her head and shot a warning glance at her brother-in-law. Burgundy continued as though he were unaware of any interruption.

“I knew that Richard was unpopular; that almost everyone of any consequence in England had turned against him. And Gloucester, that wily fox, only added kindling to the fire. I explained all that in detail to the Council at the time.”

“Again, a damnable lie, lord uncle!” Louis flung himself violently between Burgundy and the King. “You insisted on that marriage; it wouldn’t surprise me if you had suggested it in the first place. It was I alone who argued against the marriage before the Council. Your memory can’t be that bad!”

Burgundy shrugged. “Worthy nephew, I have no desire to quarrel with you here about this. Surely there are more important matters to discuss right now. The news from England has taken us completely by surprise. But perhaps it is not news to you? At BicStre you and Henry of Lancaster were often together …”

“My God, my lord of Burgundy!” Louis took a step forward. “What do you mean by that?”

Isabeau gestured; she was white with rage because her brother in-law and Burgundy had forgotten themselves in front of a courtier. It was universally believed that de Courcy could not be trusted with a secret. Nothing would lend itself more to the spread of gossip than this agitated argument. The King was slumped into the corner of his chair with his head in his hands, too depressed by the news he had just heard to pay attention to the quarrel.

“What should I mean?” asked Burgundy with cold derision. “We know very well that you disliked Richard ever since he said that you were ambitious and dangerous.”

“You lie again, Monseigneur!” Louis clenched his fists. “I have never heard that Richard said such things about me! What I do know is that Henry of Lancaster received substantial sums of money from you and that his journey through Brittany was part of a hoax.”

Burgundy sniffed scornfully, but his eyes became suddenly hard and watchful. “What I do not underrate is your ability to fabricate. But you are going too far, nephew, if you are trying to convey the impression that Monseigneur of Brittany and I were aware of Lancaster’s intentions.”

“I will go farther. I say plainly that you wanted this from the very beginning. Madame,” Louis turned to Isabeau, “you must suffer my lord of Burgundy and me to carry this conversation to its end. We have gone too far to be silent now.”

“You ask my consent to this?” Isabeau retorted furiously. “You forget the King, Monseigneur d’Orléans. Do you give no thought to him, who still commands all of us here?”

The rebuke stung Louis. He thought bitterly how easy it was to forget that the King was not a child. He was about to turn to his brother and beg his forgiveness when Burgundy drawled loudly, “Apparently only you, Madame, are able to remind Monseigneur d’Orléans that he does not wear the crown.”

“Damned hypocrite!” Louis struck his upper arm with his fist. “Will you deny, uncle, that you have an interest in the English rebellion? You could not manipulate King Richard: he was too independent. He refused to allow himself to be ordered about by his kinsmen, the clergy, the nobility. Now you have helped Henry of Lancaster and he is obligated to you. Although he will arrive shortly over the sea with an army to fight against France, he will not disturb your lands or your business arrangements. Don’t try to make us believe the fairy tale that you serve only the interests of France; I will call you a liar, no matter how often you say it.”

For the first time that Louis could remember, the Duke of Burgundy lost his haughty self-control; his face became ashy grey with rage, his voice trembled.

“Tell me, nephew, whether it is for love of France that you maintain relations with an Emperor who is too drunk to sign his own name; that you heap gold and gifts on his relatives from the House of Luxembourg. And tell me whether you accept the cities and provinces so often bestowed upon you simply for the sake of justice, and is it for the sake of justice that you are so well paid from the public treasury for your services?”

The King’s lips quivered; he moved his hands quickly and aimlessly over his cloak, over the arms of his chair.

“It is coming again,” he said suddenly. He looked helplessly in wild terror at Isabeau. “It is coming over me again. Oh, God, I can feel it approaching; please help me!” He slid from his chair onto his knees, wailing hoarsely. The Queen stood up; her lips were compressed in abhorrence. She knew what would follow; over the last few years she had been present several times when his madness overcame him.

“Take him away,” she said in a low, tense voice to the Duke of Burgundy. “Call his people. Send the physicians — quickly.”

De Courcy seized this opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The King was crawling across the floor, howling and weeping plaintively; he tried to cling to his wife’s skirts, to Burgundy’s sleeves. Louis d’Orléans went to the door to call some nobles of the King’s retinue who were in the anterooms. After a few minutes the reception hall was filled with people — bringing more lights, a cool drink, some damp towels. This pitiful spectacle had been repeated at regular intervals since 1392; it was always followed by several months at least of complete insanity. Louis helped his brother to stand and held him up; he cursed himself for the altercation with Burgundy which had inadvertendy aggravated the King’s overwrought condition.

“In Christ’s name,” the King implored, clutching Louis with mad strength, “help me. It hurts — so much! It is coming upon me again. Oh, God, if anyone here hates me so much that he would torture me like this, let him kill me now, here where I stand, I cannot endure it any longer!”

Louis put his arms around the King and soothed him like a child. He did not see Isabeau and Burgundy exchange glances. While servants and physicians bustled about the King, the Duke of Burgundy and the Queen left the room.

Louis led the King to his apartments. But he could not force himself to watch while the physicians tried crudely to undress the sick man and restore him to his senses. The sound of the King’s screams seemed to pursue Orléans into the remote corridors of the palace. In one of the abandoned doorways, he stopped and pressed his face against the icy wall.

“My God, my God,” he whispered. “What shall I do? Parry … or attack? Frustrate my enemy or fight him to the death? Up to now I have been passive, more or less — but in the name of Jesus Christ, I shall lash out now and woe to him who stands in my way!”

He heard footsteps and turned quickly. A noble from the King’s retinue walked past, with a respectful salute. It was the Sire Aubert de Cany.

In his adult years, Charles d’Orléans remembered three incidents which occurred in the year 1400; as a child Charles saw no connection between them. But in retrospect, when he was grown, he saw their underlying relationship. The first was a visit paid to his mother at their castle in Chateau-Thierry, by the Dame Christine de Pisan. The Duchess of Orléans was in a mournful mood in those days; the old Queen Blanche had died, the only royal woman who continued to behave as she always had, showing kindness to Valentine in her exile and disgrace. She had visited her young friend twice; in her will she bequeathed to her small, cherished gifts: a ring, a precious prayerbook, a breviary with illuminated miniatures. Sorrowfully, Valentine accepted these heirlooms; she felt she was now completely alone. It had been a long time since Louis had paid her a visit. And she was expecting a child in the spring once more. Thus she was doubly glad to see the Dame de Pisan, a noble, generous woman, Italian like the Duchess herself and, moreover, one who knew from her own experience the bitter taste of tears. Valentine found some comfort in the companionship of the poetess; they had much in common. The days passed quickly with pleasant conversation, music and reading.

Charles was often with his mother and her guest; while they talked in the high-ceilinged room hung with bright tapestries, the child sat in his favorite spot in the deep window niche looking; out the small, thick, slightly cloudy panes at the winter landscape and the crows’ nests in the tall trees around the castle.

Once on an afternoon filled with grey light and squalls of rain, he amused himself by breathing on the curved glass of the panes and then drawing a puppet on the clouded surface with his finger. But when it got dark and he grew tired of that, he caught fragments* of the conversation between his mother and the Dame de Pisan; he listened more attentively when he heard mention of his father’s name. The lady Christine described a brilliant fete given by the Duke of Orléans on Saint Valentine’s Day in the Hotel de Behaigne in Paris: she had been there watching the spectacle from a bench set against the wall. She described the elegant repast, enlivened by the music of Orléans’ famed minstrels; an allegory was presented with Love and My Lady Fidelity and her retinue. Young maidens wearing wreaths of flowers in their hair, clearly and sweedy sang a new motet, and after the banquet an Order of the Rose had been created in honor of the ladies present. And after that they arranged themselves in long rows to begin the dance. The Dame de Pisan, a widow who would wear mourning as long as she lived, did not join in the dance, but she enjoyed the dancers’ pleasure. She watched the ladies and knights move forward slowly and elegandy over the mosaic floor in the great hall of the Hotel; the dance seemed unending. None of the couples who moved, bowing and turning under the chandeliers, wanted to break the spell.

“With whom did Monseigneur, my husband, dance?” asked Valentine with a sad smile. The glowing splendor of Louis’ fetes in the Hotel de Behaigne seemed very remote to her, like images in a dream.

“With the best dancer of all, surely,” replied the Dame de Pisan readily. “The wife of Sire Aubert de Cany — I have never seen anyone so graceful.”

The Duchess of Orléans bent her head over her embroidery.

“Charles,” she said to her son after a prolonged silence, “ask the woman to bring candles. It is getting so dark I cannot see the thread.”

The child obeyed, surprised at the change in her voice.

One early spring morning the Demoiselle Marie d’Harcourt came to tell Charles that he had a new brother, Monseigneur Jean d’Orléans. Later they brought Charles to his mother, who lay motionless in bed, white as snow, with closed eyes. The baby was so ugly that Charles turned away in horror; he had expected to see a small child like Philippe, who followed his older brother everywhere on his sturdy little legs. Every day, for a few minutes in the morning and evening, Charles was allowed in the lying-in chamber. His mother sat up now, but she looked strange and thin and she spoke little.

The buds on the trees and shrubbery burst open. A light green haze hung over the tree branches in the forest; the sky was filled with white shining clouds. Charles, less carefully supervised now that his mother and little brother took up all the nurses’ time, chose to spend his days watching the falconers exercising the young birds. The hawks were taught to fling themselves upon the prey — which at the moment were heron wings tied to a stick — and then to drop it at a certain spot. Charles was fascinated by this bird training; he watched closely as the falconer bound thin strong cords to the hawks’ legs, as they artfully handled stick and hood.

But his mother’s first walk to church was also an event; as her nearest male relative, Charles was permitted to lead her by the hand, a task which he discharged with gravity and discretion. The Duchess of Orléans offered the customary taper and gold piece; but her pale lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes were full of tears.

Not long afterward she called her eldest son to her where she stood in the armory, a long, narrow low-ceilinged room where bows, bucklers and other equipment hung, greased and polished, on the walls. The Duchess had ordered her gold and silver plate to be laid out on a table in the middle of the room; it was such a dazzling display of treasure that Charles had to close his eyes when he entered the chamber. Giles Malet, the librarian, and a clerk held writing tools. Valentine explained to the boy that she intended to make her will and therefore she wanted her valuables to be described and counted.

“But I wish to make you a gift today, Charles,” she said, leading her son to the table, “because you took your father’s place so nobly on my first walk to church since the birth of your brother Jean. I have set two things aside for you, a silver goblet and this …”

She took a gold box from the table and raised it for a moment in her narrow pale hand. “Open it, child.”

Charles obeyed. In the box were a large golden cross and a bright enameled crucifix with a chain. Somewhat disappointed, the child thanked her. He would have preferred a ring or shiny buckle to wear on his hat, but he understood that this was a more important gift — indeed, a grown-up gift — and that pleased him.

“This is the only comfort the world offers, Charles,” his mother said slowly; she closed the box. “Do not forget that when grief overwhelms you, and remember then what I say to you now: life is a long awaiting of God’s peace.”

“Yes, Madame ma mere,” replied Charles, somewhat distracted by the activities of Maitre Malet and the clerk. The librarian was dictating while the clerk wrote: “To our dearly beloved son Charles, Count of Angoulême, a silver drinking bowl…”

In the afternoon of this memorable day, a messenger arrived from Paris with letters and gifts from Charles’ father; the Duke inquired after the health of his wife and children and sent his minstrel, Herbelin, to amuse the Duchess.

Thoughtfully Valentine read the letters; she looked over the bales of velvet and woolens and after the meal received Herbelin. The minstrel, who was a still-young man with black curling hair and an animated expression, was universally loved for his liveliness and his skill at the harp. The Duchess had great respect for him; he had often taught her new songs.

Herbelin played and sang now till late in the evening. Valentine’s retinue sat listening as though they were entranced; the Duchess herself sat in quiet enjoyment with her hand shielding her eyes. The dogs were sleeping, stretched out before the fire. Charles, huddled on a small bench beside the hearth, was careful to make no noise for fear he would be sent to bed; he did not want to miss a note, not a sound of the music, clear as raindrops, cool and shimmering like the green river, filled with fragrance and the color of unknown things. He watched Herbelin’s long fingers grasp the chords quickly and surely; but more beautiful still was Herbelin’s voice, in which could be heard the wind and the peal of church bells, as well as the murmur of water and the clash of weapons.

“One more song, my Herbelin,” said the Duchess at last. “It is late and you must surely be tired. Send us to bed with something pretty.”

“Madame, if it please Your Grace, I shall play my own composition,” said the minstrel, “set to a poem which Monseigneur Orléans wrote a short while ago.”

“Monseigneur still writes poetry?” Valentine asked, with an odd smile. But the harp player had already begun. Charles listened breathlessly; he had never heard that his father could write poetry; he was amazed. The song which Herbelin sang was about a knight who roams through a wood, a forest of long awaiting. Charles did not understand it; he remembered vaguely that his mother had spoken that afternoon about awaiting — but what sort of forest was that? Thorns and thisdes and poisonous plants grow there in profusion, sang Herbelin; on all sides danger threatens and there is no escape. But in a still clearing in the forest a tree stands, heavily laden with golden apples. The shining, living fruit tempts the knight, who is weary of his wanderings and suffers from hunger and thirst. He knows that he is forbidden to pluck the apples, for the tree belongs to another. But he snatches an apple and bites into it.

Charles saw his mother’s hand close convulsively over the arm of her chair; she sat rigid as though in violent pain. The child moved; he expected her to silence Herbelin. But the Duchess of Orléans said nothing and the minstrel sang further of the knight in the forest of awaiting.

“Who once has tasted of the golden fruit is prepared to risk death and damnation for another morsel. Let no one pity the sinner; he will not give up his place under the magic tree, not even for Heaven itself.”

So ended the poem that Monseigneur d’Orléans had written and for which the minstrel Herbelin had composed a melody. Valentine ordered her retinue to bed. As a token of her appreciation, she gave Herbelin a small gold cup which he could wear on a chain around his neck. Absently she kissed Charles good-night; she did not say anything about his staying up so late. She quit the room walking between Marie d’Harcourt and the Dame de Maucouvent, but it was not from fatigue that she stumbled on the threshold.

Charles did not see his father again until the end of the year, when his arrival in no way resembled the stately, festive earlier visits which the child remembered. The Duke did not send couriers abroad as usual; he rode in the evening into Valentine’s temporary home, the castle Villers-Cotterets, with only a small following. Servants and court were too stunned to give warning to the Duchess. She sat with Charles and Philippe in her bedchamber; the boys, who were romping on the great bed, noticed that something unusual had happened only when they heard the book which their mother was reading aloud fall to the floor with a thud. They looked up.

Their father stood in the center of the room spurred and booted, with a dark cloak over his leather jacket; his hose and the hem of his cloak were splashed with mud; he looked tired and worried.

The Duchess leaned with one hand on the arm of her chair; she did not rise to greet her husband.

“Children,” Valentine said. Her sons had slipped quickly and quietly off the bed. “Greet your father and then go to the Dame de Maucouvent.”

That night Charles lay awake for a long time in the darkness, his head throbbing; he asked himself fearfully why his father had looked so strange, why he had arrived unexpectedly, out of breath and exhausted, his clothes splattered and filthy — as though he were in disguise. Charles slept fitfully. Once he was awakened by the sound of voices and footsteps in the adjoining nursery and he saw a light burning under the door.

“Is it day already?” whispered the child. He sat up, but no one came. His little brother Philippe slept soundly and peacefully in the other bed. Presently an infant began to whimper in the nursery. Charles knew instantly that it was not Jean. The child that cries there is a new child that was just born, he thought, amazed. His first feeling was anger and chagrin because his mother had not confided in him this time. Surely his father had come to lead her to church. Charles huddled back into bed and pulled the blankets over his head so that he would hear no more howling.

Because his pride was wounded, he said nothing the following morning. The Dame de Maucouvent, who usually came to wake him and Philippe, behaved as though nothing had happened, but the harsh lines of her mouth showed her displeasure. Jeanne la Brune was busy in the nursery with little Jean, but next to the fire sat an unknown woman with an infant in her arms. Philippe stared at the strange baby with his mouth open. Charles did not betray any surprise because la Brune and the Dame de Maucouvent were watching him.

The two eldest boys were brought to the Duchess. She sat completely alone in the small room which was furnished as a private chapel. Charles had expected to find his mother in bed; he could not remain silent any longer.

“There is a new baby,” he said reproachfully. “Why is it not lying with you in the lying-in room?”

Valentine looked calmly at her sons and smiled; the anxiety and bitterness of the past few years seemed to have vanished.

“Come here,” she said. “Now listen carefully to what I am going to tell you, and promise me here in this place that as true knights you will repeat it to no one. The infant who came to us last night is not my child. But he is your half-brother; therefore you must love and protect him as you love and protect Jean.”

“Half-brother?” asked Charles hesitantly; leaning against his mother’s knee he looked close up into her large, shining amber eyes.

“That means,” Valentine continued, “that Monseigneur your father is his father also. His mother died in childbirth; and that is why he has come to live with us.”

Philippe understood nothing of all this; barely listening, he stared at the reflection of the candle flame in the golden altarpiece. Charles, however, frowned in thought.

“Where is Monseigneur my father then?” he asked at last.

“He is still asleep,” answered the Duchess; she gave her oldest son a searching look and then began to stroke his hair gently. He was six years old; did he really understand what she meant?

Charles remained silent as he had sworn he would; he rebuked Philippe when his brother tried to ask him questions about the newest baby. The Dame de Maucouvent gave neither glance nor word to the infant; she walked about with a surly look on her round face, as though she had been personally insulted.

However, the stableboys were less reticent. They spoke once in the courtyard in Charles’ presence of the bastard of Orléans who had been taken into the ducal family. Charles knew very well what a bastard was; he had heard a scullery servant’s puppy called that. But he did not understand how this word could be applied to his half-brother.

“Why is the little baby a bastard?” he asked his mother later. The Duke his father had been sitting by the fire with his face in his hands; he looked up.

“I want to tell you that it is not always disgraceful to be a bastard,” he said before Valentine could reply. “But I forbid you to call your half-brother that, my son, before you are old enough to know what you are saying. His name is Jean and he is Lord of Chateau-Dun, just as you are Count of Angoulême. Address him as Dunois, that is his rightful name.”

“Do not be angry at your half-brother, Charles,” said the Duchess gently. “I love him as much as you and Philippe and Jean, child. He really should have been mine …” She looked past Charles at her husband, and gave a low, sad laugh. “He was stolen from me, the small Dunois.”

The sudden death of Mariette de Cany flung Louis back into the vortex of battle. He had with her — for a few months at any rate — been able to forget the frustrations of the past year: the death of England’s former King, Richard; the fall of Wenceslaus, followed by the coronation of Ruprecht of Bavaria. Nor had he enjoyed undiluted happiness at the castle of Epernay, where he had brought the Dame de Cany after they became lovers. She never spoke of love, but her silence was more eloquent than words. Her desperate surrender terrified Louis; it was true that he was profoundly aware of guilt and sin, but he believed his passion could justify the relationship. For Mariette, however, there was no future; it had died, she thought, from the moment that she betrayed Aubert de Cany; she went through a purgatory of humiliation and remorse. Louis blamed her pregnancy for her emotional state; to the end he did not understand her.

“Forgive me that I must flee from you,” said Maret before she retired to the lying-in chamber. The pains had already begun, but she held herself erect and refused to allow the women to support her. Louis wanted to cheer her up. He took leave of her lighriy, with a joke. “You cannot escape me anymore, ma mie!”

“Alas, it is true,” replied Mariette slowly, turning back to face him. “But think of me sometimes, when you cannot find me.”

Louis had reason to think of her; when he saw her again, after the confinement, she lay straight and stiff between two rows of burning candles. Without a smile or farewell, she had left him forever.

After the quarrel in the presence of the King, the feud between Burgundy and Orléans was an accepted fact. Uncle and nephew avoided each other as much as possible, but in the Council passionate reproaches and thrusts burst out at every turn. Their mutual hatred could no longer be hidden; in Paris the rabble taunted Orléans’ household with cries of “Burgundy! Burgundy!”

In the beginning of the year 1401, Isabeau’s father, Duke Stefan of Bavaria, appeared at the French court to try to conclude a pact between Charles and the Emperor Ruprecht. Isabeau promised to use all her influence. But before she could act, she received a heavy blow: the Dauphin caught a chill and died; he was barely eight years old. Only a few months earlier he had made his solemn entrance into the city of Paris; accompanied by his granduncles and a brilliant procession, he had ridden on horseback through the city to the cheers of the people. Neither the efforts of the physicians nor the masses held in the King’s name in all the churches of Paris could save the child. His weak constitution succumbed to an illness which should not have been dangerous. Once more he was brought through the city to Saint-Denis, but now he was borne in a bier intended for dead kings, and weeping had supplanted the cheers. Under the weight of affliction, Isabeau for a time lost all interest in public affairs. She did not trouble Burgundy, who had begun to negotiate a betrothal between the small Marguerite de Nevers and the new Dauphin, whose elder brother lay still unburied.

Mourning for the Dauphin increased Isabeau’s worries about her daughter; the eleven-year-old widow of England’s King was in Windsor Castle, surrounded by all the ceremony which her station required, but in actual fact Lancaster’s prisoner. Delegations from France were allowed to hold brief, formal conversations with her, but all attempts to negotiate her return to Paris and the restoration of her substantial dowry, were frustrated by Henry’s cold refusal to respond, which aroused uneasy suspicions. Even Burgundy believed that Lancaster was considering a marriage between his son and the little widow. But Isabeau had other plans, with which the Duke of Burgundy, on second thought, agreed; she wanted to find a husband for her daughter in Germany.

Before summer came, Lancaster decided that keeping the dowry was not worth the loss of popular favor. No king of England had sought a French bride for himself or his kinsmen without penalty. Preparations were made for Madame Isabelle’s homeward journey. Meanwhile, Burgundy, with a great entourage, waited in state in Calais.

The prospect of her daughter’s homecoming put an end to the depression from which Isabeau had suffered throughout the spring, when she had determined to do penance for the damage she had unwittingly done to French interests and to those who attempted to thwart her over the past years. During a summer storm lightning had struck Isabeau’s bedchamber; the violence of the blow, the sight of the bedcurtains in flames, had shocked her into a vow to alter her way of life. But when the storm had passed, and her bedchamber was repaired, the Queen came to see things in another light. She established a church and required weekly masses to be said for the soul of the dead Dauphin. And thus she considered she had done her duty.

Her father, Duke Stefan of Bavaria, had resumed his visits to the French court. He expressed interest in the widow of the Sire de Coucy, who had fallen before Nicopolis. Their daughter was heiress to the barony of Coucy, an extensive and important territory located in Picardy on the borders of Flanders, Hainault and Brabant. It was anticipated that the young damsel would in time cede her proprietary rights in this land to her powerful stepfather of Bavaria. Not only would the domain of Coucy be a brilliant addition to the block of lands belonging to the House of Bavaria, but it was strategically important as a gateway to France. Burgundy, naturally, supported the marriage proposal; as did Isabeau, as did Berry, who occupied himself at Bicetre collecting exotic beasts. Only Bourbon hesitated; he was not convinced of the wisdom of the marriage. Orléans did not appear at the meetings held to discuss the marriage agreement; he surprised Isabeau and his fellow Regents by buying the barony of Coucy from the heiress. The King ratified by his signature the contract in which the daughter of the Sire de Coucy declared “that in the interest of the Kingdom, she could do no better than to transfer the domain of Coucy to Monseigneur the Duke of Orléans”. For the first time Louis tasted triumph; he had overtrumped Burgundy and the Bavarian princes. Their rage and disappointment made it obvious to him at the same time when he must make his next move.

In the midst of Bavarian lands lay the Duchy of Luxembourg; it belonged to the Margrave of Moravia, a kinsman and ally of Wenceslaus. This territory, a wedge between Flanders, Hainault and Brabant, on the one hand, and the states subject to Ruprecht of Bavaria on the other, was strategically crucial. The Margrave of Moravia, who wished at any cost to safeguard his property from the hated Bavarians, suggested that Orléans place Luxembourg under his protection.

The realization that his star was rising stimulated Louis to increase his political activity. While the Queen was absent, he managed to send his friend, Marshal Boucicaut, to Genoa as governor. Bou-cicaut, who understood and agreed with Louis in everything, performed his duties in an exemplary manner from the first day onward. He managed to maintain order on the other side of the Alps without endangering the peace with neighbor and ally.

Once more Isabeau and Burgundy had bitter reason to bemoan the actions of the King’s brother. Each of them attempted, in his own fashion, to outwit him; the Queen, enraged because war against Gian Galeazzo was out of the question while Boucicaut was governor of Genoa, entered heart and soul into the intrigues of Emperor Ruprecht; Burgundy, meanwhile, struck elsewhere. Through artful political maneuvering, he brought the Duchy of Brittany within his sphere of influence.

Louis was in a grim mood, chiefly because of Burgundy’s successful countermove. The King, more gravely ill than ever, was unapproachable; he seemed, in fact, scarcely human. Almost every day Isabeau received envoys from Germany; Louis was aware of this, although the Queen attempted to behave as though nothing unusual were happening. The Dukes of Berry and Bourbon remained aloof, wishing to see which way the cat would jump. In the Council all was confusion and discontent; it was impossible to steer a steady course with so many conflicting opinions. Louis d’Orléans craved an oudet for his feelings of hatred for Lancaster and Burgundy; he challenged his former brother-in-arms to a duel. It occurred to him to do this after he had seen his niece, the little Isabelle, move pale and mournful through the halls of Saint-Pol, still accorded the dignity and respect of a queen. She had carried back from England an attitude of injured majesty which seemed almost ludicrous in so young a child, but the grief in her bright round eyes was real. She had loved King Richard deeply; he had always been kind to her.

“And he loved me too,” said the child, sobbing. “He lifted me in the air when he took leave of me before he went to Ireland, and he must have kissed me forty times.” When Madame Isabelle said this, her tears would not stop flowing.

Louis felt deep compassion for the unthroned Queen, the child who had become a widow before she became a woman. It would be extremely difficult to arrange so brilliant a marriage for her again. Before long she would, perhaps, be forced to set aside the high rank which she now bore so self-consciously. She sat surrounded by princesses and duchesses, arrayed in the state robes of her dowry, in furnished apartments set aside for Her Majesty, the Dowager-Queen of England. But all the ceremony, all the homage and pomp, could bring no color to her small, stiff face. Upset and angry, Louis felt it was his duty to do what the French court apparently considered unnecessary; he flung himself forward as his niece’s champion and challenged Lancaster to single combat.

The Englishman replied dryly that he found the proposal ridiculous; he had no inclination to fight with one who was his inferior in rank.

In fact, things were not going smoothly for England’s new monarch; he discovered all too quickly that one cannot learn to rule in a few days. With Burgundy’s help he managed to achieve an extension of the peace treaty with France. He was so distracted by internal affairs that he had no time even to think about attacking French soil. Louis, believing that France should not be cheated of the chance to strike at England while it was weakened by dissension, played his trump card against Burgundy. In the summer of 1402 he set out with a great entourage for Coucy, which was favorably located near the border, and entered into negotiations with representatives of the Margrave of Moravia for the purchase of Luxembourg. The agreement was reached without difficulty. For the sum of 100,000 ducats Moravia sold the Duchy to Orléans. Louis went almost immediately to his new domain where he approached the lords of the region and bound them to him in the traditional way with gifts and grants. Thus a dangerous rift was opened in the Bavarian sphere of influence by Louis d’Orléans; in case of war he could rely now on an army of vassals and their followers. Both Orléans and Burgundy had adopted highly provocative stances; neither could move now without mortally wounding his adversary or being mortally wounded himself.

One afternoon in May, 1403, Isabeau, on returning from a stroll in the gardens of Saint-Pol, accompanied by her entourage, heard with surprise that the Duke of Orléans had requested an audience with her; he had been waiting for a considerable time in the anteroom. Relations between the Queen and her brother-in-law had grown extremely chilly over the past few years; they spoke to each other only on state occasions and maintained the illusion of mutual courtesy only for the sake of appearances. Isabeau was involved with Burgundy’s policies; she was on the side of Burgundy and Bavaria, and she did not trust Orléans. During the past few months she had begun to show her disapproval by openly avoiding him.

Isabeau set out for her favorite room; it was a chamber hung with flowered tapestries next to the reception hall. She knew that the King had held audience that morning with Louis d’Orléans and a great number of clergy. Charles was somewhat better at the moment; for a short time he could once again busy himself with affairs of state.

While Isabeau awaited her brother-in-law’s arrival, she fanned herself impatiently with a handkerchief and sniffed repeatedly at a gold-filigree ball filled with sweet-smelling herbs. Presently the doors opened and the Duke of Orléans was announced. Louis entered the Queen’s room and bowed; although neither word nor gesture left anything to be desired, Isabeau detected under his courtly demeanor a cold self-assurance which made her very angry; it seemed to her that Louis must already have accomplished his purpose.

“Well, my lord?” The Queen was cold and haughty in her turn. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Louis ran his eyes over the rows of noble women. Margaretha of Burgundy stared past him, her face hard and grey as though it were hewn from stone; the Countess de Nevers smiled politely; her eyes were icy. Louis, who under other circumstances had seen those eyes gleam with a different emotion, raised his brows ironically. The other ladies of Isabeau’s suite kept their eyes fixed demurely on the floor.

“Send your women away, Madame,” replied Louis. “What I must say to you is intended for your ears only.”

The Queen wanted to deny his request curtly; she could see that Margaretha of Burgundy expected her to do so. But in that case she feared that Orléans would not speak, and she felt it was her duty to find out what he was up to. Therefore she commanded her women to withdraw; the Burgundy women, deeply offended, led the others from the chamber.

“I have been with the King,” said Orléans, as soon as the door had closed behind the Queen’s retinue. “Perhaps Your Majesty does not know that he has once more recovered his health?”

Isabeau looked up in surprise. “Naturally, I know it… ”

“You have not visited the King for weeks,” said Louis, looking at her steadily, “although he sends you messages repeatedly. He has complained of it himself, Madame.”

“But that is not true!” The Queen made a vehement gesture; the perfumed ball rolled to the floor. “I have been to see the King twice with the Dauphin. A day does not go by without my inquiry into the state of his health.”

“Oh, yes, very good, Madame,” said Louis impatiently, “but you choose to misunderstand me. The King is your husband.”

Isabeau’s face and plump neck turned deep scarlet; she lowered her eyes. It was extremely quiet in the room: birds could be heard in the park, and the shouts of nobles on the fives-courts.

“I do not want to,” the Queen burst out harshly. “I cannot. Jesus, Maria. I do not want to any more.”

Louis d’Orléans gazed at Isabeau’s broad fingers; she was wringing her hands with a strength that seemed to belie their softness.

“What do you mean, Madame?” Louis asked gently; he was moved despite himself by her distress. She sat huddled together.

“I have had ten children, Monseigneur,” she replied, struggling to suppress her anger and embarrassment. “Don’t you see that it is a miracle that I have been able to go on like that when the King has been almost continuously insane? I have brought seven children into the world since he went mad.” She fell silent. Louis picked up the perfumed golden ball and held it out to her.

“I am afraid of the King,” Isabeau continued vehemently. “Everyone knows how he threatens me when he has an attack. He can change so that he is hardly recognizable; he has driven me from his rooms with blows and abuse. Must I endure all that forever? Is there no one who will have compassion for me—who will try to imagine what I go through?”

In that silent room, that bower of bright embroidery, they sat and stared at each other. Louis d’Orléans had the sudden feeling that he had never met this woman before. She was fat and faded and no longer even resembled the fresh, robust princess whom he had greeted as his brother’s bride in Melun. But her desperation moved him more than all the memories of happier days. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps all Isabeau’s political maneuvering was simply an attempt to escape from the agonizing nightmare of her married life. He felt ashamed that he had never before considered her behavior in this light. And as an admirer of women, he quickly respected her for the dignity and pride with which she had borne her silent, secret despair. Involuntarily he relaxed his stiff demeanor; his tone became gentle, his eyes lost their coldness.

He smiled at the Queen as he had smiled only at little Isabelle — with understanding and compassion. He so closely resembled the King as he had been fifteen years before that Isabeau’s heart began to ache in a queer way; she began to weep for her vanished happiness.

She is only a woman after all, Louis thought, gazing down on her bent head. By God, she is also lonely. Burgundy has taken advantage of her misery. It occurred to him that the cold pride which he had always disliked in Isabeau was only a mask behind which she concealed her feelings. Can she be guided? he asked himself. Could she possibly be amenable to reason? If she is on my side, then I have won the battle. Burgundy uses her, but apart from politicking he gives her nothing in return. Of course she is a woman — how could I have forgotten that? thought Louis, in mounting astonishment. She wants to be understood and not pitied. My lord uncle does not perceive things like that.

“I understand your situation, Madame.” He spoke softly and warmly. “Please don’t think I am blind to the sacrifices that have been demanded of you. But the King is so fond of you when he is well, and we can only guess at the shame and remorse he must feel for the anguish he causes you. I know how painful it must be for you to speak about these things with me. The King has taken me into his confidence because I am his closest blood relative. And he knows that I put his welfare before anything else.” Isabeau looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps we don’t agree about that, Madame,” he added quickly, still with a pleasant smile.

The Queen dashed her tears away, upset that she had lost control of herself, although she was well aware that she had aroused Orléans’ sympathy.

“The King has now two sons, Madame,” Louis went on, somewhat more coolly now that he saw she had regained her composure. “Neither is robust. If something should happen to the Dauphin or his brother — which God forbid — France would have no successor to the throne.”

“I am amazed that it is you who lets himself be used as a go-between,” Isabeau said with irony. “In that case the throne would pass to your heirs, my lord.”

Louis rose and bowed. “I am afraid that we do not understand each other,” he replied coldly. But the Queen entreated him to remain.

Isabeau’s moods changed quickly. Her tears had left no trace; her grief had given way to the cautious calculation so basic to her nature. She began to weigh the possibility of a return to the friendly relationship of the past. Under the pervasive influence of Burgundy and his wife, court life had been reduced to empty ceremony. Isabeau sorely missed the imaginative exuberance of Louis’ fetes. She missed the careless delight, the surrender to intoxicated pleasure. In her desire for happiness she forgot that youth cannot return, that what is finished cannot be repeated. What weighed most strongly in Louis’ favor at the moment was the fact that he was unlikely to curtail in any way what she regarded as her rightful income. Burgundy, who seized every opportunity to push his expenses and debts off onto the public treasury, was always demanding greater frugality of Isabeau. Under the guise of concern for public monies, he dogged her footsteps, spying zealously on all her expenditures, no matter how petty. This niggling surveillance irritated her beyond measure, but she had to put up with it because she needed Burgundy.

She considered, staring thoughtfully at her brother-in-law, how pleasant it would be if the person upon whom she relied for political guidance were also indulgent and forbearing toward her in other respects. She had often toyed with the idea of keeping Orléans close at hand; but she had done nothing about it because he did not seem sufficiendy important to her interests. But now he had shown that he was a match for Burgundy; in her eyes there was no greater proof of capability.

“My lord,” said Isabeau, fixing her dark brown, somewhat adamant gaze upon Louis, “I shall try in my prayers to reflect upon what you have said to me today. God knows, I am a person of good will. But there is a limit to everything. Sometimes I feel as though the King were dead. I cannot feel love for the creature who has taken his place.”

Louis d’Orléans took the hand which she held out to him and helped her to rise.

“I have spoken to you only at the behest of my brother, the King,” he said most courteously, as though the subject were closed. “I understand your objections only too well, Madame. And now, if you will allow me, I shall call your women.”

Isabeau’s smile held a trace of her former coquettishness; she almost forgot that she was no longer beautiful, that she was not really an innocent victim: it was not out of patience and timidity that she had accepted the King’s advances over the past ten years. Castles, treasures, great sums of money had been the price of her love.

Orléans had known how to accomplish his ends with the King. The sale of valuables had not been enough to defray the enormous expenses he had incurred for the purchase of Coucy and Luxembourg. Since the possession of these two properties benefited the realm, it was obvious that the realm should help to pay for them. And Louis managed to convince his brother that an eye should be kept on England. Henry of Lancaster would undoubtedly resume the wars as soon as a good opportunity presented itself. Therefore it could only be wise policy to prepare now while circumstances in England guaranteed a postponement of hostilities.

By royal decree all of France was compelled to contribute, for three years, a sum equal to what had been raised for Isabelle’s dowry. This time, however, the clergy, who had previously been spared, were not exempted. Their indignation knew no bounds. Burgundy, who was already offended because he had not been consulted in the matter, did not hesitate to support the clergy. In his own domain he did not encourage the populace to raise the tribute — quite the contrary, in fact. He continually encouraged them not to pay it.

The Parisians had become alarmed by the presence in and about the city of bands of soldiers — Picards, Luxembourgers and armed men from Gelre who said they served the Duke of Orléans, and other troops from the Burgundian dominions of Artois and Flanders. The Elector of Liège, Johann of Bavaria, was Burgundy’s guest in the Hotel d’Artois; the army he had brought — chiefly archers and lansquenets — were lodged in the quarters of the city near the palace. Fear of civil war mounted with each passing day.

The city of Paris sent a delegation to the King petitioning him to put an end to this disorder. The population was assured, in the name of the King, that the troops quartered in the city were not dangerous in any way; their support was paid for, and any infraction of discipline would be severely punished. In spite of these assurances, the city lived in constant fear; many departed but most armed themselves and laid in provisions, as though they were preparing for a siege.

And now a new kind of life began for Charles d’Orléans. His time as a small child had ended; playtime, with no obligation except the faultless recitation of morning and evening prayers, was over. The nine-year-old was taken from the care of the Dame de Maucouvent; he was now too old to have a governess.

The Duke of Orléans sent his secretary, Maitre Nicolas Garbet, who had studied theology, to the Chateau-Thierry, where Valentine lived with her children for increasing periods, to tutor Monseigneur Charles, Count of Angoulême. Charles eagerly awaited the arrival of Maitre Garbet; for a long time he had been impatiently waiting to learn to read. He thought that there could be no pleasure greater than to be able to decipher the rows of beautiful characters in the books which his mother had had so carefully illuminated and bound — unless it was plying the pen. He drew figures in the sand with a stick, pretending that he was writing a story across the enormous page of the courtyard. For hours he would study the densely written leaves of King Arthur’s Histories, of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, or the Gospels. He did not know what was written there, but he was filled with deep satisfaction at the sight of the rectangular pages covered with letters surrounded with gaily colored tendrils, the initials against the gilded background. He obeyed with reluctance when his mother urged him to go out and play with his brother.

“You have time for learning, child,” Valentine said. “You can find pleasure in books when you have forgotten how to play.”

So he rode hobby horse with Philippe in the courtyard or hopped on the pavement of the corridors and halls. Little Jean watched his brothers from the sidelines but Dunois, who was not vet four years old, always wanted to play. He plunged headlong between his older brothers without fear of stumbling or falling, a resolute child with sturdy legs and strong little hands. He spoke little and never cried, but when he wanted to accomplish something, his will was inflexible. Charles and Philippe thought of him as being as old as they; from time to time they remembered with surprise that their indefatigable playmate was younger than Jean, the timid, apprehensive toddler. They did not seem to care that Dunois was only their half-brother and a bastard to boot. He was part of the family, sharing their food and clothing; he slept in bed with Jean and was treated by strangers and inferiors with the same respect accorded the other children of the Duke. Valentine loved him uncommonly well; she was proud of his healthy good looks, his thriving body and spirit.

Her own sons were less robust, paler and more easily tired than he. Charles was short-winded; she found him too quiet, too introspective for a nine-year-old boy. Inclined to day-dream herself, she wanted to spare him the fate that befalls sensitive natures; it was better for him, she thought, to be able-bodied and alert. However, the arrival of Maitre Garbet meant that Charles’ spirit had to be guided into other channels, at least for a time; in a sense she was forced to abandon him.

With flushed cheeks the child watched while the tutor opened his leather bag of books. They were placed on the table in the study room: the Katholicon, Latin grammars, the works of Cato, Teren-tius, Sallustius and Cicero, the Doctrine of Alexander de Villedieu. Nicolas Garbet, a thin, vivacious man not much taller than Charles himself, rushed about, chattering incessantly. He directed the servants who carried the books, told Charles what the thick leather covers contained, recalled aloud what Monseigneur d’Orléans had told him to tell the Duchess. His sleeves fluttered as he made short, choppy gestures. Charles noticed that his shoes were worn down — that did not surprise him, for Maitre Garbet did not stand still for a moment.

The lessons began the following day. Valentine had insisted that Philippe be there too; she hoped that the presence of the younger child would slow things down somewhat and put a necessary rein on the enthusiasms of Maitre de Garbet and the studious Charles. So seated side by side at the long table, the brothers became acquainted with the ABCs; slowly they read psalms from a little book which Hugues Foubert, illuminator of manuscripts, had made for them at Valentine’s request. Above their little black cloaks — they wore in mourning for their grandfather Gian Galeazzo, who had died suddenly in Milan — their young faces were taut and grave as they wielded the pen stiffly, the tips of their tongues between their teeth.

Before long they began to learn Latin words, followed by conjugations, declensions and what-not. Then logic, rhetoric and arithmetic. Charles, especially, made rapid progress. Philippe was more playful; he wanted to be done so that he could go out and amuse himself. When lessons were over, Charles usually lingered in the room filled with books and writing implements. Maitre Garbet, always busy himself — he was writing a theological treatise in poetic form — encouraged the boy to remain. The shouts and laughter of the younger boys echoed outside; they stormed and defended sand hills, threw stones and shot arrows at wooden targets or leapt breathlessly over barricades of sticks, while Charles sat on in the quiet study, his arms resting on the edge of the table.

He was continually overcome by amazement that a world filled with adventure and beauty could rise from behind the black letters; that within a single page, a life could unfold, that death and heroism could be enclosed in a few strokes on the paper. He read a line aloud as soon as it was taught to him: there rode Perceval through the forest; on the mountaintop could be seen the citadel of Montsalvat. The words “mountain” and “forest” called up a variety of images for the boy: he saw leaves hanging, dark and gleaming, and heard the splashing of a hidden brook; the horses’ hooves left deep tracks in the moss. The sunlight glowed red on the mountainside, and glinted on the windows of the castle, an eagle rose screaming from his craggy nest.

Reading in the study, Charles lost all track of time; he was completely immersed. In the summer he did not notice the flies buzzing along the walls or the scratching of Maitre Garbet’s pen. In the winter he did not hear the wood crackling on the hearth and he never remembered the exact moment when a kindly hand had set a candle down beside him.

The many journeys and processions had ended; they lived now almost the whole year around in Chateau-Thierry. During this period Charles and his mother became very close. They talked and read together, and enjoyed the minstrel’s songs. For the first time the boy realized something of his mother’s unhappiness. He knew now that she had been exiled from the court in Paris and why; he knew too that she had fresh reasons to be sad. Although she never complained and talked about herself with reluctance in his presence, Charles sensed with the sharp intuition of a precocious child what oppressed her spirits.

His father came to visit them very often now, always with a large entourage, usually attended by lords from his provinces or from Luxembourg. But Louis paid little attention to his sons when he stayed at Chateau-Thierry; there was so much to discuss with Valentine and important guests that no time was left for the children. Charles, observing him from a distance, admired him greatly. He had never seen such a handsome and splendidly dressed man as his father — he could not help identifying him with the heroes of the romances, with Perceval, Lancelot, Arthur and Aeneas. He knew his mother felt that way too. Often he saw her looking at her husband — the glow in her eyes was almost frightening.

As a rule the Duchess chose to dress in black; she rarely wore jewels. But when Monseigneur visited Chateau-Thierry, she appeared dressed like a princess, wearing necklaces of precious stones. The child Charles observed the transformation breathlessly; at these times he became aware that his mother was an uncommonly beautiful woman, tall and slender — her hair was golden brown, like leaves in October. The Duke greeted her with courtly elegance, and behaved toward her throughout his stay with deference and gallantry — but in his eyes the boy never saw the look of burning ardor which he sometimes detected in the eyes of his mother.

In the course of time another child had been born, a girl, baptized Marie d’Orléans. But she did not lie long in the green-curtained cradle; even before their mother had risen from the lying-in bed, Charles and Philippe were called to take leave of their sister, who lay in the folds of her shroud like a pale wax doll.

In the spring of 1404, the Duchess of Orléans received a letter from her husband containing important news, especially for Charles. Louis and the former Emperor Wenceslaus had agreed to nullify the marriage agreement between Charles and the young Elisabeth von Goerlitz. A new bride had been found in the person of Madame Isabelle, the fourteen-year-old widow of King Richard of England. The marriage would, it was true, be put off for several years because of the youth of the groom, but the betrothal would be announced as soon as the formalities had been concluded.

The Pope consented to this marriage between cousins; the King declared that Isabelle’s dowry would be 100,000 gold florins, two-thirds of which Orléans would use to buy territory in France.

In the autumn Louis d’Orléans took his oldest son with him to Senlis for the hunt, and to meet the royal personages at the court. Dressed in handsome garments which were — as usual — heavily embroidered with thisdes, crossbows and netdes, the boy walked beside his father between rows of high-placed lords. Never had he seen such a magnificent display of horses, carriages, pennants, colorfully-clad servants and pages. The counts and barons and their wives glittered with gold and precious stones; under a red silk tent the King sat, Charles’ uncle and godfather.

The boy was disappointed. He knew quite well that the King was sick, but still he had expected a more impressive figure than this thin, shrunken man with waxen face and red-rimmed, restless eyes. However, the King greeted him with great geniality; he called Charles first ‘Svorthy nephew” and later “our son”; he gave him beautiful gifts and the promise of an annuity. Charles thanked him with downcast eyes, a little flustered because everyone was looking at him. It was precisely this boyish embarrassment which roused admiration; people found him a well-made, mannerly youth. They said he had his father’s nose and mouth, but Valentine’s eyes. The Duke of Orléans was pleased with the impression his son had made; he gave the boy a signet ring and a horse as souvenirs of his days at Senlis.

That winter brought much snow and rain; in early spring the swollen rivers overflowed their banks; the wind was raw. During the bad weather a new illness broke out, characterized by violent headaches and loss of appetite. Almost no one escaped this sickness but only a few died of it. Among these few was the Duke of Burgundy.

On an evening in the spring of 1405, a great number of people were gathered in the rooms of The Golden Stag, a tavern in the rue Barre du Bee, not far from the Hotel d’Artois. The doors were barred so that no one else could enter; inside, only a couple of torches were burning. The innkeeper was called Thibault the Dice-Player because he could always manage to provide a sequestered room where one could drink wine and gamble undisturbed for any conceivable stakes. If he was paid well and prompdy, Thibault asked no questions — his rooms were notorious as a gathering place for those who wished to amuse themselves or transact business without attracting attention. The sheriffs servants were reluctant to enter there; Thibaulfs tavern was frequented by armed people who, day or night, were all too ready to draw a knife. Scuffles usually became bloodbaths; no one bothered to distinguish between opponents and companions-at-arms, they went at each other for the sheer enjoyment of the fight itself and the chance to cut some purses and steal some valuables. Those who had no business there avoided not only The Golden Stag, but the rue Barre du Bee because of it.

On the evening in question the gathering in Thibault’s rooms had a prearranged character: the men sat or stood almost one on top of the other around a table which served as a rostrum, listening to an orator who, despite his off-putting appearance, possessed to a high degree the ability to enthrall his audience. His filthy rags were held together by a rope about his middle; his long hair hung over his shoulders. There in the tavern no one was present who would find it in his interest to inform the officials that Arnaud Guillaume was preaching rebellion against Orléans; he had therefore pulled off his bonnet. However, his two companions who sat at the table did not want to be recognized: their cloaks were pulled up over their chins, they had drawn the lappets of their hats down across their cheeks. Without moving, silent, they sat staring at the men around them. Arnaud Guillaume spoke in the style that had served him so well throughout his earlier career: slowly, in a low voice that appeared to quiver with deep emotion. Thus had he practiced exorcism over the head of the sleeping King.

“… And what happened to the gold which you fellows paid at the cost of so much sacrifice, brothers?” asked Guillaume, with upraised hands. This question ended a long speech in which he had once again described the misery caused by taxes imposed the previous year. He waited a moment; an angry murmur rose from among his listeners.

“Was it really spent on those things which the tax collector knew how to list so nicely? Are the forts strengthened, the troops armed, the winter stores laid in? And even if that should have chanced to happen — I doubt it seriously, brothers, but suppose that they are — what then? How will you fellows fare in a new war, with robbery and murder … your houses looted, your cattle stolen, your fields laici waste, your wives and daughters dishonored and you yourselves perhaps strung up on the nearest tree? For so it goes always, men, so it goes, where there is war, and the plunderers are mosdy the soldiers who are supposed to protect you! It is you people who are the victims, brothers, you who will be defeated, not the enemy, for they strike back! Do you want to see your good money used for your own destruction? No, men, no, you don’t want that. You don’t, but Orléans does — the warmonger who will serve his own interests with your lives!”

“But—” a voice called from the densely packed crowd—”you said that our tax money is not being spent for anything.”

“Precisely, friend; well put. Your gold pieces have gone in another direction.”

A man raised his hand and cried, “Gone, gone? They lie heaped up in a tower room in the Louvre!”

“They did,” continued Guillaume, raising his voice, “but two nights ago a wagon drove up in front, guarded by armed men. They loaded the gold onto the wagon, friends, not a single ecu is left lying in the tower of the Louvre. Who did that, brothers? Come, think about it, who can always use money for himself and his royal sweetheart?”

“Come, come,” mocked a young man who sat astride a stool directly below Guillaume. “Make us believe that you have looked at the King in bed!”

The adventurer from Guyenne had expected such an objection. Pronouncing an oath loaded with frightful curses — which one dare not misuse — he declared that he had indeed enjoyed that privilege. This raised great interest, and great suspicion. One of Guillame’s companions nudged him and in a sharp tone added some words the spectators did not understand. The ascetic began to speak again.

“Who has seriously endangered your salvation, brothers, by forcing you to give obedience to the Anti-Christ at Avignon? Couldn’t the wise and pious scholars at the Sorbonne have shown you a better way to true grace? It seems clear now from all the facts that neither Orléans nor Avignon has any intention of complying with the conditions which our clergy at the Sorbonne had put forward. The old order reigns; he who kisses the ground before Avignon’s feet is rewarded with high office and decks himself in purple. And the priests and bishops who remain loyal to the True Faith would rather perish from hunger and thirst then deal with you, friends, for you are being driven straight into the DeviPs arms. And who is responsible for this?

“It’s not necessary — is it? — for me to name the adulterer and sorcerer who wants to involve you in a war with England out of his own self-interest… who lines his purse with your hard-earned money… who means to destroy the Dauphin and all the King’s children so that he can place one of his own brood on the throne … who carries on openly with the Bavarian, and helps her to drain the country’s treasury to get clothes and valuables!”

He paused to catch his breath and looked about him with glittering eyes. It had become quiet under the smoke-blackened beams of the ceiling; the flickering torchlight played on the faces of his listeners. There were men there from every layer of the population, but whatever their occupation or business, they all had reason to feel dissatisfied or fearful. “Come,” Guillaume said, after a brief conversation with his companions. “You yourselves have so righdy complained with bitterness about the way you were forced to pay tribute. The sheriffs men follow the tax collectors, in order to drag anyone who refuses to pay off to prison. On your doors and shutters are painted the arms of Orléans, your lord and master, who, draped with a fortune in gold, hunts or dances, while you sweat. And what can you do about this? May I remind you of Messire Jean Gilbert de Donnery, who last week in the presence of Orléans’ officials dared to say that it would be better to hang Monseigneur than to allow him to govern? Now Messire Donnery hangs from the gallows and the Duke of Orléans has gone with the Queen to the castle of Saint-Germain. What is he doing there, brothers?”

A loud, coarse laugh rose from the group of bystanders. Arnaud Guillaume made quick use of their good humor.

“But believe me, friends, there is no reason to despair. The people of Paris — what am I saying? — the people of the entire Kingdom have always a friend and protector in a highly-placed man — do I need to mention his name? — who would like nothing better than to continue the work of his noble father. Ah, brothers, listen to reason before it is too late! Take a stand before you bitterly regret your indecision. The man I refer to — a gallant knight, a mighty prince — is your protector. He is outraged at the excessive taxes which are imposed on you … yes, he urges you not to pay the tribute … he takes personal responsibility. He is devoted to peace and the preservation of the armistice — help him, give no more money for warmongering. He strives along with the pious clergy of the Sorbonne for cession — support him, refuse to obey Avignon. He champions the cause of our unfortunate King, of our defenseless Dauphin. He has set himself the task of working against Orléans in every way — Orléans, the accomplice of the Evil One, who with his late father-in-law conspired with the Turks to destroy our Christian knights at Nicopolis. Yes, this fearless hero to whom I refer,” cried Guillaume, carried away by his own artificially inflated enthusiasm, “this hero, friends, will be on his guard to make sure that the King’s innocent young daughters do not marry the son of a poisoner, a witch, whom you yourselves have driven out of the city!”

While the listeners shouted their agreement, one of Guillaume’s companions threw an open purse onto the table: gold and silver coins rolled into all the corners. The ascetic from Guyenne raised his voice once more over the ensuing uproar.

“Thibault, Dice-Player! Wine for all my good friends present here! In the name of our benefactor and protector, a drink! He intends the best for you, brothers, he is a brave man, a high-minded man, a man who would rather give away money with both hands than knock a single denier out of your pockets. God and the Virgin for Burgundy!”

The shrieks of response were momentarily overwhelming; the walls resounded with the shouting. The landlord, a man in a leather apron, pushed his way with difficulty to the wine vats which were stacked against the rear wall of the room, and knocked the bung from a cask. Jars and beakers were quickly given out; within a few minutes the tavern had become too small. Doors and windows were thrown open; men streamed from the hot, stuffy tavern into the cool air. Thibault the Dice-Player, busily filling the cups for a second round, saw, not without uneasiness, knives flashing near the place where the purse had fallen.

“Let the fellows quarrel,” said a voice near his ear; one of Guil-laume’s companions stood next to him, and slid a handful of gold pieces into the pocket of Thibaulfs apron. “Don’t forget what was said here tonight and take care that it is spread abroad.”

“Certainly, Messire,” answered the landlord nervously; it was not the first time that he had played host to this trio. He thought that the speaker and his friends had come from the Hotel d’Artois. Therefore he added, “But I am running into danger. This is less innocent than gambling or fighting, Messire. Who will protect me if Orléans sends his men after me?”

The stranger leaned forward so that the lappets of his black hat fell loose. The light from the candle stuck on top of the wine casks shone on his face: the large, sharp nose, the mouth with its protruding lower lip, the small but fierce eyes. Thibault gasped and stared; then he fell to his knees and let the wine stream out.

“Get up,” said Jean of Burgundy harshly. “Control yourself. Do as I order and don’t worry about your life. Send your friends through the city — you know the way — and tell them to repeat what Guillaume has said, in the halls, on the bridges, in the market, in the outskirts of the town. Choose some trustworthy men, send them to the Hotel d’Artois. Watchword: ‘the hour is coming — the time approaches—.’ Understand?”

The landlord nodded and went back to the wine vats. The three visitors quickly pushed their way out through the knots of drinking, fighting, loudly wrangling men. Soon they were swallowed up in the dark street.

Burgundy’s death caused what he had tried so painstakingly to prevent during his lifetime: a rapprochement between the Queen and Orléans. Jean of Burgundy inspired Isabeau with an inexplicable fear and aversion; she found him ugly, clumsy and disagreeable. Not for a moment did she consider making the son heir to the confidence which she had given the father. The Queen had been offended by the manner in which he had come to the court after his father’s death and announced himself as the Duke of Burgundy. His arrogance, his rough manners, lost for him whatever good will he might have possessed, especially in Isabeau’s eyes. Under these circumstances it was natural that Isabeau should renew her alliance with her brother-in-law. Now that Burgundy was dead, Berry and Bourbon scarcely set foot in Council or court, and Burgundy’s son did not appear to be trustworthy, the Queen could seek support only from Louis d’Orléans. Gradually they had dropped the coldness of the past few years; they conferred together, carefully avoiding all points on which their opinions might diverge. Once again Orléans played the role of royal host at Isabeau’s side; at those times the Queen noticed how much her brother-in-law had changed over the years. He had lost much of his spontaneity, his natural bouyancy; but in its place were qualities that Isabeau found more attractive: a certain hardness, reticence and the ability to act quickly, at the precise moment. His mind, always simply brilliant, had now become sharp and incisive, flashing with menace, or making a deadly strike, as he chose. In short, he was now a mature man, and an extremely appealing and courteous one to boot.

Isabeau, encountering her brother-in-law face to face almost every day, could not hide from herself, after a relatively short time, the fact that her feelings for him were no longer only friendly. She did not resist this emotion; she did not wish to resist it. She was thirty-five years old; she had sacrificed the best years of her life to a madman who cursed her in his delirium and who terrorized her during his periods of so-called sanity by his strange words and inexplicable behavior. It was true that her sacrifice had some material purpose, but nevertheless she had suffered. At first, after the birth of her last child, she had wanted only to rest and dabble undisturbed in politics. But suddenly she began to crave the joys of love, to feel a longing that was all the more violent now that youth and beauty had gone forever. Her innate pride would not allow her to choose a paramour from among the nobles of her retinue; but toward the King’s brother, who was already in many respects her husband’s substitute, she did not feel such scruples. In this way could she not wreak on Valentine Visconti the vengeance which Gian Galeazzo had escaped through death? And Louis, bound to her by love, could perhaps serve her interests in other ways. The more she thought about it, the more attractive such a relationship appeared to her to be.

When Isabeau was with Orléans, she allowed herself to be dazzled by his charm; but when she was alone, when she saw her faded face in her mirror, she was seized by anguished uncertainty. If she had not desired Orléans, she would have been less upset, less vulnerable; she might even have responded to his flirtatiousness with cynicism or indifference. Isabeau did not completely lose her head; she was much too cold for that, too self-involved. She was restless, capricious and irritable; now she decided to hold a fete, then a hunting party — or an excursion to the Hotel de la Bergerie or a picnic in the gardens of Saint-Pol, or perhaps a pilgrimage to cloisters and chapels. She left state affairs alone; even letters and messages from Bavaria went unanswered for the moment. For the first time in her life she scarcely thought about her children — the court noticed this with great astonishment.

The King heard of it when he was feeling slightly better again. He summoned the Dauphin to him and asked the child how long it had been since he had last seen his mother. The boy was frightened by the manner and appearance of the sick man: the King sat filthy and neglected in a darkened room. The Dauphin hesitated, but at last he said haltingly that his mother had not been near him for three months; his nurse took care of him and treated him with affection. When he heard that, the King burst into tears; he thanked the nurse for her devotion and presented her with the only valuable possession he could lay his hands on at that moment — his silver goblet. From that time he was seized by a melancholy apathy; he did not bathe nor change his clothes for months at a time; he slept and ate whenever he felt like it. Covered with sores and vermin, he squatted in a corner of his bedchamber. His physicians and servants, no longer under the Queen’s watchful eye, troubled themselves about him as little as possible. They gave him his food and left him alone.

Louis d’Orléans could have put an end to this shocking state of affairs — but now he seldom visited his brother. Since he had allowed himself to be named Lieutenant-Governor of the realm once more, he was completely absorbed in his official duties. He spent months fortifying his castles, providing whatever supplies were needed for fortifications in the environs of Paris and Normandy. With regard to Jean of Burgundy, Louis followed the policy symbolized by his device of the thisde and stinging nettle: to prickle, to sting, to scratch severely the foot which tried to trample upon him. Toward Isabeau he was gallant; he wished in this way to influence her to declare null and void the marriage agreements between her children and Burgundy’s children.

As soon as he got wind of this, Jean hurried back from Flanders. The King was not in a condition to receive him; the Queen and the Duke of Orléans had left Paris — they had set off with a great retinue to pay an official visit to the cities of Melun and Chartres. The Dauphin had been instructed to join them; he had ridden out of Paris with his own entourage only a few hours before Burgundy’s arrival, accompanied by Ludwig of Bavaria who, alarmed by Isabeau’s prolonged silence, had come to see how things stood. This fact settled the matter for Burgundy. With a company of armed horsemen, he rode at full gallop through the city, to the dismay of the people, who could not imagine what was going on.

Jean of Burgundy overtook the royal travelling party near Juvisy; horsemen and carriages came to a standstill and the Dauphin thrust his head out of the window of the palanquin to see what the cause of the delay might be. Burgundy asked the royal child to return with him to Paris, at first on his knees, and in the most respectful language; but before long, when the boy hesitated and appeared reluctant, in a less courteous manner. Finally he gave his followers the command to encircle the palanquin. So Jean of Burgundy conducted the Dauphin as well as the Dauphin’s uncle of Bavaria back to the city, with a show of weapons and a flourish of trumpets, as though he had saved the heir to the throne from mortal danger.

The news spread throughout Paris like wild fire: Orléans and the Queen had tried to lead the child into an ambush, but thanks to the speedy appearance of Jean Sans Peur, the good and valiant hero, the Dauphin was now healthy and unscathed in the Louvre. The Rector of the University proceeded there with a company of learned gentlemen to give public thanks to Jean of Burgundy for his loyalty and devotion to the King’s welfare.

Under these circumstances, the people, gathered into crowds in the streets, shouting with jubilation and excitement, were only too quickly disposed to lend an ear to those men who, here and there standing on a cask, a stone, the steps of a house, cursed Orléans and praised Burgundy to the skies. A few days later, in the name of the King and Council, orders were given to the city to begin to prepare itself for attack; from the storage rooms of the Chátelet iron chains were brought which could block the streets and wall off the districts. Meanwhile, Burgundy’s allies and vassals, the Lords ofLiége, Limburg and Cleves and their men, marched in great numbers into the city.

Jean of Burgundy was far from displeased with this state of affairs; but he felt compelled to justify his frenzied behavior, to give the appearance of well-considered action to his fit of rage. He sent to Parlement a declaration of protest, signed by him and his two brothers, expressing their indignation at the King’s neglected condition, the irresponsible levying of taxes, the disorderly management of the royal domains and the corruption in the courts of justice. With real, inimitable skill, he knew precisely how to present himself as the accuser, the man who could lay his finger on the sore spot. Swift as an arrow this perception of him caused him to rise in public favor.

Meanwhile Louis d’Orléans and Isabeau were at Melun. The Queen was assailed by doubt and anxiety: in the long run her publicly flaunted rapprochement with Louis might damage her interests more than it helped them. Burgundy seemed very sure of himself and he had, if the news from Paris were to be believed, public opinion with him. No matter how she wracked her brains, she could think of no way she could return in dignity to the city unless it was under Burgundy’s protection or together with Orléans at the head of a triumphant army of troops. While Isabeau brooded in her apartments in the castle of Melun, Louis d’Orléans spent his time as profitably as possible, gathering his strength.

He summoned his vassals from all parts of his domains and sent couriers to his allies at home and abroad. To Melun came the Dukes of Lorraine and Alençon with 1,400 nobles and an army of men. All these soldiers had to find lodgings in the environs of Melun, to the considerable concern of the peasants and burghers. Orléans’ messengers hurried to get to the cities throughout the Kingdom before Burgundy’s messengers did; letters were delivered and placards posted warning against the scandalous libel which would soon reach from Paris to the farthest corners of France. The Duke of Orléans vowed that he would take suitable action to lay all these rumors to rest; until then he was counting on the loyalty of the people.

While he busied himself with these and similar matters, a delegation from the University was announced. Louis received them in a frame of mind that was anything but humble. The learned doctors, who had expected to find him cast-down and intimidated by Burgundy’s actions, quickly realized their mistake. Considerably sobered, they recited their petition, taking care to greatly soften its lofty and peremptory tone.

“The University hopes with all its heart,” said the spokesman in a low voice, with downcast eyes, “hopes with all its heart that peace will prevail in the Kingdom. In short, it desires nothing so ardendy as a reconciliation between Monseigneur and the Duke of Burgundy.”

Louis, who had listened impassively, let them wait before he answered. Finally, looking over their heads, he said coldly, “In my opinion it was not wise of you to express so openly your approval of the conduct of my cousin of Burgundy. You know that he acts against me. I do not need, surely, to remind you that I am the King’s brother, and that in view of the state of his health and the Dauphin’s extreme youth, it is I whom you must obey. It seems to me that you would do well to restrict yourselves to intellectual and spiritual concerns; you can safely leave the administration of the government to members of the royal House and the Council.”

He paused and snapped his fingers impatiently. The learned doctors of the Sorbonne remained motionless, staring at the floor. They felt it expedient to assume a chastened demeanor.

“And as for a reconciliation between my lord of Burgundy and me … I was not aware that my cousin and I were at war. Where there is no war, gentlemen, there is nothing to reconcile. You have my permission to withdraw.”

He waited, his face averted, until the delegation had left the room. Then he set out for Isabeau’s apartments, to tell her his plans. He intended to return with her to Paris the following Saturday, accompanied by his entourage of allies and vassals amounting to more than a thousand men.

Isabeau, who suffered in warm weather from swollen, painful limbs, sat before the open window while her maid Femmette massaged her feet. Louis had become accustomed over the course of the year to being admitted to the Queen’s presence without ceremony; he was struck now by Isabeau’s obvious embarrassment, by the haste with which the maid straightened her mistress’s garments. While he stood on the threshold of the chamber making gallant littie jokes to put Isabeau at her ease, a thought struck him, swift and blinding as a flash of lightning.

He had treated the Queen with the familiarity, the camaraderie, of a kinsman; with a gallantry that was perhaps not always brotherly or simply friendly, but quite natural between a man and a woman of their age. Louis had noticed with some satisfaction how the Queen had revived in his company, he rejoiced with her over the return of her enjoyment of life and profited from it himself. He had known in advance that their friendship would be blown out of all proportion; given the facts of court life, a love affair between the Queen and him would seem only too credible. He knew that Isabeau was extremely offended by this slander, but he considered her sensible enough to put up with a little annoyance if her self-interest was involved.

However now, on entering the Queen’s chambers in Melun, Louis suddenly realized the real reasons for the Queen’s contentment as well as for her rages — her blush, her glance, something indefinable about the way she quickly concealed her large swollen feet under the hem of her dress — these told him, more plainly than words. The discovery filled him with horror; he knew only too well what the consequences would be if he wanted to continue in her good graces. Nothing is more dangerous than the disappointment of a woman who thinks that she is in love, especially when her nature is essentially hard and wilful. Burgundy was waiting with Isabeau’s brother in the fortified city of Paris; the Queen’s inner uncertainty, moreover, was evident. If Orléans did not manage to bind her to him, he would drive her irrevocably into the camp of the enemy; he knew her too well not to fear the ease with which she could leap from one extreme to the other.

He thought of the King his brother, a defenseless invalid; of Valentine, to whom he had been faithful since the death of Manette de Cany. While he moved slowly into the room he stared at Isabeau: at her greedy mouth, her soft hands which would release only re-luctandy anything that came into their grasp. Stifling the great despondent sigh which welled up in him, he bowed deeply before the Queen, whose smiles could no longer be misconstrued.

The next day he sent couriers to the city of Provins with a hundred golden ecus to buy roses for Her Majesty.

When Jean of Burgundy learned that Orléans was approaching the city with an army, he ordered his horse to be saddled, and rode to the palace where the Council was assembled.

“Well, Messeigneurs,” he called contemptuously to Berry and Bourbon who sat among the peers of the realm, “what I predicted is happening. Orléans is on his way to Paris with about 2,000 men; Alençon and Lorraine are with him, and the Queen rides in the procession. Don’t say now that he comes in friendship, although his reply to the lords of the University might perhaps have led you to believe that.”

Bourbon rose, with some difficulty, and held up his hands in a placatory gesture.

“No one can tell our nephew of Orléans not to gather men around him, now that you have armed half the city!”

Jean of Burgundy kicked his long riding cloak to one side.

“It is no accident,” he remarked, “that Orléans’ banners carry the motto ‘I challenge’ in defiance of my own device ‘I hold’. Well, this time he can count on a warm reception. Most quarters are fortified — the burghers have been given weapons and students who can handle pitch and stones as well as Latin are waiting outside the bridge. Yes, the brave citizens intend to defend themselves and me, my lords. They know where their interests lie!”

Bourbon threw up his hands, looking helplessly about him, but Berry who, like an old bird of prey on a branch, surveyed the hall from his elevated chair, said ironically, “But that means civil war.” He declared himself ready to work with both sides to reconcile their differences. This attitude reflected the line he had taken since his illness.

After due deliberations the Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, was sent as the head of a delegation to meet Orléans in the name of the Chancellor and the chairman of Parlement. De Tignonville and Louis had always gotten on well together and Louis, following de Tig-nonville’s advice, sent an announcement to Paris that, for the sake of the populace and in order to preserve peace in the Kingdom, he had voluntarily renounced armed conflict, although he had every right to attack. Jean of Burgundy, not wishing to hurt his reputation as the people’s benefactor, had no choice but to lay down his arms.

Most of the troops billeted in and around the city were sent home. Once more Isabeau entered Paris, but this time the festive note was struck only by the gay trappings of her procession. The people stood in silence, darkly watching as the entourage wound through the streets. There were gold-brocaded palanquins, plumed horses, a plethora of banners and canopies, but the escort was armed to the teeth and the smiles of the beautiful ladies were joyless.

On the following day the royal kinsmen proceeded to Notre Dame where, before the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon and a great number of dignitaries, Jean of Burgundy and Louis of Orléans shook hands in a formal show of mutual apology. From a distance it seemed a noble gesture, but those who stood close by were later to recall vividly not the handshake but the look in both men’s eyes.

On the twenty-ninth of June, in the year 1406, Charles d’Orléans married his cousin Isabelle, once Queen of England. The wedding was celebrated in Compiegne; on the same day the King’s second son took to wife the small daughter of the Countess of Hainault. Charles, carefully coached by his mother about what he must say and do at the altar and at the great receptions, seemed a good deal more at ease than he had been a few years earlier at Senlis. His father’s presence gave him self-confidence; he could see now with his own eyes that his father was indeed the most powerful man in the Kingdom. The boy spoke little, but noticed everything; it was not natural for him to push himself forward.

In a hall where, in the torch and candlelight, the pomp and splendor of the chivalric romances seemed to become reality, Charles met his bride for the first time. She stood amid queens and princesses, under a canopy embroidered with lilies; she was clad in gold, azure and purple. Charles, kneeling before her, dared not raise his eyes higher than the gleaming hem of her dress: she was so much older than he, weighed more than he did, and — most important — was already the widow of a king. He felt he could not possibly be worthy of this high and noble lady. He was — and he knew it better than anyone else — still a boy, and not accomplished in chivalry. He knew little of courtly behavior, and even less about dancing and love-making. The only women he knew were his mother and the ladies of her court and the beautiful queens about whom he read in his favorite books. In short, he was not yet thirteen years old, and deeply conscious of his disadvantages as a bridegroom.

Isabelle greeted him courteously, but her voice lacked warmth and she did not smile. She was sixteen years old and almost a head taller than her intended husband. No one would ever know about the tears she had shed over the humiliation of this marriage to a small boy who was, moreover, her inferior in rank. Isabelle had been long accustomed to controlling her emotions in a royal manner; she was determined to conceal her dismay at any price, in order to avoid pity or ridicule. Pale and impassive, she stood once more in bridal finery among her ladies. Charles d’Orléans she ignored; she felt his embarrassed uncertainty, and this added to her irritation. Standing beside Isabelle, Charles did his best to follow his mother’s advice and make up in outward dignity for his insecurity.

He was distracted momentarily when the heralds raised their trumpets to announce the approach of the Duchess of Holland and Hainault with her little daughter Jacoba of Bavaria, the bride of the King’s second son. The opulence displayed by the Princess from the Netherlands and her retinue surpassed anything ever seen at Saint-Pol — to the considerable annoyance of Isabeau, who was jealous of her kinsmen’s wealth. This rivalry went on during the entire week of festivities: where France was arrayed in silver, Hainault gleamed with gold; ten Flemish knights escorted the bridal procession to five French; and the largesse distributed among the attending populace at the request of the Bavarian bride was more than royal.

For the first few days Charles enjoyed the crowds, the pageants, tournaments and solemn services; banquet followed upon banquet; the music did not seem to stop even for an instant. But finally the festivities tired the boy, who was accustomed to a life of routine, without much excitement or diversion. After the marriage ceremony, he sat, sleepy and silent, at the great banquet given in honor of the two young couples. Isabelle, seated beside him on the garlanded bench, did not speak; on the other side of the table were the prince and his bride, young children who barely understood what was happening. The adults at the royal table, after the obligatory speeches and toasts, wasted little more attention on the bridal couples. They became involved in lively conversations. It was rare for so illustrious a company to come together; there were many questions to be asked, and much to talk about and, after cups of wine, much to joke about and to argue about.

The Countess of Hainault wished to take her small son-in-law to her castle in Quesnoy. Isabeau did not want her child to leave. The advantages and disadvantages of his departure were discussed in detail by the royal kinsmen.

For Charles, who could scarcely keep his eyes open, the impressions flowed together; the red and gold of his father’s clothes, the women’s sparkling headdresses, the long purple row of clergy; the light of the setting sun glowing in the stained glass windows in the festive hall, the profusion of splendidly served dishes. He was just dozing off when Isabelle pulled roughly at his arm.

“You cannot fall asleep now,” she whispered sharply; in her indignation she forgot all ceremony. “You will disgrace me. You must sit up straight and behave properly, even though you don’t like it. We cannot run away!”

Her words jolted Charles back to reality; he was wide awake instantly from sheer astonishment that the cold, elegant Isabelle could behave unexpectedly like the ladies of the court in Chateau-Thierry. Hastily he began to apologize, but stopped in confusion when he noticed that her eyes were filled with tears. She did not wipe them away but sat motionless, her lips compressed; she stared fixedly at the head of the table where Isabeau sat, as hostess, between Orléans and Burgundy.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Charles hesitantly. “I did not intend to offend you, Madame.”

Isabelle shrugged scornfully; her eyes were still on her mother.

I shall never forgive her for this, thought Isabelle, once Queen of England and now only Countess d’Angoulême. She has mortified me only to win the favor of Monseigneur d’Orléans. She would just as soon I go away — my eyes and ears are too sharp. I hate her — I hate her — and I will never forget it, not if I live to be a hundred.

So thought Charles’ young wife in fury and despair. Her rage was not directed so much at her father-in-law as at her mother, although she knew that Orléans had become the Queen’s lover the previous autumn. He had always treated Isabelle with obvious affection. Only he had been willing to take arms to avenge her grief. True, Isabelle was bitterly disappointed in her childhood idol; but she blamed her mother, whom she thought hard and grasping, and who, once she had set her mind on something, refused to budge. With deep horror, Isabelle had witnessed the arrival at Saint-Pol of Odette de Champdivers, a young girl of her own age, born of a noble family, brought to share the King’s bed now that Isabeau had found love elsewhere.

“Why are you crying?” asked Charles, tormented by guilt. “I promise I will not fall asleep again. I’m not sleepy any more anyway. Shall I tell you about Chateau-Thierry?”

Isabelle nodded; anything was better than a yawning bridegroom and a weeping bride. There were enough jokes circulating about them already. Charles, delighted that he could evince his good will, spoke quickly.

“I have magnificent books, Madame. Do you know the history of Perceval of Gaul? My tutor, Maitre Garbet, says no one in the Kingdom has a finer library than Orléans. Maitre Garbet has written a poem in Latin in honor of you and me on the flyleaf of my Sallustius. I can recite it to you, if you like.” Charles thought a moment — yes, he still remembered it. Flushed with excitement, he spoke the stately lines:

“Anglorurn regno pro morte privata mariti

Formoso moribus Ludovicifilio ducis

Aurelimensis Karolo Compendii pulchra

Francorum nupsit Isabellas filia regis

Anno millesimo julii sexto

Vicesima nona. Faveant superi precor ipsis …”

He stopped when Isabelle sighed impatiently. Remembering Valentine’s wise advice, Charles tried another tack. “My mother has beautifully trained falcons, Madame. Four white ones are named after the four sons of Haimon. Are you fond of hunting? Did you bring your horse with you? In Chateau-Thierry, we have—”

“I am weeping for the King my father,” Isabelle burst out fiercely. “Because he is ill and cannot defend himself. Because of what they do to him. Do you know what happened?”

She wheeled sharply to face Charles and looked him straight in the eye. The youth was taken aback at her vehemence; he glanced quickly around him, but the guests were engrossed in wine and rich food; no one was paying any attention to the children. The Dauphin and little Jacoba of Bavaria were throwing food at each other and squealing with laughter, overjoyed because no one stopped them. Charles and Isabelle sat among their shrieking companions as though they were in an enchanted circle of solitude.

“My father was so filthy, so filthy,” continued Isabelle with a shudder. “He got sick from it; he sat covered with boils and sores. If they speak to him kindly he lets them help him, but they treated him with violence. Men with blackened faces forced their way into his room — he thought the Devil had come to fetch him. I heard him scream. Alas, God, my poor father …”

“Yes, Madame,” Charles said, with downcast eyes. Do all women speak of sorrow then? he thought, astonished. When he had come to Compiegne and seen the streamers fluttering in the wind, he had been inclined to think his mother was wrong; the world was not a vale of tears and grief. Now he was not so sure.

“He cannot defend himself,” Isabelle went on in a rapid whisper. “He must look on while they rob and deceive him, my mother and your father.”

With some satisfaction she saw the boy’s face turn pale with anger and fear. She read his ignorance in his eyes. So Madame Isabelle found suitable employment on her first day of marriage. She bent toward her husband and whispered for a long time into his ear; why should she feel sorry for a stupid boy and spare him suffering? No one had taken pity on her, no one had spared her suffering! Alas, it was a dreary tale she told Charles; he did not understand half of what she whispered to him.

“It is not true,” he said at last, close to tears, but he knew it was true. Things his mother had said flashed through his mind; things which had been incomprehensible to him.

“Not true?” Isabelle laughed. “Everyone knows it, everyone talks about how shameful it is. On Ascension Day — I was there myself — a priest from the University preached before the court in Saint-Pol; in front of everyone he rebuked my mother and my lord of Orléans for their adultery. My mother did not dare to punish the man — do you understand what that means? Do you think he would be alive now if he had lied?”

Charles, upset by the picture she called up, pressed his fists to his eyes with a childish awkward gesture. But Madame Isabelle considered that the account was not yet balanced.

“A few weeks ago they were together in the castle of Saint-Germain,” she went on, in that sibilant whisper which now filled Charles with dread. “Do you know they nearly died? Surely God wanted to punish them. A storm broke while they were out riding — the horses bolted; if someone had not thrown himself in front of the horses to stop them, they would have run into the Seine, carriage and all. Is that not a sign?”

Charles could stand it no longer; he wanted to leap up and run from the table, escape — he did not know where — but not to Chateau-Thierry, not to his mother. He did not dare see her again, he thought, overcome by feelings of boundless misery. He wished that all this were not true, that he could wake up instantly as though from a nightmare, in his own bed with the green curtains or over an open book in the quiet reading room. How could he ever return there now that he knew that the tranquillity of his own small world was only illusory? He would never be alone again; everywhere and always Isabelle would be with him, because she was his wife forever. And wherever Isabelle was, there would always be the dreadful thing which she had just told him. He leapt up from the place of honor before Isabelle could stop him and ran from the table without a backward look; while he shoved his way through the crowd of nobles, pages and spectators, he heard behind him the loud, caustic voice of the Duke of Burgundy:

“Look, look, my lord of Angoulême feels somewhat faint! Yes, one celebrates one’s nuptials only once …” and something else which he did not understand. The walls rang with their laughter.

Charles did not know how long he had stayed hidden in the darkened room when suddenly he heard his father’s voice close by. Even in the gloom the boy could see the glimmer of the jewels stitched onto his tunic.

“What is it, my son? Did you drink a little too much?” Louis bent over the boy. “Why have you crept in here? It is not polite to leave your bride. Do you still feel too sick to go back to the table?”

“No, my lord,” Charles said in a stifled voice. He could hardly stand the warm touch of his father’s hand.

“Have you quarrelled with your wife already?” Orléans laughed softly and pressed the boy’s head against his breast. The golden ornaments cut into Charles’ forehead; he clenched his teeth and tensed his body. “Come along now,” Louis said persuasively, “before people start to talk. The Queen is becoming uneasy. What is the matter with you, lad? Are you bewitched? Come along now and amuse your wife. Does she know what sort of gift you have brought for her?”

Silently, Charles allowed himself to be led back to the festive hall, to his place of honor beside Madame Isabelle, who sat staring at her plate. She wanted to make up for what she had done, but she knew it was too late. She had not anticipated the effect her words would have on her twelve-year-old husband. In a few hours the quiet, childish youth had changed: his head drooped slightly and his eyes seemed suddenly disturbingly wise. But it was impossible for Isabelle to express her contrition or sympathy; she was not capable of such selflessness. She contented herself with behaving in a less unfriendly manner during the remainder of the feast. While dessert was being served, Charles mentioned with hesitation the gift which he had brought her from Chateau-Thierry: a puppy dog, the pick of a choice litter.

“He knows all sorts of tricks,” Charles said, revived somewhat by thinking of the dog. “He is snow white and his name is Doucet.”

No one knew — Charles least of all — why Madame Isabelle burst into tears at that precise moment; a storm of violent, unquenchable weeping which cast a pall over the evening’s pleasure, and astonished the royal guests. Neither words of comfort nor reprimands, neither music nor fools’ play could calm her. Everyone but Isabelle had forgotten that King Richard had given her a white dog as a bridal gift, a white greyhound which once had been a trusted friend, but which had later — Isabelle still cringed at the memory — licked Lancaster’s hand.

What was for many the high point of all the ceremonies occurred at the end of a week of celebration: in the presence of the Council, the clergy, nobles and lawyers, Louis of Orléans and Jean of Burgundy swore on the Cross and the Holy Gospels to be friends and brothers-in-arms from that moment on, to protect, assist and defend each other at all times and, so united, to strive against the English who, despite all armistice agreements, had taken possession of Calais, Brest and the other major ports.

Those who knew him well were amazed that Burgundy would enter into such an agreement, but most of the witnesses of the ceremony were delighted that the feud between the two kinsmen seemed to have ended.

After the ceremony, the Queen and Council returned to Paris; Burgundy departed with his entourage for Flanders and Louis d’Or-leans brought his son and Isabelle to Chateau-Thierry where Valentine received her daughter-in-law festively. At first Isabelle had thought that it would be extremely difficult to live in amity with a woman she had been taught from her childhood to despise. But her hatred of her own mother made her feel close to the Duchess of Orléans — were they not both the victims of Isabeau’s lust for power?

The girl noticed with admiration Valentine’s dignified and forbearing attitude toward her husband; but after Louis departed, Isabelle, purely by accident, saw the collapse of Valentine’s defenses against her pent-up misery. For one whole night the two women wept in each other’s arms, each for herself and for the other. Both profited from this: Valentine was able to articulate her grief; Isabelle was no longer surly.

While this went on Charles slept unaware in his childhood room; within the green curtains of his familiar bed the fears which he had brought home with him from Compiegne faded into half-forgotten dreams. As he had done before, he listened attentively to the lessons taught by Maitre Garbet, and as he had done before, he immersed himself with pleasure in his books while Philippe, Jean and Dunois, strong, agile and cheerful children playing around him, treated their older brother with a mixture of respect and good-natured derision.

“If you had a tonsure now, brother,” Philippe called from the door during Charles’ lesson, “I could not tell you from a monk. And you are married, too.”

Yes, surely he was married. At first he often forgot to show Isabelle the chivalrous deference that was her due at table or when they were entering or leaving church or chapel. But gradually he came to look upon her as a member of the family and to regard her also as his mother’s trusted friend and relative. Isabelle lived and slept near Valentine; together they sat embroidering or reading and together they went hunting or tended the flowers in the castle garden.

The Duchess of Orléans thought it was time that her oldest son learned something about his father’s affairs. She talked to him about everything that had happened in the past, explained the governance of the varied domains both inside and outside France, and gave him all the news which she received regularly from Paris. Thanks to the discussions in Compiégne, Charles understood something of the political situation; he knew now too that his father with an army of 6,000 men was besieging the city of Bourg, which was occupied by English invaders, and that the Duke of Burgundy was mustering men and weapons at Saint-Omer so that he could advance upon Calais. Although Charles did not share his younger brothers’ fierce fascination with military exploits, he followed the development of these events attentively.

He was disappointed to learn that his father had been forced after three months to lift the siege of Bourg; the city seemed impregnable and a plague had broken out among Orléans’ men. But he was completely astonished by the news that the King and Council, who from the outset had given Burgundy every conceivable encouragement, had suddenly declared that the preparations at Saint-Omer must cease, and had gone so far as to send threats and warning letters to Burgundy’s vassals to stop them from participation. Valentine smiled oddly when she heard these tidings; she and Isabelle exchanged an understanding glance. Charles was indignant; he was certain that Burgundy would be deeply offended by these actions. “Monseigneur of Burgundy sits in Saint-Omer with a whole army,” he said. “Much time and money have been spent to gather men and weapons. That order from the King and Council is senseless; what will happen in the city of Calais now?”

“Hush, boy,” Valentine replied with unusual tartness. “It is not proper for you to blame the King. I think there is a good reason for these measures; we shall learn soon enough why the Duke of Burgundy was prevented from laying siege to Calais.”

The residents of Chateau-Thierry were to learn these reasons; but not until much later, and in deeply tragic circumstances.

On the twenty-second of November in the year 1407, Louis of Orléans and Jean of Burgundy met once more in the house of the Duke of Berry, the Hotel de Nesle. This banquet concluded a ceremonial rapprochement between the two cousins. Since the aborted expedition against the English the previous year, they had quarrelled incessantly in private, in the presence of kinsmen, at Council meetings, in writing and through the words of couriers. Burgundy charged Louis with having prompted the King to forbid his laying siege to Calais out of sheer jealousy because his own enterprise had come to nothing. Orléans denied this with the same stubborn conviction. Their behavior caused the kinsmen to fear a fresh outbreak of hostilities.

Berry allowed himself to be persuaded to act as peacemaker; with reluctance he took leave of Bicetre and his beloved collection for a while and set out for the Hotel de Nesle, where his young wife usually resided. After long discussions, many admonitions and much advice, Berry finally brought his nephews to the point of declaring themselves ready to conclude a new treaty of peace and friendship, and this time forever. Once more they stood together before the altar, swore an oath and took communion. Berry, not a little relieved to have acquitted himself well of a painful charge, invited Orléans and Burgundy to a banquet; they drank from the same goblet and sat side by side in the seat of honor, Burgundy wearing Orléans’ emblems and Orléans in the colors of Burgundy. At the end of the feast Louis invited his cousin to be his guest the following Sunday, and Jean accepted with courtesy.

Orléans saluted his kinsmen now and set out, accompanied by a small retinue, for the Hotel Barbette, which belonged to Isabeau, and where in recent years she had stayed more and more frequently. She had ordered it rebuilt and redecorated; new gardens were laid out around the house. It was within easy reach of Saint-Pol. The Queen had lived there uninterruptedly since spring; the court interpreted this as a sign that Isabeau wanted her new pregnancy to be considered her own affair, without concern for state or Crown. Orléans visited her regularly, treating her with a concerned courtesy for which the reason seemed all too apparent.

About the middle of November, Isabeau had given birth to a child who lived only a few days. The Queen lay in her bed, weak and listless; she believed the child’s death was a punishment for her adultery. In addition, she was uncertain about her political behavior; now that the first intoxication of her passion for Louis was over, she did not feel inclined to support his plans in every way. When Louis entered her chamber she raised herself slightly and greeted him, but for the first time in a long time there was no trace of softness in her eyes.

“I hear everything has gone extremely well,” she remarked, gesturing to a chair that stood beside her bed. Louis sat down. “Will peace remain now between you and Burgundy?” Isabeau continued, somewhat maliciously. “Or do you propose to continue indefinitely this little game of fighting and reconciliation? So much time has been lost. During the Council sessions little is discussed except this quarrel between the two of you.”

Orléans shrugged; he looked tired — he had not yet completely recovered from an illness he had suffered at the siege of Bourg.

“If I knew for certain that my cousin was a man of good will,” he began hesitantly, but he did not finish the sentence. Isabeau leaned back against the pillows and stretched her fleshy arms in a langorous gesture over the bed cover. “Are you not inclined too quickly to believe the opposite, Monseigneur?” she asked, yawning.

“Burgundy is playing a double game,” Louis said wearily, slumping forward with his hand pressed against his eyes. “How could it be otherwise? It’s to his advantage. He does what his father did before him — and I don’t deny that they both conducted these policies with skill. But that means our downfall.” He raised his head and looked at Isabeau who lay eating candied fruit without taking her cold, searching eyes from him. “How can anyone who has witnessed the events of the last few years doubt Burgundy’s purpose? Calais lies well-situated near Flanders. He who has Calais and Flanders in his power has little to fear. If Burgundy should wrest Calais from the English — well, I for one refuse to believe that he would ever restore it to the Crown.”

Isabeau made a doubting sound; she was in a strangely irritable mood. Although she did not think Orléans was wrong, she wanted to contradict him. Louis looked with pensive resignation at this woman whom, out of calculation and ambition, he had made his own. The relationship had undeniably been advantageous for him; but he despised himself immeasurably for his betrayal of his brother and Valentine — and of Isabeau herself, whose passion, at any rate, had been genuine. Alas, one did not need to have particularly sharp eyes to see that it was all over between the two of them. The death of their child, the fruit of an exceedingly strange relationship, had caused a chill, and disenchantment. Orléans gazed around the small bedchamber in which he had so frequently been a guest; he was filled with bitter melancholy at his own failure. The silk hangings painted with coats of arms stirred gently on the walls; often at night he had lain, restless and discontented, and stared at the lions, falcons and lilies.

He looked at Isabeau, sitting in the large, purple-curtained bed, extremely corpulent in her loose clothing, with a towel wound carelessly around her head. She licked her lower lip as she took the candy from the dish. Orléans lowered his eyes. From the adjoining room came the sound of impatient barking. There, with Femmette and the Queen’s ladies, Doucet was waiting, the little white dog which Isabelle had refused to accept. Louis kept the animal near him; it was very attached to him.

“I hope, Madame, that you will speedily recover your health,” Louis said, standing up.

From the corner of her eye, Isabeau gave him a long look. “You don’t mourn your son, do you?” she asked finally in a muffled voice.

“He needs no mourning,” replied Louis calmly, “for he committed no sin and owes God no account of his short life. I consider that he was lucky — what would his place have been among the King’s children, Madame?”

Isabeau laughed, a dry, fierce laugh without mirth.

“Why should the King be less generous toward a bastard than your wife has been to the boy — what do you call him? … The son of Mariette de Cany?”

Her sharp, malicious words stayed with Louis as he walked through the anterooms, followed by Doucet. He thought for the first time in years of the lovely but austere Maret, who had atoned for her guilt by giving up her most precious possession — her life. He had desired her not only for her youth and beauty, but particularly for that other indescribable quality which lay concealed in her like a precious jewel in a casket. During all the years that he had vainly sought her favor, he had never been able to understand precisely what that captivating and at the same time impalpable element could be. Long after he had conquered her and carried her off, when she lay stretched out, smiling, between candles — only then did he realize what she had represented in his life: a cool purity, chastity, fidelity to an inner law, the power of self-discipline, self-sacrifice and resignation to the inevitable — she embodied all these attributes which he had always aspired to, but had never been able to achieve. Because she could see no possibility of preserving that purity inviolate, she had died.

Not without deep shame could Louis think of Dunois who was stained with his guilt. Isabeau’s words called up a number of half-forgotten images and a feeling of strong self-loathing. As so often before, Louis hid this dark mood behind a mask of joviality. No one must see that he walked on knives. He set out for the hall where an evening meal would be served up for him and his entourage, but before he could sit down at the table he was told that a messenger had arrived from Saint-Pol — one of the King’s servants wished to speak with him.

The man stood in an antechamber, still out of breath, which surprised Louis slightly; he had been told that the messenger had been waiting for some time.

“My lord,” said the man, bowing deeply, “the King entreats you to come to him without delay — he must speak to you at once about a matter which is of deep concern to both you and him.”

“I am about to go to table,” replied Louis, but the servant continued breathlessly, “You must go immediately, Monseigneur — there is not a moment to lose.”

Louis thought that the King had suddenly become seriously ill; he prepared to leave at once, urging the gentlemen of his suite to sit down and eat without him. He left the Hotel Barbette accompanied by only a few nobles on horseback and Jacques van Hersen, who had once been his squire but who for the last several years had been his personal attendant.

Louis rode a mule, a beautiful beast which he had had sent from Lombardy. He sat carelessly in the saddle and let the reins hang loose. To conceal his annoyance and anxiety he hummed a tune and toyed with a glove. The dog Doucet leaped forward exuberantly beside the mule; the torchbearers ran ahead. Thus the small procession left Isabeau’s residence. Without undue haste the lord and his retinue rode through the Barbette gate and entered the dark alley which led to the rue Vieille du Temple.

It was a mild, humid November evening; it was not raining but a fine vapor hovered in the air. Louis coughed and pulled his cloak closer about him. He saw on his right, by the light of the torches, the building which was called the House of the Effigy of Our Lady, because a statue of the Virgin Mary stood in a niche in its façade. Louis never passed the spot without lifting his eyes to the brightly painted, stiffly smiling image. Now as always he glanced at the old house, which had been empty for years.

At that moment a young woman was standing at the window of her house opposite the House of the Effigy. Her name was Jacquette and she was the wife of a ropemaker, Jean Griffart; she had gone to the window to see if her husband was coming and to take in some washing which she had hung out to dry at noon. The torches in the street belonged to a distinguished company; a gentleman on horseback, attended by a groom and followed at some distance by five or six horsemen, came riding from the direction of the Barbette gate — a small white dog leaped in front of its master. Jacquette Griffart looked down at the procession for a moment — then she turned, intending to put her child to bed. But before she had taken three steps, a loud cry sounded from the alley: “Kill him! Kill him!” With the child in her arms, she hurried back to the window. The nobleman had fallen from his mount — he had slumped to his knees in the middle of the street, bareheaded, the blood streaming from his face.

“Who is that? Who is doing that?” he said weakly, raising his arms as though to ward off a blow. Now armed men swarmed upon him from all sides — they struck home with sticks, knives, axes. The blows echoed in Jacquette’s ears; it sounded as though they were beating a mattress, a lifeless thing.

She regained her voice and shrieked, “Murder!”, pushing the window open. A stone hissed past her cheek and a man who stood in the shadows under the window shrieked, “Shut up, woman!”

More torchbearers appeared from the House of the Effigy of Our Lady; by the flickering red glow the woman, softly wailing with terror, saw something formless and unrecognizable lying on the ground. The mule had galloped off in fright; the little dog yelped from a distance away. Jacquette heard the shouts of hurrying men coming from adjacent streets — there was nothing at all to be seen of the riders who had followed many paces behind the distinguished horseman. The squire, however, who had been wounded trying in vain to defend his master during the attack, now began to creep toward him. At the command of a long-haired, emaciated man in a monk’s habit, they gave him the death blow; he lay sprawled partially over the body of his lord. Out of the House of the Effigy of Our Lady, followed by a youth leading a horse by the reins, came a tall man, his head covered by a red bonnet. He held a lappet of the bonnet before his nose and mouth, but Jacquette saw the glitter of very dark eyes above the concealing cloth.

“Douse the torches,” he said. “Let’s get out; he’s dead. Come on, don’t make any mistakes!”

The man in the red bonnet leaped onto his horse and galloped off down a side street. The armed men followed him as quickly as they could; they hurled their torches away or extinguished them in the mud. Soon the street was plunged into darkness except where a torch still smouldered on the ground beside the dead man.

“Murder, murder!” Jacquette screamed again. She heard her cry taken up in the rue Vieille du Temple and in the rue des Rosiers. From the direction of the Barbette gate, many people came running with torches; before long the street was filled with people. A nobleman in silk clothes flung himself down in the mud beside the two bodies.

“Monseigneur!” he cried desperately. “Monseigneur! Messire van Hersen!”

The squire was still alive; they laid him down on a cloak under the arched doorway of a house. The dying man moaned words unintelligible to the onlookers. “My lord … both of us … in the Celestine monastery … The omen … the omen …”

The body of the distinguished lord lay in a pool of blood and mud; his skull was cloven in two places so that the brains protruded; someone had lopped off the left arm between elbow and wrist. The hand was found some distance away in a gutter, and placed on a litter with the rest of the corpse. Even before the dead man was borne away, a new calamity struck: flames burst through the ground floor windows of the House of the Effigy of Our Lady. “Fire, fire!” screamed the excited crowd; pails of water were dragged over to quench the blaze.

“In God’s name, what was that?” cried Jacquette, who still stood at the open window, trembling with cold and horror; without knowing what she did, she rocked the desperately screaming baby. “Whom have they killed there?”

A man passed by, dragging a bag of sand; he looked up and grinned sardonically, as though he brought good news.

“Orléans!” he replied. “Orléans the blood-sucker, our tormentor! May God rest his soul!”

As soon as the murder was made known at court, a messenger left Paris for Chateau-Thierry. While the man, bent low in the saddle, urged his horse to greater speed, residents of the castle, still unaware of their affliction, were celebrating the joyful fact that Monseigneur Charles had been born on that day fourteen years before.

II. OF VALENTINE, THE MOTHER

On the tenth of December, 1407, the Duchess of Orléans returned to Paris after an absence of eleven years. She arrived in a carriage draped in black, drawn by six black horses; beside her sat her youngest son, Jean, and her daughter-in-law, Madame Isabelle, the King’s daughter. Valentine’s carriage was followed by an almost endless procession of riders: among them, along with officers of the ducal household, were many of Orléans’ vassals with their armed soldiers, friends and intimates.

Valentine was solemnly greeted at the city gate by the most exalted nobility; Berry and Bourbon showed the widow the honor which they had all too prudently withheld from their nephew’s wife when she had departed the city years earlier. The Duchess of Orléans sat motionless in the carriage. She was white as snow; her staring eyes were vacant. Isabelle clutched her hand, more terrified by her mother-in-law’s icy calm than she had been by the outbursts of despair and savage grief to which Valentine had abandoned herself when she had heard the tragic news. Isabelle had not believed it possible that a noble lady would carry on so, screaming and weeping, lying on the ground in torn clothing. Valentine had been like a madwoman; she had refused food and drink and beat her forehead against the earth, which will never give up its dead.

The small children had been too frightened to come to her; but Isabelle and Charles had kept the Duchess company day and night in the chapel of the castle. Kneeling on either side of the despairing woman, they prayed aloud, not eating, not sleeping, like Valentine herself. Isabelle, who prided herself secretly on having learned to bear suffering while she was still a child, maintained an exemplary attitude like a martyr on a tapestry; even during the long hours of kneeling, she betrayed no sign of weariness. She held the tips of her fingers firmly pressed together, her head erect, her eyes fixed upon the altar.

Charles could not control himself that well; the hoarse sound of his mother’s weeping filled him with bottomless horror and compassion. He was tormented also by shame because he could not share her grief — it was true that his father’s death had frightened him dreadfully, but he was upset for completely different reasons from his mother. Who had planned this outrageous murder? What was behind all this — was it possible that his father was once more somehow to blame? Charles no longer saw the Duke as a fearless hero without blemish, as he had done in his childhood. No, not since Compiegne. But with the knowledge of his father’s faults had come a certain sobriety; he had lost his childish ways forever. He was in a difficult transitional period — he was no longer a boy and not yet a young man. He felt everything passionately, but at the same time he was constricted by the armor of his own clumsiness. He looked with trepidation toward the new, weighty duties which were about to descend upon him.

At the moment when, for the first time, members of his family and servants, bowing deeply, called him Duke of Orléans, a chill seized his heart. He was the head of the family, lord of great and important domains; the dignity of his House rested wholly upon his shoulders.

While his mother, beside herself with misery, lay on the cold flagstones of the chapel, there was chaos and alarm in the castle of Chateau-Thierry; no one knew what to do, no one issued orders. Charles realized that it was up to him to act — but what did they expect of him? Often during the long, mournful vigil he looked timidly at Isabelle. How could she pray so calmly and with such dignity? This strangely mature maiden was his wife — they shared happiness and sorrow; he wished she could give him some helpful advice. But when he dared to open his mouth, she gave him such a look of warning reproach that he stopped, shamefaced.

After three days Valentine rose from the ground; she sat stony-faced and dressed in black in the great hall and issued commands: messengers were sent to summon Orléans’ friends and vassals, while two groups of horsemen and servants were ordered to prepare immediately for a journey — one group to escort the Duchess to Paris, the other to bring Monseigneur Charles and his brothers Philippe and Dunois to the fortified castle of Blois where, during their mother’s absence, they would be safe from Orléans’ enemies.

Silent, Valentine sat in the carriage during the long journey through the wintry countryside; silent she rode into Paris without a glance at the city which she had left with so much regret eleven years before. Isabelle did look about her: she saw the faces of the people along the way. With curiosity tinged with grim satisfaction, the people of Paris watched Orléans’ widow ride slowly through the streets to Saint-Pol.

The Provost de Tignonville and Jean Juvenal des Ursins, the Advocate-Fiscal, waited in the King’s anterooms, surrounded by clerks and lawyers; they would tell the Duchess what they had discovered about the murder before she put her affairs in the King’s hands. Valentine sat down without a word. Her chancellor and spokesman remained standing behind her. The Dukes of Berry and Bourbon exchanged concerned, even alarmed, glances. At last Berry ended the oppressive silence by asking de Tignonville to speak.

“Madame,” began the Provost in a voice that betrayed his emotion, but he swallowed his expressions of sympathy before this woman petrified with grief. He began slowly and precisely to relate the results of the inquiry.

“We have thoroughly interrogated, Madame, the two eye-witnesses: the wife of a ropemaker and a servant from a manor house. Both testified that the assailant seemed to have come from the place called the House of the Effigy of Our Lady — in fact a fire broke out there directly after the crime, but it was quickly extinguished. We know that the premises in question had been unoccupied for many years; a few months ago, however, the owner rented them to a person who said he was a student at the University. He was described as an extremely thin man with long hair, who wore a brown tabard. And the eye-witness, Jacquette Griffart, has told us that the assault was led by a thin, long-haired man in a dark cloak. We have learned that a stranger in a red bonnet gave the command to flee. This same man was subsequently seen in the neighborhood of the Hotel d’Ar-tois.”

At these words Valentine raised her head; the Duke of Berry coughed nervously. The Provost calmly met the Duchess’s penetrating gaze, and continued.

“Now it is my opinion, Madame, that we can suspend the investigation in the city itself. It would be better, it seems to me, to question the servants and officials of the royal palaces. The King has already granted me full authorization to enter with my officers wherever I see fit. I have just received similar permission from Mes-seigneurs Berry and Bourbon.”

Valentine nodded; she had not spoken a single word since her departure from Chateau-Thierry. Escorted by the Dukes and followed by her chancellor and the lords and ladies of her retinue, she walked to the hall where the King would receive her; she held Jean and Isabelle by the hand. At the end of the hall, under a blue and gold canopy, sat a small, wizened man, his nearly toothless mouth half open. His face was covered by a rash, his raised hands trembled, but around his shoulders lay the ermine of royalty. The sight of him affected Valentine as nothing else had — not Isabelle’s thoughtfulness, the Dukes’ kindly welcome nor the words of de Tignonville. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She took a few steps toward him, and sank upon her knees. Jean and Isabelle followed her example.

“Justice, Sire,” said Valentine in a choked voice. “In God’s name, justice!”

In response to Valentine’s return, the Council assembled the following Saturday in the Hotel de Nesle, the Duke of Berry’s house. Most members were already present in the designated hall; the hour of meeting drew near and expired — it could not begin because the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy and young Anjou, who had returned from Italy as King of Sicily, were talking together in a side room.

“Well, nephew, what do you have to tell me that is so important that it cannot possibly be put off?” Berry asked, annoyed at the unexpected delay. “Make haste, the Council sits waiting for you next door.”

Jean of Burgundy seemed extremely restless; he could hardly stand still; he struck his thigh repeatedly with one of his gloves. “What does it mean, Monseigneur,” he burst out suddenly with passion, “that Messire de Tignonville and his officials request permission to search my home and subject my household to interrogation? How is it possible that you and Monseigneur de Bourbon could have lent your approval to such a senseless and insolent undertaking?”

Young Anjou, who stood at the window, quickly raised his narrow, dark face. “Now that we have given de Tignonville permission to search our residences, you cannot refuse without endangering your good name,” he said quietly.

Jean of Burgundy cursed and threw his glove on the floor. He stood motionless for a few seconds, staring straight before him; then he fixed his dark eyes on Berry. “Now then,” he said harshly, “why postpone the execution? I did it. You can’t have expected anything else; God knows I never tried to hide my hatred of Orléans. I had him killed by a couple of fellows in my service.”

“Holy Mother of God!” Berry lifted his hands to his head in horror; he gave a low moan.

“Oh God, Monseigneur, how could you have done that?” Anjou turned hastily from the window. “Not even twenty-four hours after you went together with Orléans to communion and swore on the body of Christ to make peace!”

Jean of Burgundy shrugged.

“The Fiend entered into me,” he answered indifferently, with contempt. “A man isn’t answerable for his actions when that happens, Monseigneur. You know that.”

“Nephew, nephew,” said Berry, trembling with emotion. “You have burdened yourself with a dreadful sin — that blood cannot be so quickly wiped away!”

“I haven’t filthied my hands with it.” Burgundy spoke harshly, holding his hands palm up. “Other enemies of Orléans did that for me. Messire de Courteheuse, the King’s valet, lured him into an ambush. The attack was led by Arnaud Guillaume of Guyenne, and the whole plan was devised and worked out by a very clever and useful man whom I can certainly recommend to you for similar things — Messire Ettore Salvia of Milan.”

“Orléans’ astrologer?” cried Berry, aghast. “I refuse to believe it!”

“Ah come.” Jean laughed shortly and bent to pick up his glove. “For money everything and everyone is for sale, Monseigneur de Berry.”

“My God,” continued Berry, “why didn’t Orléans listen to me and have the criminal from Guyenne hanged when he had him in his power? Where are they now, the villains?”

“In safety,” replied Jean of Burgundy. “It’s no use attempting to find them, my lord. They stand under my protection.”

Berry, who had been pacing back and forth, stopped before his nephew again. He looked suddenly very old and tired. “Do you realize what this means?” he asked in a low voice. “You must place yourself at the King’s disposal. We must deliberate seriously about this …”

Burgundy cut him off rudely. “Monseigneur, you had better stick to your stuffed animals and your collection of holy relics,” he said. “Don’t meddle in my affairs. I would regret it if you too had to learn to your sorrow that one does not stand in Burgundy’s way with impunity.”

He spat on the floor before Berry and unceremoniously left the Hotel de Nesle, stamping and swearing. Inwardly, he was far from confident; he cursed himself for his imprudence. Now that the Duchess of Orléans was in Paris, he considered it not unlikely that the King would order his arrest. After a furious ride through the city, he arrived at the Hotel d’Artois and went at once to the tower which he had had built in the inner courtyard, a donjon made from massive blocks of stone, where he could entrench himself against impending danger.

In a room on the highest floor he found the men who only a few weeks before had fled in wild haste from the rue Vieille du Temple; Salvia and Arnaud Guillaume were there as well. Most of them lounged on straw mattresses; three or four were playing a listless game of dice. The enforced stay in the donjon had begun, after two weeks, to bore them thoroughly.

“Men,” said Jean of Burgundy, “pack up — disguise yourselves and get out of the city. The truth is known; I expect very shortly a visit from the Provost and his bailiffs. Seek shelter in my domains, preferably in Flanders, it won’t be difficult for you there. But clear out before it gets dark. Talk to Messire Salvia about the how and when; he knows all about escapes and disguises.”

Salvia approached cringing humbly before his new master; the flaps of his red bonnet hung down loosely on either side of his sly, sallow face.

“Where are you sending us, Monseigneur?” he asked tensely.

Burgundy thought for a moment. “Go to the castle of Lens in Artois,” he said at last. “Wait there until you hear from me. No, don’t bother me with questions,” he added irritably as the astrologer bowed again. “Save yourself; conjure up the Devil if you must — it’s all the same to me.”

Late in the evening a troop of gypsies were seen passing through the outskirts of Paris; they declared that they had leave to spend the night in one of the fields near the ramparts. The following morning no trace of their camp was to be seen anywhere. At midnight the watch at the gate of Saint-Denis was alarmed by loud shouts and the sound of horses’ hooves. The Duke of Burgundy, one of the riders said, had to leave the city hastily; Monseigneur did not wish to be interfered with. The watch, who had as yet received no orders to detain Burgundy, opened the gates; the Duke and his followers dashed out at full gallop in the direction of the city of Bapaume on the Flemish border.

While these events were taking place in Paris, Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe and half-brother Dunois, were traveling to the castle of Blois. Charles was attended by Maitre Nicolas Garbet and Messire Sauvage de Villers, his chamberlain and advisor, along with horsemen, servants and many members of the ducal household. Charles sat on horseback; his brothers, much against their will, had to ride in a carriage. There was so much to see that the boys almost forgot the mournful reason for their journey. The procession had to stop repeatedly in Orléans’ domains so that delegations of the populace could greet the young Duke.

They came from everywhere to meet him; in carts along rural roads, by boat and raft over the Loire. Abundant gifts were offered to him: fat capons and beautiful pheasants, loaves of white bread and casks of country wine. Charles accepted the generous gifts and good wishes in as dignified a manner as possible. From his horse he looked down on the weather-beaten faces, the coarse hands, and the bent, warped bodies of the peasants; the dark, anxious looks of the city dwellers. The people, staring at their young Duke, saw against the grey-blue winter sky, the slender figure of a boy in black mourning damask. Most people thought he had friendly eyes.

“Alas, Monseigneur,” they dared to say, “be kind to us. Times are hard, and they say it will be a bad winter. We are poor, my lord, we have heavy burdens. Taxes are high, my lord, we beg you to lower them. May God and all the saints bless you, Monseigneur; be generous with us.”

Jean of Burgundy’s flight had made a deep impression upon the people of Paris who, long biased toward Burgundy, wanted to see in him a benefactor who had delivered them from imminent danger. They thought that the murder could have only good consequences: maintenance of the armistice with England — wasn’t it enough that skirmishes took place repeatedly along the coast? — peace in the city; remission of a part of their taxes. There was great need for this, especially in light of the severe winter, which was one of the coldest in memory.

Meanwhile, Valentine, through her chancellor and advocate, demanded punishment of the murderers and especially of the instigator of the deed, a confession of guilt from Burgundy and various forms of compensation for her and her children. But Jean of Burgundy sat safely in Flanders: the snow and cold formed an almost insuperable barrier between him and his kinsmen in Saint-Pol. In addition, the court knew the mood of the people of Paris, who shouted from the rooftops that they eagerly anticipated the return of Burgundy, the defender of their interests, whom they would greet with enthusiasm.

Berry, Bourbon and the young Anjou consulted with Isabeau who, recovered from her illness and fright, participated again in all discussions. To the amazement of the Dukes she seemed to deplore only formally what had happened; she even forgot more than once that an unwritten law forbade one to speak ill of the dead. It was as though her memory of Orléans and her passion for him had died together — or so her behavior would lead one to believe. In reality, she felt secretly relieved; she often thought with remorse and shame that for the sake of a fleeting pleasure she had allowed herself to lose sight of her real interests. Once more messengers went back and forth regularly between her and Ludwig of Bavaria.

“Do not oppose Burgundy too strongly,” Isabeau’s brother wrote to her. “His situation merits your careful attention. He is Bavaria’s ally in the question of Liege. He watches over all our commercial interests with England. Turn toward him, beloved sister, it is to your advantage. Try to hush up this murder business, it won’t be much trouble for you because, if I am well informed, Burgundy is the hero of Paris. The opposition is extremely weak; you can handle those old scarecrows, Berry and Bourbon. What constitutes the House of Orléans now? A woman and a few underage, powerless children.”

Isabeau took this advice to heart. She could not openly champion Burgundy. Therefore she took the middle way; Berry and Bourbon, who were perplexed by the affair — how could they accuse and punish a kinsman before the whole world? — lent her a willing ear. Bourbon was old and suffered from rheumatism; he wanted nothing so much as to be left in peace. Berry was concerned about his collection; he was heartily tired of all the meetings, discussions and consideration of consequences.

“Speak to Monseigneur of Burgundy,” Isabeau said during a serious conversation; she sat, broad and heavy beside the hearth fire, in a dress glittering with gold. “Ask him to surrender the villains. Judge them as they should be judged and after that leave our nephew in peace. The murderers will be punished then, isn’t that right?”

The Dukes agreed; partly from a desire to be rid of all responsibility and partly too from a secret fear of this woman who fixed her sly, unwavering eyes on them. Berry could not help thinking of a strange, revolting creature which someone had once given him for his collection: it had constantly increased in girth, swelling up to a monstrous thickness; it lay unstirring in its nest, devouring greedily whatever was thrown to it — rats, fish, refuse. It was interested only in food and more food. Bemused by memories of that peculiar beast, Berry offered to open negotiations with Jean of Burgundy.

So it was that Berry, accompanied by young Anjou, left for Amiens in the last days of February. Since the roads were in extremely bad condition, it was a slow and arduous journey, but at last Berry, with a great following, reached Amiens where Burgundy waited with his two brothers. The reception left nothing to be desired.

Burgundy appeared at the meeting as it had been arranged that he would, but he refused to acknowledge his guilt in any respect or to ask forgiveness, or even to surrender his hirelings. He pointed to the emblem that he carried with him: two crossed spears, one dull and the other sharp and pointed.

“It’s war or peace as you choose,” he said indifferently. “It’s all the same to me. I’m ready.”

At the last, Berry had to be content with the promise that Burgundy would come to Saint-Pol very soon and plead his case before the King.

The citizens of Paris heard this news with great joy; the court and Council, however, received it with mixed feelings. Many thought that the world seemed turned on its head: was Burgundy coming as the accused or the accuser? Bourbon found it all too much for him; he left Paris. Valentine, deeply offended, made one final effort to approach the King. She received a refusal in Isabeau’s name: the King was indisposed.

The Duchess’s crepe-hung coaches were once again made ready for a long journey. With her children, friends, vassals and servants, Valentine traveled to the castle of Blois. One carriage contained Orléans’ archives; the Duchess intended to seek herself the justice denied her in Paris.

In the first week of March, Jean of Burgundy arrived in the city as he had agreed that he would. He rode at the head of eight hundred horsemen and knights, all armed to the teeth but with uncovered heads as a sign of penance. The streets were crowded with jubilant people; here and there could even be heard shouts of “Noel, noel!” to the great displeasure of members of the King’s court and household.

Burgundy took up residence in the donjon of the Hotel d’Artois; there he consulted with his advisors and advocates about the best way to present his defense. After due deliberation the spokesman was chosen: Maitre Jean Petit, professor of theology, member of the University, famous for his fierce eloquence. Day and night, for one whole week, he labored in the Hotel d’Artois on the text of his speech: a sharply focused indictment of Orléans under the rubric, “Radix omnium malorum cupiditas—cupidity is the root of all evil.” Placed at the professor’s disposal was the person of the astrologer Salvia, the indefatigable collaborator who had, in disguise, accompanied Burgundy to Paris, and who was in a position to add a number of details to the known facts; he was, he asserted, better able than anyone else to furnish evidence for one of the most significant points in Maitre Petit’s accusation: that Orléans had endeavored, through sorcery, to kill the King and his children so that he himself could ascend the throne.

On the eighth of March, Jean of Burgundy set out for the palace of Saint-Pol. The ceremony would take place in the great hall: two platforms had been set up — one to the right and one to the left of the seats occupied by the royal family. The hall was completely filled with spectators; they stood packed together around the platforms, to the annoyance of the scribes and clerks of the court, who could barely ply their pens in the crush. Jean of Burgundy pushed his way with difficulty to the royal tribunal; the steely glint of armor could be seen under his ample scarlet overgarments. His lower lip protruded; his eyes were hard and scornful; the expression of contempt on his face belied his courtly salutations. The royal personages, dressed in gold and brocade, sat motionless, coldly attentive, under the canopy.

Maitre Petit rose, coughed several times and looked reassuringly at Jean of Burgundy who sat on a low chair in front of the royal benches. His scarlet garment had fallen open; the mail at his knees and elbows glittered in the light.

“May I,” began Maitre Petit in a calm, level tone, “may I, my lords, remind you how in antiquity Judith took vengeance upon Holofernes for the sake of Judea? How the archangel Michael expelled Lucifer from Heaven as we have been taught? Did Judith and Saint-Michael commit any crimes? No! Holofernes was a tyrant; Lucifer a rebel against God. Monseigneur of Burgundy is a loyal servant of the King; the welfare of France lies closer to his heart than to the heart of anyone else.

“You know, my lords, that Orléans was killed on orders from Monseigneur of Burgundy — what conclusions may we draw from that? That Orléans betrayed the King and did harm to France. I shall prove to you over and over that Orléans fully deserved to be labeled a criminal, and criminals deserve to be done away with. I shall now tell you everything the criminal Orléans did to destroy the King’s life in so subtle and perverse a manner that no breath of suspicion would ever touch him.”

Petit then gave a long summary of the methods used by Louis d’Orléans to achieve his purpose; Salvia had supplied complete descriptions of strange incantations, dreadful magic formulae.

“The criminal Orléans,” continued Petit, “wore on his naked body a ring that had lain in the mouth of a hanged man. He did this so that he could impose his will on a woman who refused to let herself be seduced by his promises and sweet words. He wore that charm continuously, even on holy days — during Lent, Easter and Christmas. Ask me not, my lords, how Orléans came to commit these and similar crimes. Remember that he was related by marriage to a nobleman of Lombardy, whom the people there called the foster brother of Satan himself. Do not forget that Orléans’ wife was greatly skilled in the black arts.”

Petit paused, waiting until the murmur in the room abated somewhat. Then he resumed, raising his voice:

“With the help of the Lord of Milan, Orléans attempted to penetrate the French throne. He had — right here in this court, among you, my lords — an accomplice, a certain Philippe de Maizieres, a man of thoughtful demeanor but of evil character. Through the pretense of piety he managed to gain entry to the monastery of the Celestines. Have they tried to fool you about Orléans’ piety too? He went to the Celestines at night and at oudandish hours, but it was not to pray or hear mass. Together with de Maizieres in a quiet cell, he hatched plots to kill the King and bring France to perdition.”

Then the speaker described in great detail how during a palace feast, the King and his friends had been set on fire by Orléans. A murmur of approval went through the hall; the fine points of the affair had, it was true, been forgotten, but everyone remembered that frightful accident.

Maitre Jean Petit knew how to weave truth and fiction together artfully into a tale of human greed and wickedness, which his audience received in deep silence. Petit very cleverly left until the very last the argument aimed directly at the emotions of members of the University and the clergy. He oudined at length the miseries of the schism, the significance of the University’s desire for cession. He informed his audience also that the only reason Orléans obstructed unification and supported the Pope in Avignon was because the latter had promised him the French throne in the future.

“All in all,” concluded Maitre Jean Petit, whose voice showed no sign of hoarseness after nearly four hours of talking, “I think that it follows clearly and irrefutably from the preceding that no blame should be attached to Monseigneur of Burgundy because he had had the aforementioned criminal Orléans put out of the way — on the contrary, we are greatly in his debt because he rendered an invaluable service to King, land and people. He deserves to be rewarded with affection and marks of honor. The tidings of his loyalty and devotion should be proclaimed throughout the Kingdom and made known abroad through messengers and letters. So it may be in God’s name qui est benedictus in secuia seculorum—who is blessed forever and ever. Amen! I thank you for your attention. I have finished.”

After these words, Petit knelt again before the royal personages, and asked Burgundy if he agreed with this argument. Burgundy uncovered his head and said, slowly and loudly:

“I am in complete agreement with the argument.”

Since none among those present seemed inclined to request proof or express doubts, the Duke of Berry declared the session ended, in the King’s name.

The following day Burgundy received a document signed by the King which informed him that he was acquitted of all guilt. At the same time he was solemnly invited to resume his seat upon the Council. The King’s signature ratified still another document with completely different contents: the children of the Duke of Orléans were deprived of the county of Dreux, the castles and grounds of Château-Thierry, Montargis, Crecy-en-Brie and Chatillon-sur-Marne. That the name Charles VI was written in shaky, blotted, ink-spattered letters by a madman who had no idea of what he was doing, was not thought by anyone to be a point worth consideration.

Isabeau left with her children for the castle of Melun, where she was to meet for prolonged discussions with her brother Ludwig.

Charles d’Orléans stood in one of the deep window recesses of the great hall in Blois and gazed out over the luxuriant landscape of the Loire valley. The broad and glistening river wended its way, bend after bend, between leafy thickets and green hills; the fragrance of flowers and newly-mown grass blew over the field. A triple girdle of ramparts circled the outer wall. Two inner courts separated from each other by moats and fortifications led to the citadel itself, which was flanked by strong towers. In the enormous castle yard were the guardrooms, stables, servants’ quarters and dwellings of the officials attached to the ducal household. There also stood the church of Saint-Saveur. The innermost court, situated between the donjon and the chapel, was considerably smaller; it could be reached over a drawbridge. Within these walls Valentine had found a secure refuge for herself and her children.

Charles stood motionless, with his hands behind his back. He was waiting for his mother. The beauty of the summer countryside — the river blinking in the sun, the light clouds — could not dispel the chill from the young man’s heart, nor the oppressive presentiments of disaster. After his joyous reception as the Duke of Orléans, he had found his first few weeks at Blois singularly charming; here, for the first time, he was lord and master in his own house. Despite the stifled laughter and amused glances of Philippe and Dunois, he had given orders and instructions; he was consulted on the daily course of affairs in the castle. Assisted by his chamberlain, Messire Sauvage de Villers, Charles had responded to questions, petitions, complaints and reports; he had acquired a taste for independent action. When his mother returned from Paris, he lost this independence. It was true that she kept him punctiliously informed of everything she planned to do, but she seemed to consider it self-evident — to Charles’ private annoyance — that her oldest son would agree with her on everything. Little survived of the sweet, gentle Valentine who, with embroidery and harp-playing, had attempted to forget how quickly the sand flowed through the hour-glass.

The woman who now sat from early in the morning until long after darkness fell, at a table strewn with papers, surrounded by clerks and lawyers, garrison commanders and stewards, had no time for hobbies or the pleasure of art. Between the folds of the mourning veil, her sunken cheeks seemed unnaturally pale, her eyes hard and lusterless as stones. When she was silent her mouth was compressed into a narrow line. At her command the castle of Blois and the hamlet of the same name which lay in its shadow, were put into a state of defense; she ordered a store of provisions laid in, the garrisons fortified, and the walls and towers repaired.

Philippe and Dunois enjoyed all this immensely; they could have their fill of armor, catapults, hand- and crossbows. Whenever they had a chance they roamed the great inner court among soldiers and horses, amazed that their mother allowed them to do it. Charles took up his lessons with Maitre Garbet once more, although with slightly diminished attention; he was worried about his mother’s plans: how did she intend, without allies, to challenge so powerful an enemy as Burgundy? Charles spent considerable time with her each day in the chamber where she conducted her affairs; she showed him the letters and decrees which she signed in his name. The intimate, loving relationship between mother and son seemed to have come to an end.

She displayed a tireless sharpness and objectivity that contrasted strongly with her earlier gentle, tender patience. She caressed only Marguerite, her youngest child, born shortly before Louis’ death, and Doucet, the small white dog who had attended its master to the last. Occasionally she smiled with absent sadness at Isabelle.

Charles’ wife was eighteen years old; now that Valentine was occupied elsewhere, Isabelle supervised the household and servants, with the same composure and self-possession which she had demonstrated on other occasions. She was very conscientious and seldom overlooked anything. Charles she treated politely, but with a certain irritating impatience. For his part, the young man did not know how to behave toward this tall, pale girl with cold eyes. Sometimes by chance he encountered her tense, penetrating stare; it was as though she looked for something, she expected something from him, but he could not imagine what it could be. He looked away in confusion. Did she perhaps detect the transformation which he was undergoing and which, embarrassed and irritated, he attempted to hide? He was seized alternately by feelings of restlessness and oppression; a sudden, violent urge for action, followed unceremoniously by a longing for quiet and solitude. He did not find peace even in his books any longer; he lay awake at night plagued by restlessness, an inner tension for which no cause seemed to exist. He was confused, queer thoughts came into his head — he did not know where to turn for advice. Once he hesitantly approached Maitre Garbet, his tutor whom he admired and trusted, and attempted to confide his troubles, but the old man only looked at him, smiling, over the rim of his spectacles and said, with good-natured mockery:

“Yes, yes, Monseigneur, you are growing up.”

This response, and especially the manner in which it was said, Charles found infuriating, but it gave him food for thought. Could that be the solution to the mystery? In the winter he would be fifteen years old, the age at which kings were considered to have attained their majority. The fact that his voice sometimes broke or that his limbs would not always obey him — did all this mean he was becoming an adult? There had been a time when he had wanted more than anything else to be a grown man, so that he could buy books freely, read to his heart’s content, journey to distant lands to see with his own eyes the wonders described in the holy stories and the tales of chivalry. Now the future which awaited him as an adult seemed less attractive.

The youth spent his days inside the dark walls of Blois, depressed by these and other thoughts. He loved the castle and principally its setting which unfolded to the horizon in delicate shades of green. In the river he saw reflections of clouds and the light of the sky in summer; it was an infinitely more beautiful picture than those woven into fabrics and tapestries. To his surprise he became aware of a curious desire to put into words what he saw: the sparkle of the sun on the stream, the glow of poppies in the green fields. Secretly he was ashamed of this urge. He had never heard that a man thought about such things.

He heard his mother’s train rustling behind him over the leaf-strewn floor. He turned and went to her; silently she allowed herself to be led to the bench under a tapestried canopy. For a few minutes mother and son sat next to each other without speaking; Valentine stared into space. Sunshine lay in broad rectangles on the floor; in its strong light the colors of the fabric hanging along the walls were dimmed by dust and grime. The afternoon was filled with sounds: a cuckoo calling in the thicket by the river, the creak of a water wheel in the village, the stamping of hooves and confused clamor of voices and tools in the inner court… Charles glanced sideways at his mother’s face; her skin was yellowish, wrinkled around the eyes — he thought she looked suddenly old and tired.

‘There are things which I must discuss with you, son,” said Valentine. Her soft voice sounded slightly cracked.

“Yes, Madame ma mere,” replied Charles; he tried to keep an attitude of courteous attention as he had been taught to do toward grown-ups, but a vague feeling of foreboding was creeping over him.

“You are now almost fifteen. At that age your father and your uncle the King were considered to be mature and responsible. Maitre Garbet tells me you have a good sense; he praises the progress you have made. After consulting with him, I have decided to terminate your lessons.”

Charles felt a lump in his throat; he made an abrupt gesture of protest.

“Your education has been much too narrow,” said Valentine, unmoved. She fixed her dark lusterless eyes upon him. “You are not predestined to be a scholar, son. You are Duke of Orléans, the head of a House, a leader of a party. It is time that we begin to develop those qualities which you must have for a task like that. You are a good horseman, but you have no skill with any weapon.”

Charles sighed; his lack of enthusiasm did not escape Valentine’s notice.

“You can sit and read later when old age or illness allows you no other diversion.” Her tone brooked no contradiction. “I fear, child, that you may already have spoiled your eyes by peering at your letters. Now you must develop your physical strength, exercise your muscles. You will need all that when you ride off to war.”

“War?” Charles raised his head; his look was just guileless enough to give his mother pain. But Valentine repressed this sympathetic impulse — she thought she must be pitiless herself if she were to help her son become the man of steel he had to be.

“Why do you think I have called up all these soldiers?” she asked wearily. “It costs a fortune every day to maintain them. If Burgundy will not bend, he must be broken. I shall force him to give me satisfaction, through force of arms if there is no other way. But any army of Orléans’ must stand under our personal command — that is to say, under your command, son. You owe that duty to your father, who was so ignominiously murdered. Listen …” She turned toward him and took his face almost roughly between her two hands. “Listen, boy. From now on you must be inspired by only one thought, only one desire must impel you — revenge, revenge, nothing but revenge, until the humiliation they visited upon your father and upon us has been expunged in blood. I have never been cruel and vindictive, God knows that. But now I have learnt all too well what fate awaits the meek. Strike before you are struck. That is the only law, son, I can’t teach you a wiser maxim. Remember that: revenge, satisfaction. Repeat those words by day and by night. Be aware that you must ignore yourself and everything you love must be set aside until you have achieved your purpose, until your father’s death has been avenged, his memory cleansed, your inheritance restored intact to you and your brothers. That work must be pleasing to God, because your father was a noble man who served the interests of the King and the realm.”

“Mother,” Charles said with sudden vehemence — he slid onto his knees before her. “Mother, they say that my father robbed the King — that he was impious and frivolous.”

Valentine raised her hand and struck the young man across the mouth.

“That you should dare to say those words within these walls is worse than treason,” she said harshly. “Never speak like that again. Do not question for one moment the truth of what I say to you. I knew your father better than anyone else knew him. He caused me much suffering, many bitter tears, but now it seems to me that the sorrow I had to endure was far less important than the joy he brought to me. Yes, that joy was so deep that now the world has lost its light for me. Nothing has meaning anymore,” she concluded, slowly repeating the words which were written in silver against the black walls of her apartments; tears began to fall from her dull eyes — she held a handkerchief before her face.

“I ask your forgiveness, Madame ma mere,” said Charles, embarrassed and upset. “But I don’t know if I am suited to be the leader of an army. I will learn to fight with weapons if you wish me to. But it is not fitting that I should be in charge of men like Messires de Braquemont and de Villars, who are great warriors.”

“You must let me judge what is fitting for a Duke of Orléans.” Valentine’s face had regained its severity. “You cannot become a leader through talk. You will have the best possible tutors. I don’t want any more objections, son. You are still under my guardianship; I am responsible for your education. Sit up straight — throw your shoulders back — you have sat bent over books for too many years. It has not been good for you.”

Charles obeyed, but he had to bite his lips to avoid bursting into tears of rage and disappointment. Valentine sighed; she folded her thin hands stiffly in her lap and went on.

‘There are still a few important matters I want to discuss with you. Your father contracted huge debts. He had to maintain his court and contribute to the support of his vassals here and abroad. He was forced to borrow a great deal of money at times to pay for his new territories. I want to pay off that debt before we undertake anything else, son, and that cannot be done without sacrifice. We must sell valuables and jewels. I have already made my choices — see if you agree with me, because there are many things among them which belong to you. I believe that if we want to have a large sum of money at our disposal all at once, we shall have to sell a house. I have heard that the Queen wishes to give the Dauphin his own dwelling in Paris. I have recently told her that I am ready to relinquish the Hotel de Behaigne to her for ten thousand gold francs. I take it you agree with me?”

The young man nodded; he did not speak. He was overwhelmed by despondency. What could he really say? He did not need to think; everything was being decided for him.

“Furthermore, I have finally received an answer to the letter which I sent to Monseigneur of Brittany in Paris. As you know, I held extensive discussions with him this spring. It is very fortunate for us, son, that he has reason to be dissatisfied with the way Burgundy handled the guardianship and administration of Brittany during Monseigneur’s minority. Now that Monseigneur is an adult and his own master, he will no longer allow Burgundy to order him about. In short, he has declared himself ready to enter into an alliance with us even if it means a rupture with his mother the Queen of England. I have had the agreement put into writing; you will be so good as to sign it soon and also those documents which I am sending to the Margrave of Moravia concerning the need to fortify the fortresses in Luxembourg.”

“Yes, Madame ma mere,” Charles replied in a barely audible voice; he kept his eyes fixed obstinately on the floor. Again they sat side by side in silence, two small black figures against a background embroidered with saints and heroes.

“Charles,” Valentine said suddenly, with a trace of the old tenderness in her voice, “you can keep Maitre Garbet in your service as secretary, of course. I know that you are greatly attached to him, child. You do not have to lose his friendship.”

The young man bowed, but his pale face did not relax. Valentine looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to another, once so loved. She saw in the thin mouth and around the nostrils too, something that reminded her of Louis; but Charles’ eyes were different, milder; she missed the flash of irony which had enlivened Louis’ glance. The youth’s cheeks were beginning to lose their childish roundness. From temple to cheekbone and chin fell the shadow, the oudine of maturity, which gives each face its own character. His thick light brown hair, clipped high around the crown, was as curly as it had been in his childhood, but the colorless down on his upper lip and chin was an unmistakable sign of manhood. The Duchess of Orléans almost smiled, but the impulse was too weak to soften the taut mask that was her face. She stood up slowly, leaning on the chair like an old woman; Charles hastened to help her. Together they walked through the long hall; the leaves rustled under Valentine’s train and under the soles of Charles’ black velvet shoes.

In the last week of August Valentine received a message that she would be received in Paris; she had not been so moved in a long time as when she read the royal letter. With the sealed parchment in her hand, she went to the inner court where, in an area set aside for that purpose, Charles worked with hand- and crossbow under the supervision of the practised archer Archambault de Villars. Valentine, who entered the court accompanied by her daughter-in-law Isabelle, watched her son for a while from the shadow of an arched doorway. The young man stood straight and lean in his leather jacket, at the far end of the shooting range. Slowly he drew back the heavy bow, his eyes squinting. Now the taudy-pulled sinew neared his shoulder; he let go; the arrow whizzed through the air, directly striking the target at the other end of the range. The feathered arrow quivered in the wood. Dunois, who had looked on knowledgeably with tense attention, went up, pulled the arrow from the board and made a chalk mark between the innermost circle and the bull’s eye.

“What a beautiful shot,” said Isabelle.

The sound of her daughter-in-law’s voice struck Valentine; she glanced quickly at her. In the girl’s eye she saw something which made her look equally quickly at the spot where Charles stood. After two months of almost uninterrupted physical exertion, he had become more robust. His slenderness had disappeared; he was now lean, but muscular and supple. Horseback riding, swimming, exercises with sword, bow and spear had removed every trace of awkwardness from him; he moved with some of the same ease which had characterized Louis. For the first time Valentine saw that her son was no longer a child but a young man; with amazement she realized that Isabelle already knew this. She drew her own conclusions. The eighteen-year-old Madame d’Orléans went about — it could no longer remain a secret from those around her — bent under her burden of forced virginity. Most women of her age already had one or two children, but although she was married now for the second time she was still a maiden. Her haughty bearing, her cutting coolness concealed her deep sense of shame and inferiority. Valentine had often asked herself, not without concern, what would happen in the future; when must she assign Charles and Isabelle a joint apartment? Isabelle seemed irritated with the quiet, childlike youth. The only feeling Charles evinced toward his wife was a certain embarrassed timidity.

But now Valentine saw in her daughter-in-law’s eyes an undisguised interest; more noteworthy still, Isabelle lowered her eyes when Charles, who had seen his mother, handed his bow to de Villars and approached to greet both women. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand; the flush of exertion which had colored his cheeks during the archery had disappeared — exhaustion lurked in the shadows under his eyes. The Duchess of Orléans sighed involuntarily; the young man was not strong; he did his best, but he was hardly equal to the effort which a soldier’s education required. Silently she handed him the Queen’s letter.

Later — Charles and she had consulted with advisors and lawyers in her apartments — mother and son discussed once again at length the measures to be taken. Valentine believed she must seize the opportunity without delay; she wanted to go to Paris with the evidence she had collected — letters, orders and other documents connected with Louis’ affairs — and there choose a qualified spokesman. Her intention was to refute Maitre Petit’s accusations point by point in the presence of the court, the government and representatives of the Church and the people. She increased her demands. Accompanied by Isabelle, she would go to Paris to gauge the atmosphere in the city and the court. If she found this to be favorable, Charles could follow with a suitable entourage.

The young man agreed to everything; he stood before the table piled high with documents and absently drew diagrams on the wood with his thumbnail. This made Valentine impatient; she was annoyed and disappointed diat she saw in him no trace of her own passionate zeal, her vengeful perseverance.

“I trust that you are well aware of your obligations, son,” she said at last, standing up to signal that the discussion was over. “What we do now is no whim for me nor child’s play for you. We must remain vigilant, even if Burgundy should come on his knees to beg our forgiveness. Do not believe for one moment in the good faith of the hypocrite who had the insolence to hold the edge of the pall covering your father’s bier the day after the crime; who went with his victim to communion a few hours before his murder! I want him to be humbled before us, that’s obvious — but after that I shall also be prepared for war. There will come a day, Charles, when we will be asked to move swiftly and boldly, you can be sure of that. Take care that you will be ready then in every way; in order to achieve that day you must not relax for a moment, not now, not ever! Is that clear, son? You may go now. I think that your exercise down in the square should be resumed.”

Charles shook his head; slowly he unbuckled the straps of the leather bands which he wore on his wrists when he worked with the bow. He gazed past his mother’s head at the blue sky outside the arched window; large, gleaming clouds drifted slowly by, a fleet of ships on the way to unknown destinations. He saluted Valentine and left the room.

Where is he going now? thought the mother, overcome by a vague feeling of shame and regret. What is going on in him? What is he thinking?

She walked back and forth in her cheerless room; on the walls hung black fabrics, embroidered with motifs suggesting fountains of tears and with her motto, repeated over and over in pointed silver letters. She passed her days here as though she were in a tomb, surrounded by objects which had belonged to Louis: a missal, a cup, a crucifix, a glove. The dog Doucet, wounded in the attack, lay night and day on a cushion. Valentine now possessed Louis completely; at last he belonged to her alone. He continued to exist for her — nobler, purer, more upright than he had ever been or ever could have been. She was driven only by the need to justify him, to cleanse his memory of every stain — true as well as false. She did not know herself whether her tireless efforts on his behalf made his ideal image clearer every day, or whether her belief in his perfection impelled her to those efforts. The realities of daily existence had been lost for Valentine forever; she did not know whether it was raining or whether the sun was shining; she ate and drank without noticing what was put before her. She concerned herself less and less with her children: the Dame de Maucouvent, grey-haired and rheumatic but more dedicated than ever, cared for Jean and little Marguerite; Philippe and Dunois were looked after by their tutor. Fervently, Valentine wanted Charles and Isabelle to identify with her struggle. Only similar emotions could constitute any kind of bond; nothing else existed any longer for the Duchess.

For some time she had been hearing a whisding sound in the inner court — the recoil of a bowstring. She looked out the window and saw Dunois in the shooting range. Archambault de Villars was no longer there; a page and a couple of stableboys stood at a distance, watching Dunois as, lips pressed grimly together, he tried to bend the heavy bow, to aim the arrows correctly. Although he was not yet eight years old, he did not seem too young to hit the inside circle of the target if he was not too far from it. The further away he stood the more difficult it was for him, because he did not yet have the strength to draw the bow back far enough. His small, broad face was red with exertion, his short sandy hair tangled and damp with perspiration, but he did not give up. Again and again he picked up the fallen arrows, again and again he marked the holes in the target with chalk. Then he returned to a certain spot and drew the bow once more.

Valentine looked down at him; a strange smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. This boy who was not her son had, since his infancy, shown a strong will, unlike her own children. She saw in him the tenacity of purpose, the blind drive which she now thought indispensable to the present circumstances. Charles did what he was told to do; he performed his exercises for the required time and not a moment longer. Dunois possessed the sacred fire, the inborn passion for weapons and their secrets — and he refused to allow himself to be driven from the field by either fatigue or a feeling of inadequacy.

When, some time later, Valentine looked out the window again, he was still there. Apparently he had hit the target, for he now stood a pace farther away from it. The Duchess of Orléans nodded as though in reply to her own silent question.

Around the vesper hour on the twenty-eighth of August, Valentine rode out of the Hotel de Behaigne in Paris; although she had sold the house to the Dauphin, it still remained for a time at her disposal. As before, she had arrived with black carriages, black horses, and a great following clad in mourning; this time too she was attended by Isabelle. As soon as she could, she set out for the royal palace. The King, who had not been in his right mind since the spring, could not receive her; she was admitted into the hall where the Council was gathered, presided over by Isabeau. In the presence of the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry, Bourbon and Brittany, the Chancellor de Corbie, the Constable d’Albret, bishops and archbishops, nobles and prominent citizens, Valentine for the second time presented her petition for justice. With no retinue, accompanied only by her daughter-in-law, she entered the hall; she did not wait for the punctilious ceremonial marks of honor that were her due; like any suppliant she fell immediately upon her knees and from that position delivered her complaint. Isabeau could not understand such indifference to one’s rank, such extreme humility; from her raised seat she looked down on her sister-in-law with a disapproving frown.

“Madame,” she said, when at last the Duchess of Orléans was silent, “we welcome you to Paris. We assure you that we shall give your petition our most profound consideration and that we will do our utmost to grant it.”

Valentine raised her dead eyes to the woman who, all her life long, had been her bitterest enemy. That she herself had once condemned Isabeau for her cruelty, filled her now with a vague feeling of surprise. What did the discord between two women matter in comparison to the catastrophe which had engulfed her since then? She saw on the throne a fat woman dressed in gold brocade, who sat with difficulty on her hard chair. Her obesity aroused aversion and pity rather than hatred; to be sure, Isabeau’s eyes were, if possible, brighter and harder than before, but they no longer frightened Valentine.

The Queen, eager to exchange a few words with her daughter, invited both Duchesses of Orléans to accompany her to her apartments at the conclusion of the session. In the room with the golden doves of peace — how well Isabelle remembered greeting the English delegation here — Isabeau received them. She ran her eye swiftly over her daughter’s thin figure, her colorless face; she asked a few questions: how was Monseigneur d’Orléans? How old was he now? How did Isabelle like life in Blois — did it suit her? The girl answered politely, but coldly. Isabeau shrugged impatiently. Presently, she turned to her sister-in-law.

“Well, my fair sister,” she said, “it’s been a long time since we have been together. Much has happened.”

“Yes, Madame,” replied Valentine without looking up. Isabeau yawned and sat down.

“I ask myself whether you believe you have much to forgive me for,” she remarked after a while, glancing aside at Valentine. Isabelle frowned and flushed with annoyance, but the Duchess of Orléans said, in a calm, toneless voice, “Who am I to decide what I must forgive you for, Madame? We are all sinners. In my situation I no longer worry about these things. My father is dead; Monseigneur my husband is dead. There is no need for enmity between you and me, Madame, if my interests are also yours. For the sake of the goal which I have set myself, I am prepared for any humiliation.”

Isabeau smiled with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, toying with the gilt bells on her sleeve. “Do you mean to say that you consider it humiliating to speak to me?”

The Duchess of Orléans curtsied deeply.

“I mean,” she replied softly, “that it is all the same to me, Madame. I am a woman of few words — life might perhaps have been easier for me if I had known how to express myself with facility. It is a great gift to be able to capture in words an image which can move us profoundly. The Dame de Pisan was able to do that when she lost her husband. I have a poor memory for verses, but I remember a song in which she laments: T am all alone.’ She repeats this refrain incessantly, there is no room in her heart for any other thought. So it is with me, Madame; I am alone, I possess nothing on earth, I seek only justice for my husband — beyond that, I am indifferent to everything.”

“Well, well, fair sister.” The Queen did not know what to say; she found such mourning, such mortification, completely senseless. Not without secret amusement, she wondered whether Isabelle too joined in this unending funeral procession; she could not help but think that death had often crossed her daughter’s path — practically since her ninth year she had worn only black. Tears and reproaches from Valentine — these Isabeau could have understood; her sister-in-law had every justification for them. But this cold grief seemed to Isabeau as strange as Valentine’s earlier forbearance. Somewhat curtly, the Queen gave the women of Orléans permission to withdraw.

On the ninth of September, the Duke of Berry rode out the Saint-Antoine gate to greet his grandnephew Charles d’Orléans on a country road. In spite of old age and expanded girth, Berry still sat on horseback; on this day he was uncomfortable because it was exceedingly warm. Besides, the Duke had, as usual, eaten well and drunk copiously. It cost him considerable effort not to fall asleep on his steadily trotting horse; the more so since he was forced to keep his eyes half-closed against the glaring mid-day sun. At the point where the roads to Vincennes and Charenton converged, Berry’s escort halted. From the right a procession of several hundred horsemen approached in a cloud of dust.

Berry, now wide awake, perceived that his grandnephew was preparing to salute him; the riders reined in their horses, Charles d’Orléans rode slowly forward. The youth saw an old, fat man whose hat, clothing and gloves were bedecked with uncommonly large gems, slumping sideways in the saddle. His cheeks and chin were flabby pouches; under their heavy lids his small eyes surveyed Charles with sharp curiosity. Berry saw a sad-faced boy soberly clad in black, who sat his horse well and uttered some well-chosen words of greeting. He was not shy. He lacked something — what, Berry could not immediately tell. In the smooth, controlled face opposite him he thought he read listlessness, a lack of resilience, which seemed especially remarkable in one so young. Berry recalled vividly what Louis had been like as an adolescent — passionate in both his enthusiasms and his aversions, but always under every circumstance a plain-spoken, radiant youth.

While they rode to Paris, Berry glanced continually at young Orléans from the corner of his eye; he conversed in his somewhat chilly, easy manner. Charles responded with civility, but as if the conversation did not concern him. However, when the subject turned to books, Charles thawed considerably. Berry was pleasantly surprised; the youth seemed well-read, a presentable Latinist, and he had taste. He has enjoyed a good education, thought the old Duke appreciatively, he is a much more pleasant young man than the Dauphin, that boastful, conceited little know-it-all who can hardly make out his ABCs but who behaves as though he were God Almighty Himself. Orléans acts somewhat elderly, but the lad has seen enough sorrow to make him look somber. He has his mother’s eyes. They say that eyes are the windows of the soul; so much the worse for him then, for he will suffer in his life. But be that as it may, he is an acquisition to our royal menagerie!

Berry chuckled softly, but Charles did not notice it; he was busy looking about him. For the first time in his life he rode consciously through the streets of Paris; with his own eyes he now saw the churches and palaces of which Maitre Garbet and Marie d’Harcourt and the minstrel Herbelin had told him so often: the squares closely encircled by rows of houses, the busy streets, the thousands of shop signs, the towers with their gilded weathervanes, the handsome gables of the great merchant houses, decorated with wood carvings and statues; he saw the massive towers of the Bastille and — most imposing of all — the shiny blue peaked roofs of the palace of Saint-Pol.

Soon the procession entered under the arched gates; the sentries gave them a respectful greeting; from all sides stableboys and stewards hastened to receive the Dukes and their retinues of nobles. Charles felt as though he was on a plateau set in high mountains. He had never imagined that walls and towers could be so steep, roofs so dizzyingly high. Blois, though powerful and massive, faded into insignificance against these narrow, pointed buildings with their hundreds of corridors and peepholes, pinnacles and battlements. From almost every tower fluttered thin blue pennants embroidered with golden lilies as a sign that the king was in residence within the walls of Saint-Pol.

Charles wished to go at once and pay his respects to his godfather. Berry led him through what seemed to the youth a maze of corridors and galleries to a very quiet wing of the palace. The doors which led to this section were diligently guarded by armed soldiers. Even in the anteroom Charles, who was extremely sensitive to that sort of impression, began to detect a strange, foul odor, such as might emanate from a place where wild beasts were caged. Attempts had been made to dispel the stench by the burning of incense and redolent herbs, but this had succeeded only in making it more noticeable. Old, faded and nearly threadbare fabrics hung on the walls; the windows were small and narrow and further obscured with bars. These dark chambers filled Charles with a feeling of horror and secret anguish. How sick was the King that they could force him to live in a place like this?

Finally they came to a door studded with iron figures; Berry called out that he and Monseigneur d’Orléans wished to see the King — soft footsteps could be heard behind the door; someone pushed a bolt aside. The gentlemen of both Dukes’ retinues withdrew to the anterooms as though they wished to avoid an encounter with the woman who appeared now in the doorway.

On the threshold of the King’s chamber stood Odette de Champ-divers, “the little queen” as she was derisively nicknamed — the paramour whom Isabeau had so opportunely chosen for her husband. Berry greeted her curtly and immediately entered the room; but Charles, who suddenly remembered some court ladies’ gossip which he had overheard, stood motionless, uncomfortable and dismayed. He had imagined Odette de Champdivers to be a coarse, bold woman like the trollops with their fierce, shameless eyes and crude gestures who wandered among the troops encamped at Blois. Whenever he heard the word ‘sweetheart’ he thought of these women, although he knew that this woman was the daughter of a Burgundian nobleman. Odette de Champdivers stood against the open door. She wore a brown dress and hooded cloak like a burgher’s wife. Her small, pointed face was also suffused with a brown glow. It was the face of a child, almost an elf, with wise, soft, very dark eyes.

“Come in, my lord,” she said amiably, gesturing with her narrow hand. Charles mumbled a hasty greeting and walked past her into the room. The oppressive, acrid air was almost unbearable; he had to make a strong effort to keep from holding his nose. The King sat huddled at the foot of a bed with tied-back curtains; he was biting his nails and looking with hostility at his visitors. The room was barren but neat; flowering plants stood in pots on the window sill.

“Sire,” said Berry quickly — in his haste to be on his way he omitted the customary ceremonial formalities. “Sire, your nephew, Monseigneur d’Orléans, requests the honor of greeting you.” The King made a few unintelligible sounds and stared about him fearfully. The young woman, who had closed the door softly and carefully, approached and held out her hand to him to help him rise.

“Come.” She helped him firmly but lovingly; he allowed himself to be drawn from the bed. “Come, here are Monseigneur de Berry and your nephew. Look at him nicely and greet him — he has come from far away to see you. Come, do not be afraid. I am with you.”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine.” Berry waved his glove impatiently. “Don’t force him if he doesn’t feel like talking. He doesn’t recognize us.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure he recognizes you. And he is pleased that you have come to visit him,” said Odette de Champdivers, fixing her dark eyes upon Charles. She laughed reassuringly. Never had Charles seen anyone who radiated so much warmth, who inspired such deep confidence. It seemed to him that in spite of her youth she was older and wiser than the oldest and most intelligent people he had ever met; only looking at her gave him a feeling of comfort.

“How is it with the King now?” he asked. Odette de Champ-divers shook her head, still smiling.

“He is very ill,” she replied, in her tranquil, modest way, “and he suffers a great deal. But he endures his pain with great patience and humility.”

Berry snorted with impatience and walked to the door, making it obvious that he wished to leave.

“If sometimes he does not do so,” continued Odette de Champ-divers to Charles, “he cannot help it. He does not always know what he is doing. But he is such a good and friendly man that one must love him.”

“Yes,” said Charles hesitantly. It was impossible for him to imagine how this young woman could perform her revolting task with so much patience; with so much affection, too. He saw how the King put his hand in hers, for support; how he followed her uneasily with his eyes when she moved away from him. Neither by day nor by night did Odette de Champdivers quit the room where he lived; she was always there to assist him, to comfort him, to clean him when he soiled himself, to admonish him gently when he would not eat or was ill-tempered with visitors. Even in times of deepest mental darkness, the madman had to be assured in one way or another that he was surrounded by a completely unselfish love. Anew each day he got the greatest gift any man could be given: compassion which sees all and forgives all.

“Come along now, nephew,” said Berry, who had already opened the door. Charles bowed before the King and, then, no less deeply, before Odette de Champdivers.

“God be with you, Monseigneur.” She followed him and showed him out. Standing in the anteroom, Charles and Berry heard the bolt shoved gently back into place on the door.

Not until Charles was outside the gate of Saint-Pol did his depression lift slightly. They rode to the Louvre where Isabeau and the Dauphin had taken up temporary residence; this castle lay at the other end of the city. The procession followed the rue Saint-Antoine, but was soon forced to take the narrower, more tortuous streets striking through the heart of Paris. The populace, long accustomed to the presence in the city of great lords with armed troops from all regions of the realm, paid little attention to the horsemen passing by. Those who recognized the Duke of Berry looked closely at his company, but no one suspected that the young man, stiffly clad in black like a clerk, was the son of Orléans.

So these people are Burgundy’s friends, thought Charles, as he rode on, looking down on the turmoil around him; he noticed that a great many of the people carried weapons; that in numerous houses the ground floor windows were nailed up leaving only a small peephole; that an alarming number of soldiers roamed in aimless bands through the streets, throwing a curious eye in passing at the horsemen of Berry and Orléans.

In the Louvre Charles was received by the Queen and the Dauphin. Isabeau looked thoughtfully at her son-in-law; he had grown much taller — who would now say that this youth was still unable to perform his duty as a husband? She did not have much to say to him; she repeated to him only what she had already said to Valentine: she hoped with all her heart that Charles and his mother would be able to refute Maitre Petit’s argument. Afterward she moved off to a side room with Berry, leaving the two youths alone. The Dauphin, Duke of Aquitaine, was twelve years old, rather thin and pale like all Isabeau’s children, but with a large head and protuberant eyes. He wore elegant garments, decorated with golden lacings; he flattered himself that he looked magnificent.

“Fair cousin,” said the young Duke of Aquitaine in a sour voice, “they say you have a whole army there in Blois. Is that true?”

“Indeed it is true,” replied Charles. He could not bring himself to speak in flowery terms to his perfume-sprinkled royal cousin.

“Then you intend to fight?” asked the Dauphin eagerly. “Because Monseigneur of Burgundy will not yield. I am certain of that.”

Charles looked down at the enamelled mosaic of the floor. “That we shall see,” he said stiffly.

The Dauphin began to laugh, the forced affected laughter of a badly spoiled child. “Don’t think it matters to me one way or the other.” He opened a gilded leather pouch which he wore on his girdle, and took out a pair of dice. “Here, throw,” he said to Charles, pointing to a table. “The stakes are two golden livres. Do you have any money with you?”

Charles felt little affection for his cousin; when he saw him a few days later in the great hall of the Louvre where Orléans’ coun-terplea was to be read, he found him decidedly ludicrous. The Dauphin was arrayed for the occasion in royal purple, with ermine around his shoulders and a crowned hat on his head; this was to make it plain that he was acting for his father. He sat with Isabeau under the canopy; the places beside them were awarded to the great of the Kingdom and the royal members of the Council. Knights, members of the Council and of Parlement, representatives of the University and many prominent citizens sat as they had sat to hear Maitre Petit’s speech in Saint-Pol, on platforms erected for that purpose. Great numbers of the populace also had been admitted to the assembly. Only Burgundy was absent; he was laying siege to Liege.

Valentine entered accompanied by Charles, and her Chancellor and by the advocate, Maitre Cousinot. The text of the defense, prepared beforehand in Blois and bound as a book, was now solemnly handed over to the Abbe de Serizy of Saint-Fiacre, whom Valentine had chosen as spokesman. The Abbe proceeded in a clear, calm voice, to read aloud the long speech, which he introduced with the following words: “Justitia et indicium pmeparatio sedis tuae”

Patiently and minutely the Abbe de Serizy refuted all the charges of attempted poisonings, attempted murder, conjuration. He succeeded in holding the attention of his audience through his choice of words, weaving suitable quotations from Aristotle, Augustine and Cicero into his argument. In contrast to Petit, he did not attempt to make an impression by shouting, using glib phrases, fiercely taking advantage of the reaction of the people in the audience. For this last, he would have had little opportunity anyway because the multitude behind the wooden railings were not at one with him, and attempted again and again to interrupt him through angry muttering and restless shuffling.

“With respect to the King and the royal family, Monseigneur d’Orléans was anything but hostile. Her Majesty the Queen can testify to that if she chooses.”

De Serizy paused and looked toward the royal seats. Displeased. Isabeau raised her brows; coughing and shifting broke out on the platform. Only Madame d’Orléans and her son sat unmoving — she with raised, he with lowered, head.

“Now I come to the final accusation levied by the opposition: that Monseigneur d’Orléans robbed the King and extorted money from the people by the imposition of heavy taxes. My lords, it is truly wonderftd that the opposition should reproach Monseigneur d’Orléans in this way. It is a well-known fact that that is a means to which all royal persons have recourse when they need money. May I remind you of the manner in which in the year 1396 the expenses of the expedition against the Turks were defrayed, and how the ransom for Monseigneur of Burgundy was finally collected? Actually, the expedition caused irreparable damage to France.

“Then there is the allegation that Monseigneur d’Orléans attempted by night to steal the gold which is stowed away in a tower of this palace. It is true that he suddenly removed 100,000 gold francs — but he had good reason to do that. Monseigneur d’Orléans had repeatedly sought money to pay the salaries and provide necessities for the troops who must guard our coasts. His opponent, Monseigneur of Burgundy, had refused persistendy in the Council to supply the necessary funds. Because the army had a right to prompt payment, Monseigneur d’Orléans was forced, against his will, to take what was not willingly given.

“Members of the opposition,” concluded de Sérizy, after a brief pause, turning to the place where Burgundy’s lawyers sat, “members of the opposition, take into account the displeasure, even the calamity, which the people of France will have to endure because the soldiers in the service of Burgundy — who pays poorly — roam plundering through the regions between Paris and Flanders.

“Princes, nobles, consider what has happened here. Burgundy has taken a path which can lead only to destruction, a road of treachery and cunning. Men and women of the city, old and young, rich and poor, consider that peace and calm have ended. Between the royal kinsmen glitters the naked sword, and that means war and suffering for you. Prelates, consider that a man has been murdered; that he did his utmost, in spite of everything, to serve the welfare of Church and State. That is why Madame d’Orléans has come here, together with her son, imploring you to give her justice. Remember what Solomon the Wise said in the Book of Proverbs: ‘He who deals righteously shall find life and true glory.’ ”

With these words the Abbé de Sérizy concluded his oration. He had, like Maitre Petit, spoken for four hours without interruption. Maitre Cousinot, advocate in Parlement, arose now, amid a great tumult from that part of the hall where the people stood packed together; he declared that on the strength of the preceding evidence he had come to believe that the Duke of Burgundy deserved only the most stringent punishment. Bailiffs removed troublemakers from the public area and loudly demanded silence. After that, Cousinot read Valentine’s demands.

The Council now withdrew and under the supervision of the Queen, began to deliberate on the reply to be given to Orléans’ party. Isabeau, highly displeased by de Serizy allusion to her good relations with Orléans and by the way in which the Abbé had depicted Orléans’ policies as beneficial — as if to place her own actions in an unfavorable light — declared tardy that she deemed the allegations of Burgundy as well as those of Orléans to be immoderate; she advised the Council to involve itself as little as possible in this dispute between two princely families — in time the hatred on both sides would pass away. Meanwhile, further deliberation could be promised and care taken to see that Paris was fully armed and fortified.

After returning to the hall, the Dauphin in his shrill, childish voice communicated the decision of the Council to the widow of Orléans and her son.

“We are grievously offended by the conduct of Monseigneur of Burgundy,” said the heir to the throne in a tone which belied his words. “And we promise you that we shall do whatever is possible to reach the fairest solution.”

Valentine and Charles had to remain content with this meaningless response. At first, Charles was inclined to believe that their demands would be granted and that all dispute and discord would come to an end. He said this to his mother, when they sat together that night in the Hotel de Béhaigne, but Valentine only smiled contemptuously.,

“Put that idea out of your head, son. Our petition is denied. We may find it pretty that the court and the Council exhibit some dissatisfaction with Burgundy. Further than that they will not go. We must help ourselves.”

For the first time in his life, Charles dared to speak out openly against his mother.

“What precisely do you want then?” he burst out. He saw Isabelle, in a corner of the room, look up wide-eyed from her embroidery frame. “Can’t we rest satisfied with the fact that Burgundy admits committing murder? We hear constantly from everyone that he has no intention of confessing to feelings of guilt or of begging forgiveness. If those in authority do not pursue him, what must we do then? Surely you cannot intend to wage war by yourself? We don’t need to interfere with Burgundy; I don’t think he intends to get in our way. We have done what we could. If the King doesn’t punish Burgundy, it is not our fault. We cannot put France through the agony of a civil war. You yourself heard what the Abbe de Serizy said.”

“Coward.” Valentine rose from her seat; she was trembling with rage. “Is your distaste for organization and command so great that you would leave your father’s death unavenged? Do you find it so easy to bear your disgrace that you prefer to sit for years beside your father’s murderer in the Council and let yourself be bullied by him? Does the honor of your House mean so little to you? Are you too lazy, boy, to take up the sword for the sake of your father’s good name?”

“Mother, you distort everything; I haven’t said that,” muttered the young man. All the color had drained from his face. Tears of rage sprang into his eyes. The Duchess of Orléans made a small, eloquent gesture of contempt. She understood suddenly why the hatred of her father, Gian Galeazzo, had been so dangerous; he too had possessed the ability to gather together all the strength, all the passion that was in him to destroy his enemies. Was this youth, her son, really already tainted by the hereditary character weaknesses of the House of Valois: irresolution, a love of ease? Alas, Louis too had had those weaknesses — she had forgotten it too quickly.

“Do you wish to sacrifice the whole Kingdom?” asked Charles vehemently, trying to detain her as she walked toward the door which led to her bedchamber. “Are you prepared to go that far just to see Burgundy humiliated?”

“Yes, I am ready to go that far,” said Valentine proudly, ignoring Charles’ outstretched hand. “France will be completely destroyed if Burgundy exercises his power. Do you know the proverb of the gentle surgeon, son? Let us rather cauterize the wound. No, do not contradict me any more. You will admit later that I am right — perhaps when it is too late.”

The following morning Valentine ordered everything put in readiness for the journey back to Blois. Without bidding goodbye to the royal family, the Council or those who had assisted her in the matter of the lawsuit, she left Paris with Isabelle and Charles. During the journey she sat huddled in a corner of her carriage, shivering with fever; she had to be carried to bed at once. The physician who was hastily summoned found her condition alarming.

Valentine lay gravely ill at Blois. Considering the nature of her illness, there could be no doubt about the outcome after the first day; the store of will-power from which she had nourished herself since her husband’s death was exhausted. For ten long months she had strained her strength to its limits, forcing body and mind to a feverish activity, demanding too much of her constitution. So long as she had hope that her wishes would be fulfilled, so long as she could believe that action would be taken against Burgundy, she had managed to stay on her feet, but she was no match for the bitter disappointment of recent weeks. The blow was the more telling because she had thought her goal was so close. Now each foothold had slipped away from her: the Dukes, the Council faltering from fear, the Queen displeased anew, her own son unwilling to fight for his rights.

Silent, with closed eyes, Valentine lay, day after day, on her bed between the black curtains, the black hangings. She was no longer concerned with those who lived in and near the castle; she hardly heard them speak to her. Charles, on whose shoulders the whole responsibility rested now that his mother no longer concerned herself about anything, had not revoked the orders given by her in the spring; he had in fact toyed repeatedly with the thought of disbanding the troops and sending the vassals home, but he was restrained by the fear of aggravating his mother’s condition; and he feared also the opposition and displeasure of the captains and especially of de Mornay, who shared Valentine’s views.

Never had Charles felt so uncertain, so melancholy and so burdened with guilt. He knew that his mother’s advisors and assistants were privately contemptuous of him for his inclination to remain aloof; they did not show it, but he sensed their criticisms of him: they thought he was a bad son, unworthy to hold the title. Attempting to win their friendship and approval — one can be extremely lonely when one is fourteen years old and without support — he painstakingly performed the tasks in which he had the least interest: he practised with weapons, rode out to inspect the troops, studied the art of war. At night he sought refuge in Maitre Garbefs apartment; he tried to find comfort and oblivion in the books which he had loved. But the adventures of Perceval and Arthur now suddenly seemed dull and far-fetched to him; the stately Latin sentences of the classic writers sounded labored in his ears; the holy legends and the stories of miracles were not convincing. How could he immerse himself by candlelight in things which had never happened or had occurred long ago, while his mother pined away from grief, while Burgundy the murderer went his way unpunished, while disaster threatened everywhere and the November wind, like a harbinger of winter’s cold, blew its litany along the shutters? For the first time Maitre Garbet also seemed like a stranger to him; the little old man, bent day after day over the vellum sheets which he filled with essays on theology and history, seemed very far removed from what disturbed Charles.

Isabelle was confusing too. He did not see her often, because she stayed for the most part in the sickroom, but occasionally she came to him unexpectedly when he sat in the library with maps of roads and rivers and plans of fortresses before him. At first he really believed that she sought him out to bring him special news about his mother; he could not imagine why she tarried, giving him sidelong glances which made him more uneasy than her previous cutting arrogance. She did not say much, nor did she make any effort to draw him into conversation — it was precisely this expectant silence which he found so oppressive. Charles, who could not sit until she requested him to, stood beside her, overcome by shyness and slight irritation. He and she were about the same height; when he glanced at her profile he saw close by the roundness of her pale cheek, her large, grey, slightly protuberant eyes, her slender neck. He was old enough to know that the marriage between them was a marriage in name only; the worldly ladies and gentlemen of Valentine’s retinue had not hesitated to tease him continually since the wedding in Compiègne about his neglect of his duties to his wife.

Charles was no longer ignorant, but what seemed perfectly natural and obvious in conversations with pages and grooms in the stables, and in daily business with dogs and house animals, could not somehow be associated with Isabelle and himself. Over the years he had grown accustomed to her constant presence; she belonged in the household and had therefore, despite her sharp tongue and impatient outbursts, the right to respect and affection. The alteration in her manner toward him he found terrifying.

Once when he had offered her his hand to lead her to the door, with a quick gesture she had pressed his fingers against her breast; he felt the restless throbbing of her heart. As a child he had once caught a field mouse. The creature sat in his closed hand, petrified with fear; the tiny body trembled with violent heartbeats. Seized by the same feelings of horror and compassion that he had felt then, he allowed his fingertips to be held against the cloth of Isabelle’s bodice; her grip on his wrist did not slacken for an instant. He was forced to remain standing in that position whether he wished to or not. He had retained an unpleasant memory of that incident. Thereafter, he avoided Isabelle.

On the twenty-third of November — the anniversary of the death of Louis d’Orléans — Valentine ordered a mass to be read in her bedroom. Hardly had the odor of incense dispelled, when the Governor de Mornay, who had accompanied the royal procession through the domains of Orléans as far as the city of Tours, urgently requested an audience with the Duchess. He was finally allowed to enter her chamber. The intellligence which he brought confirmed Valentine’s worst fears: the Duke of Hainault was in Tours to negotiate with the King in Burgundy’s name; both sides seemed equally anxious to re-establish good relations. Isabelle and Charles, who were present at the mass, feared that this news would do great harm to Valentine. However, to their surprise, it seemed to stimulate the Duchess to a final effort.

She was roused from her dull indifference; in spite of pain and fever, weakness and exhaustion, she tried to take measures to protect her children’s futures. In the last days of November she gave orders: de Braquemont received instructions to divide the standing army in Blois into special troops and to send these, well supplied with weapons, gunpowder and food, to key positions in Orléans’ territory. Once more she wanted it explicidy recorded that Charles would be Duke of Orléans; Philippe, Count de Vertus; Jean, Count of Angoulême and Jean, bastard of Orléans, surnamed Dunois, lord of Chateau-Dun. At last — December had already made its entrance with storms and bleak rain — she called her children to her.

Philippe, Jean and Dunois, who had not seen her since she left Blois for Paris, did not dare come near the black-hung bed; they could not believe that this emaciated woman was their mother. The skin of her face was tightly drawn over nose and jawbones, her chin protruded sharply — she already looked like a corpse.

“Charles,” Valentine said with an effort, while she motioned him with her eyes to come closer. “Charles, kneel down and swear by the Holy Body of Christ, who died for our sins, that you will protect and defend your brothers and your sister, and everything that belongs to them and to you, to the best of your honor, conscience and ability. Swear that you will not rest until you have avenged your father’s death, that you will watch and work without ceasing until Burgundy has paid for his crime.” She paused, gasping for breath.

“I swear it,” said Charles with bowed head.

“Promise me, then,” continued Valentine, “that you will keep the memory of your father sacred — you know in what way I mean. Let my body be buried in Blois, but bring my heart to Paris and set it in the tomb near Monseigneur my husband, in the chapel of the Celestines. Promise me,” she tried to sit up but could not, “promise me that you will be good… to the children here … and to Isabelle your wife. And forgive me, you, Charles, and you two children, forgive me for whatever harm I may have done to you. Now come here one by one and say that you forgive me.”

They knelt by the bed — Charles, Philippe, Jean and Isabelle; Dunois remained standing a considerable distance away from the others, because the Dame de Maucouvent, who carried littie Marguerite in her arms, held him back by the sleeve. But Valentine asked: “Where are you, child?” and stretched her thin hand for him. Dunois knelt close against the edge of the bed and looked at his foster mother with his bright, grey-green eyes; he alone did not weep.

“You will bear the heaviest burden of all, lad,” said Valentine; on her lips appeared the old sad, gentle smile. “The inheritance which awaits you is that you will have to fend for yourself. If Monseigneur your father had not been taken from us so suddenly, he would undoubtedly have provided well for your future. I am leaving you some money, child, but it is not much — we of Orléans have become poor. But I am not worried about you — less worried than about my own sons. You are more equal to the task of avenging your father than any of your half-brothers … Alas, child, I could not have loved you more if you had been mine. Say that you forgive me, Dunois.”

“I shall fight for Orléans and my brothers,” said the boy, his forehead pressed against Valentine’s hand.

Now the priests, who had been summoned to administer extreme unction, entered from the adjoining room: Valentine’s confessor from the house chapel of Orléans and the priests of Saint-Saveur, the church in the forecourt of Blois. Valentine, weeping now, bade her children farewell. Silently she made the sign of the cross over Charles’ forehead and grasped the feet of little Marguerite who was not yet a year and a half old, and who understood nothing of what was happening. The child laughed and wriggled in the arms of the Dame de Maucouvent, clutching at the light from the candles reflected in the glittering chalice which the priest held — the governess, blind with tears, stood speechless by the deathbed of the woman whom she had served for twenty long years. They told her she must leave the room; she carried the playful child away.

Charles, praying in a corner of the room, lost all sense of time; he did not know how long he knelt there, murmuring incoherendy, until someone shook his arm gently back and forth and said, “Monseigneur, it is over.”

The Duchess of Orléans lay with her head thrown back, her mouth open, as though she were about to call out. The sight overcame Charles, shattering his final resistance. He hid his face in his hands and repeated in a whisper the vows he had already sworn to his mother. Women entered the room to lay out the dead Duchess; respectfully they requested that Monseigneur depart.

Charles walked slowly through the empty rooms to his own chamber — through the windows he saw the evening sky, colored yellow above the horizon, steel grey and already filled with stars at the zenith. Crows sat in the leafless trees along the river. In Blois and in the forecourt of the citadel bells began to toll, mourning bells for the Lady Valentine, Duchess of Orléans, who had died at noon on the fourth of December in the year 1408 at the age of thirty-eight, precisely one year and eleven days after her husband was murdered in Paris.

Charles felt his heart lying cold and heavy as a stone in his breast. He sent his valet away; he did not respond to the raps on the door. He flung himself across the bed and thrust his fist into his mouth to smother the sound of his violent convulsive sobs. When he opened his eyes — had he slept? — he saw, vaguely in the darkness, the red glow of fire under the ashes. A small streak of light was visible on the floor by the window; outside, the moon was shining.

Charles raised his head to listen: he thought he heard somewhere in the room a soft rustling, like a woman’s dress gliding along the floor. His heart began to thump so violently that he almost choked. He did not dare to look up. He knew that one must call God’s name to drive back the dead who can find no rest, but his tongue lay as though it were paralyzed against his palate; he could not speak. Was she trying to urge him once more; did she not understand that he would do what she had asked, did she want to hear him swear an oath again?

In the reflection of the moonlight on the floor he saw a pale white dress; someone stepped up to him and put an arm on his shoulder. It was Isabelle, his wife.

III. BURGUNDIANS AND ARMAGNACS

n the first day of March in the year 1409, the populace of the city of Chartres were surprised by the news that royal guests were arriving in great numbers. Workmen in the King’s service appeared in the cathedral to construct a dais for the royal chair beside the altar; flags and banners were unfurled as though for a fete. Only when more processions — of nobles, courtiers, horsemen and soldiers — entered Chartres did some information begin to circulate about the purpose of this impressive gathering.

Burgundy and Orléans, it seemed, were ready for a new reconciliation before God and the King; scoffers asked, for the umpteenth time? The people had no opportunity to take part in what promised to be a joyous celebration; it became clear before long that the great lords wished this peace treaty to be a private affair. On the day set aside for the ceremonies a hedge of soldiers stood between the city gate and the cathedral. The square before the church was swept clean, streets blocked off to prevent spectators from flocking in. Thus almost no one witnessed the King’s entry; no one saw the sick man, wrapped in a great cloak, helped from his carriage; no one saw the corpulent Queen enter the cathedral wearing a fortune in pearls and rubies, followed by the Dauphin and his young wife; no one was given the chance to see, close up and with his own eyes, the peers of the Kingdom, the dukes, counts and barons, the cardinals and archbishops, the long procession of figures dressed in purple, gold and black, the indispensable extras in every act of this tragedy of kings.

Unobserved, Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe also rode into the city; both wore deep mourning. They were attended by only a small retinue, not more than fifty horsemen; so it was stipulated in the decree which summoned the Duke of Orléans to the meeting in Chartres.

The young man sat straight and silent in the saddle; he dreaded this meeting with Burgundy. He felt guilty because he had yielded to the pressure brought to bear on him by the Council and his own royal kinsmen. Since the death of his mother, they had sent him messengers and mediators without interruption; they knew only too well that it would be easier to make demands upon an inexperienced young man than upon Burgundy. The Duke of Berry had visited his nephew and spoken to him sympathetically, as a man of the world: what was the sense, he asked, in clinging obstinately to desires for vengeance and satisfaction? Why should feelings of enmity exist between the young man and his blood relative? There was certainly no question that reconciliation with Louis had been impossible, that Valentine had been filled with hatred—”but come, Monseigneur; you are too intelligent, too courteous, too pious, when all is said and done, to go on with a feud that can’t bring you anything but trouble.” With his sharp nose, Berry had sniffed out the arguments which would sway Charles: with broad strokes he painted the suffering and unrest in the country, the terror and aversion people felt for the armies because the soldiers depended upon the farmers and citizens for food and lodging; he did not neglect to point out that the threat of war interfered with the functioning of the government so that important affairs would be neglected or even ignored.

Despite his counsellors’ advice that he should not cooperate, Charles did not dare to refuse. He felt swamped by the overwhelming numbers of nearly insoluble problems; he could not choose a position or stand up for a point of view. There were many domains to administer, money matters to arrange, household affairs to manage and guidance to be given to officials — he had to keep an eye on a number of things the existence of which he did not even suspect. He was a husband as well as a brother and guardian, the head of a feudal House of one of France’s four most powerful vassal states. He did not know each separate task, but his awareness of the expectations that he would take full control of all these functions together made him extremely receptive to the pressure which was exerted upon him.

Now he had agreed to hear Burgundy’s apologies and be satisfied by them. He must play his role, even though he was beginning to question the wisdom of the course; even though he was plagued by feelings of guilt and regret. With thoughts like these he entered the cathedral of Chartres, followed by Philippe.

The light of hundreds of candles could not expel the dusk which hung under the old vaulted roof; the windows glowed dully: smouldering red, autumnal yellow, somber blue. The altar laden with gold, the royal cortege around the throne, the prelates in their ceremonial robes gleamed like treasure which lay sunken at the bottom of a deep shaft. A cold draught swept over the tombstones and made Charles shiver; he felt both insignificant and unimportant in this place. He was ashamed that the House of Orléans was represented so shabbily in the persons of two youths. He sought refuge, as always when he was insecure, in silence and reticence. Precisely because of this, although he was unaware of it, he gave an impression of dignity, of being equal to the situation. In the midst of so much pomp and ceremony, the rather thin figure of the youth, his stiff bearing and quiet face, could not help but arouse sympathy. Thus by his restrained entrance he gained considerably more favor than Burgundy, who came into the cathedral a short time later, attended by twice the number of men which had been stipulated. Jean was accompanied by his advocate, the Sire de Lohaing; they did not waste time upon compliments and ceremonial greetings, but proceeded directly to the purpose for which they had come.

Burgundy, attired in deep blood red, knelt before the King; the advocate followed suit, but remained at some distance behind his lord.

Jean coldly and insolendy inspected the royal group and especially the King who looked vacantly before him, and the two sons of Orléans — de Lohaing spoke in a voice which reverberated in the farthest corners of the cathedral.

“Sire, here is Monseigneur, the Duke of Burgundy, your true and humble servant, your nephew of royal blood, who applies to you in connection with the outrage committed by him upon the person of Monseigneur of Orléans, your brother. Monseigneur of Burgundy acknowledges that this outrage was perpetrated with his knowledge and on his authority for your welfare and the welfare of your Kingdom; he stands ready to acknowledge that here again, if Your Majesty wishes. He has heard that his deed has aroused your displeasure, and that causes him great suffering. Therefore, Sire, he beseeches you humbly to receive him once more in your grace and friendship.”

De Lohaing stopped, but the rising sound of the last syllables he uttered resounded in the silence; even before the echo died away, Burgundy completed the supplication: “That is my veritable wish, Sire; give ear to it.”

The King, who did not understand anything that had been said, remained sitting motionless; his long hair hung over his face, he seemed half asleep. Berry and Bourbon approached and spoke to him in a whisper; the King grumbled a little, but finally cried loudly, “Yes.” With this proof of royal favor, Burgundy had to be content. He turned now with a smile to Charles d’Orléans and his brother, Philippe. The advocate inquired, in the same tones he had employed toward the King on Burgundy’s behalf, whether the sons of Monseigneur d’Orléans were ready to renounce all thoughts of vengeance. Philippe could not restrain his tears, but Charles listened apparently unmoved; neither by look nor by gesture did he betray what it cost him to hear this purely formal expression of humility; to look into the face of his father’s enemy. He felt like shouting loudly that he refused to accept these apologies because he could not believe in their sincerity; that he rejected reconciliation with the murderer, that he would rather choose to continue the feud with fire and sword, even though he himself were to be ruined.

The blood mounted to his head, he took a step forward; but now he saw nearby, on the throne, the sick man’s grey face, which looked as though it were covered with cobwebs, and his trembling hands; he was overcome suddenly by a new strong desire: to help this poor madman to wear the crown and carry the sceptre. Was that not also what his father had striven for; could he himself wish for a nobler task? He readied himself to give the cheerful answer which was expected of him; the advocate de Lohaing had just concluded his speech, and Burgundy said, half under his breath, with a look of secret derision, “That I beg of you in sincere friendship, Messeigneurs d’Orléans.”

At that moment Charles became acutely aware that the entire reconciliation was essentially a senseless, ridiculous spectacle, undertaken to throw sand in the eyes of the simpletons — among whom, no doubt, they counted him as well. The King knew nothing, the Queen and the Dukes allowed themselves, like weathervanes, to take direction from the strongest wind. Burgundy wanted to be that wind. He expects us to fly away before him like withered leaves, thought Charles, with a new-found grimness. In later years he was to remember this moment in the sparkling twilight of the cathedral as decisive. He understood that in the eyes of many he was the personification of justice which had been trampled underfoot by a merciless ambition. So it went in the world always; the strong prevailed: those who allowed themselves to be oppressed deserved only contempt or pity. Shall it then always be so? thought the youth, embittered and rebellious. Must I bow before Burgundy; my steward before me; one of my farmers before him; a serf before the farmer, and can the serf finally kick his dog if he wants to? Must a man suffer injustice because he is weak — isn’t there any defense? I must oppose him, he said to himself, I must move against Burgundy, not from hatred, not from self-interest, but for the sake of a higher justice. How can we live peacefully when the arbitrary acts of a man with a hard fist and an insolent mouth set the law for us? I shall not be weaker than Burgundy — one must assert oneself when injustice seems invincible.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said aloud, in response to Burgundy’s direct question. “I bear no malice against you, and I am ready to make peace with you.”

He smiled and looked straight at Jean of Burgundy. It cost him no effort to utter meaningless and nonsensical phrases. Lie for lie, trick for trick, thought Charles, that is the purpose of this whole charade which will be forgotten in a few weeks.

At a nod from the Duke of Berry, he descended from the dais and approached Burgundy to exchange the kiss of peace with him. This symbolic act took place in a deathly silence. Jean of Burgundy watched the young man’s tense face draw near; in his eyes he thought he saw something which made him doubt that Charles was indeed so guileless as he had been painted.

At the conclusion of the ceremonies the royal kinsmen and their courtiers assembled in a building opposite the cathedral, where a banquet was to be held. Burgundy and Orléans were to sit on either side of Isabeau. His new insights had brought about a remarkable transformation in Charles: he felt reckless, even elated, able for the first time in his life to exchange jests with his grown-up neighbors at table. Isabeau looked at him, startled and at the same time amused — would her son-in-law now turn out to be a worthy son of his famous, quick-witted father? Burgundy, on the other hand, was not amused by the youth’s lively and often trenchant observations. From time to time he thought he saw sitting beside the Queen the cousin whom he had hated more than anything else in the world. The years seemed to slip away; he seemed to find himself again in the festive halls of Saint-Denis, filled with rage and jealousy, watching his wife Marguerite’s animated dinner partner.

“Why do you not eat, my lord?” asked Isabeau. “Do you find the wine so bad that you will not touch the goblet?”

Abruptly Burgundy stood up; he could bear it no longer. Assassination, war, intrigue, deception — for these he possessed sufficient patience and self-control; but the gradually dawning realization that he had slain his detested adversary only in appearance — that this man and his power had entered his life afresh in the shape of a youth with the same smile, the same quivering of the nostrils — that realization made him almost choke with rage. He quit the banquet hall as though in flight, under the amazed and displeased eyes of those assembled there. His departure was, understandably, considered to be a bad omen.

Charles felt as though he stood beside a table watching a stranger with an odd resemblance to himself sit eating and drinking; he had never suspected the existence in himself of this outspoken, easy-mannered youth. He heard his own voice raised in jests and laughter, in courteously constructed sentences which held an undertone of ridicule and irony perceptible only to himself. But what were they, those who had gathered here, but a pack of hypocrites? He saw with deep shame Philippe’s surprised and indignant glances; it was scarcely three months since they had buried their mother and already Charles behaved as though he had never in his life known a moment of grief.

“I am pleased that my daughter has such a cheerful husband,” said Isabeau with a searching sideways glance. “I have often thought that she must surely pine away from boredom there in Blois.”

The Queen’s remark seemed to drain away Charles’ self-assurance as though by magic. He flushed and stared at his plate, crumbling a piece of bread between his fingers.

“We have yet to hear news of our daughter,” said the Queen more coldly. “We had expected to see her here today, Monseigneur.”

“Madame Isabelle is not feeling well,” said Charles, with a quick look at Philippe.

“Is she ill?” asked the Queen sharply and loudly; many of the guests broke off their conversations and turned their heads toward the corner where the royals sat.

“Nay,” replied Charles; he felt his ears burning with embarrassment. But he had to speak; the Queen was eyeing him with suspicion. He said as quickly and softly as he could, “She is not ill. That is to say … she is … she thinks that in September she … Her doctor says …”

Isabeau threw her head back and burst into loud laughter, which drew more attention than anything which had gone before.

“Surely that is a most unusual way to announce the arrival of an heir, my lord.” Isabeau could not restrain herself. Usually prospective fathers were proud at the mere mention of such a thing. Charles gazed straight before him, annoyed and embarrassed. He saw the news traveling from mouth to mouth, beakers being raised toward him, some people laughing secretly — everyone knew that he was not yet fifteen years old.

To Charles’ inexpressible relief something happened then which directed attention away from him and his news; the gentlemen of Burgundys retinue rose in great haste at the lower end of the table. The Duke had sent a messenger to the hall to summon all those in his entourage. The impropriety of this behavior provoked great indignation.

“Does Burgundy forget again that he made peace only an hour ago?” the Chancellor de Corbie asked furiously. “What sort of crazy behavior is this?”

“I shall tell you, Messire!” A small, hunchbacked man in the checkered livery of a jester leapt onto the seat beside the Chancellor; laughing shrilly, he fingered an object which he wore around his neck: a small, flat disc such as priests wore when they received the kiss of peace from the faithful. The object was called a pax. “What do you see here on my breast, Messire?” called the fool; he was part of Burgundy’s retinue, where his malicious tongue was much admired. “What do you see here? A pax. You will say, ‘Ah, Messire, do you think I will run to close up shop for a pax such as any priest can wear?’ But look, look — I turn it round — it is a lined peace, as you can see — a so-called peace with a double bottom — do you understand, Messire?” The fool’s strident laugh drowned out every other sound; he leaped up from the chair and ran hobbling slightly after the gentlemen of Burgundy’s entourage who were moving in groups toward the door. “A lined peace — a peace with a double bottom!” he repeated, jingling his bells.

The guests did not dare to laugh, although the fool had said only what nearly everyone there already thought. None of the secular and spiritual dignitaries who sat at the festive board and drank a toast to the great reconciliation believed in the permanence of the pact. Moreover, the fact that Burgundy had quitted the table without eating or drinking spoke for itself. Curious, sympathetic glances were cast respectfully at young Orléans at the head of the table. It did not augur well for the young man; how could he save himself? Most of them believed that Burgundy would easily make himself master of the barony of Coucy and the duchy of Luxembourg, that he would fleece Orléans when and how he pleased — that would be child’s play. Burgundy did not intend to be merciful, nor was there any reason why he should be; the royal kinsmen would let him go his way unquestioned. Why should anyone interfere now that peace between them had been openly announced?

Charles knew this all too well; the assurance with which, in the cathedral, he had resolved to pay Burgundy back in his own coin had vanished. How would he manage? Who would advise or support him? When he finally rose from the table he was tired and filled with somber misgivings. Now in well-chosen words he must take leave of his kinsmen and all the highly-placed, influential persons whom he had met that day. A civil word, a courteous salutation, might win him future friends — he remembered that Valentine had told him that. He rebuked his younger brother who stood yawning, pale with lack of sleep; he would have liked nothing better than to follow Philippe’s example: he could scarcely keep his own eyes open.

In the great hall confusion reigned, as it usually did after a feast: spilled food and trampled decorations were strewn over the floor. Pages stood near the partially-cleared tables, waiting to see whether more food or wine would be required. But none of the guests thought of eating any more. Now that the royal family and its entourage had left the hall, no one needed to behave with restraint. Many people strolled about and an equal number had made themselves comfortable and fallen asleep.

At one of the tables a group of older men sat talking. In an undertone they discussed the inauspicious omens and ate nuts which one of them kept cracking almost mechanically. Among this company, which was still reasonably sober, was Nicolas de Baye, clerk of Parlement; he sat listening with his head resting on his left hand. He made a hill of nutshells and then began thoughtfully to draw figures and letters with a sharp piece of shell on the tablecloth. While his friends and colleagues tried to guess at Burgundy’s plans and once more reviewed Orléans’ poor chances, Nicolas de Baye scratched the oudine of a lily into the linen between the wine stains and the crumbs and under it the words, “Paw, pax inquit propheta, et non est pax—peace, peace says the prophet and there is no peace.” He decided to use this phrase in his account of the ceremonies at Chartres which he would have to prepare in the next few days.

It was April; the skylarks soared once more into the clear sky; the trees wore light-green leaves, daisies were scattered like stars across the grass. The fresh wind, the incandescent clouds, the sparkle of the sun on the stream — who could see all this without feeling a deep desire to melt into the bright beauty of the landscape? Madame Isabelle had become restless within the dense walls of Blois; she wished to escape the castle’s chill and shadows. Charles, no less tempted by the hazy golden glow which seemed to hang above the land on the horizon, suggested to his wife that they take a journey; this would be, he thought, a good time to pay a visit to Isabeau and the King who were spending the spring in the castle of Melun.

The young Duchess of Orléans looked forward to the visit with secret trepidation: she feared her mother’s hard, probing stare and inevitable questions. But anything seemed preferable to staying in Blois. Now that most of the troops had left, life in the castle was monotonous and quiet. After the unrest and mourning of recent years, both young people longed for the carefree happiness which nature seemed to promise anew each spring. As they rode forth amid a great entourage, surrounded by the green hills, forests and vineyards of the domain of Orléans, they felt in their blood for the first time something of the joy of life which belongs to youth itself.

With flushed cheeks, Isabelle looked over the fields from the window of her palanquin, enjoying the clatter of horses’ hooves, the gleaming armor of the riders and the bright colors of the banners. She saw the flocks of birds wheeling in the bright sky, the shrubs along the road sparkling golden-green in the sunshine; on the wind the odor came to her of newly-ploughed earth, of heavy damp soil.

Charles rode at the head of a small group of noble friends. At the village of Olivet they were greeted by the people and offered, following the custom of the country, flat baskets filled with silvery glistening fish, and vats of wine. Charles, increasingly intoxicated by the spring air, not only accepted the gifts but decided to partake of them there as a token of his appreciation. Everyone dismounted outside Olivet in a meadow strewn with flowers; while the fish sizzled in hot oil over hastily-built fires, Isabelle’s maidens danced in a circle, the gentlemen galloped their horses across the field and held a tourney, tilting at the ring. Charles flew about at mad speed, pursued in jest by his equally elated companions. He stood in the stirrups, his black cloak streaming behind him like a flag in the wind. Never before had he amused himself that much. Suddenly life seemed a great adventure, crammed with unsuspected possibilities. Had he spent his life dozing over books? Had he passed his days in a grave, melancholy dream-world? Mourning and struggle — yes, that would go on, but wasn’t a man free to choose his own company? Nothing could be better than a life so sunny and carefree as this mealtime under a spring sky filled with blue and golden light; as he gave his horse full rein and dashed over the meadow, he vowed to effect friendships and keep peace with those he knew and those he was yet to know, to the end of his days. Why not also with Burgundy? Who would benefit from a quarrel between the two of them? True, the obligation to avenge his father’s death weighed heavily upon him, but he could not take that obligation seriously here amidst the flower-strewn fields outside Olivet.

It seemed to him that until this moment he had lived under the influence of other peoples’ lives. He had learned to see the world through the eyes of his mother: a menacing, dangerous place where slander and cunning reigned, where enemies crouched to spring on the innocent. Grief and mourning were every man’s inheritance — Valentine had often said — happiness could not endure, it was as fine as a mist, as intangible as a shadow. As a child, as a young boy, he had accepted these pronouncements, but now his heart rebelled against this gloomy view of life. Standing in the stirrups, he looked out over the undulating fields, tinted bright green and brown in the spring light; he saw the women dancing in the meadow with wreaths in their hair. Isabelle sat on the grass and sang the refrain of the dance-song. The horses stood farther off, guarded by riders and grooms; the men had thrust lances into the ground adorned with bright banners — a veritable thicket of pennants. The shouts of the tilting and riding nobles filled the air; in the background among the waiting carriages, fires shimmered rosily. Against the hills lay the houses of Olivet arranged about a grey church tower; the Loire gleamed through the leafy boughs. Over all arched the blue-white sky tinted with light like a transparent dome strewn with golden dust. Charles inhaled deeply — this was bliss, he wanted to live like this. When he saw the long rows of servants and pages approaching laden with platters of baked fish and flagons of wine, he rode back to the company laughing and waving his glove.

Later, he lay in the grass beside Isabelle: he watched his wife wind wild flowers into a wreath. The sun stood high now in the heavens; it had grown warmer in the meadow. The courtiers were still occupied with their games and races; the sounds of lute and harp and singing rang in the quiet noon. The horses grazed, the tiny bells on their reins and saddles tinkled softly, the gaily colored saddlecloths of the ambling steeds flapped in the wind. The young ducal couple sat a short distance from their retinue, their faces turned toward the hills; they could almost believe themselves alone. Isabelle still hummed the melody of the dance; Charles, glancing at her from time to time, thought that she had never looked so healthy and contented. Her cheeks were pink, and she had gained some weight, which suited her.

Charles had mixed emotions about the coming of the child; he was more embarrassed and confounded than happy and proud — primarily because he still could not think of the new relationship between Isabelle and himself without constraint. So many things remained unexplained in his own behavior and the way in which Isabelle behaved whenever they came together. To be sure, the aversion he had felt for his older, haughty bride had gone, but a certain element of uneasiness remained. Charles was continually aware that he fell short of the mark, but he did not know how. He understood that love was a more complicated matter than he had once supposed, relying as he had on the words of others. He did not dare to speak with Isabelle about the things which bothered him; she was the last one he would turn to. He had never guessed that it would be so difficult to approach someone; under all circumstances — whether he encountered her now in the great hall amid retinue and guests or found her waiting in the green-curtained bed — she remained equally strange: shy, quickly offended, taciturn and surly. Only once had she shown spontaneous tenderness — on the night of his mother’s death. But since then she had seemed to be waiting for something. What did she really want from him? He did his best to treat her with patience and affection; he wished honesdy to be a good husband, a devoted friend. He believed staunchly that he loved his wife; it never entered his head that he could do anything else — they had been given to each other, now they must cherish and respect each other. To Charles this was a given. If Isabelle turned away, sighing, began to weep in the darkness or walked past him by day with a smile full of sad resignation, he felt obscurely guilty and depressed. In Blois a really close understanding had never existed between them.

Now in the fragrant grass near Olivet, they experienced something new: the ability to speak with each other comfortably, with gentle joking, in contented pleasure. Charles chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass: he sampled the tart, fresh taste of the plant sap. He saw a small transparent green insect climbing the deep folds of Isabelle’s dress. He caught it and blew it away. Isabelle set her wreath on his head, and laughed. Leaning toward each other, they chatted about things which up to now they had scrupulously avoided — they deliberated about what names they would give their child if it was a son and what names if it should be a daughter; they discussed the invitations to the christening feast and the baptismal service, the appropriate festivities and gifts. Isabelle wanted to order a state bed from Paris; she knew in exact detail how it must look — the figures of the apostles in gold thread on a green background for the canopy, and green velvet for the curtains. While she spoke, Charles gazed at her right hand with which she gestured to describe the bed. He saw the blue veins in her thin wrists; he had often thought that her hands were delicate and weak like an invalid’s. With amazement, he listened to her stream of words; he did not know that for years fantasies over this and similar subjects had been Isabelle’s only comfort.

“I will also have new mantles,” said the young Duchess firmly. “After the christening, shall we get out of mourning? You must order gloves, Charles, and capes. You have had nothing new for more than a year; you are growing out of your clothes.”

“Certainly.” Charles laughed at her authoritative tone; the Dame de Maucouvent had spoken to him like that when he was a child. “You must take care of these things for me. I intend to buy new horses and falcons; next spring we shall go hunting at Montils, Isabelle.”

She looked at him quickly with sparkling eyes.

“Do you mean that?” she asked softly. “Can we leave Blois? I dislike Blois, Charles. It is so gloomy and cold and we have known only suffering there. We have lived all these years as though there were a war, as though we were besieged or pursued. I won’t wear black any more, I am tired of mourning.”

“Yes, we haven’t had much opportunity for celebration,” remarked Charles; he ran his finger over the golden embroidery on Isabelle’s sleeve. “But it will be different now, I think. I have no desire to let myself be thrust into a war with Monseigneur of Burgundy — or that which he calls peace. At first I thought — trick for trick and lie for lie, but what does a man gain by that? Burgundy still does as he pleases and it makes very little difference to me — I don’t care a whit about having power abroad or about winding the government in Paris around my finger.”

“You promised your mother …” began Isabelle hesitantly. Charles sighed and rested his face in the wide pleats of her dress.

“In the end I will surely get the King to grant my demands,” he said. “It seems to me more fitting that Burgundy should be punished by the King than by me.”

“You spoke differently when you returned from Chartres.” Isabelle touched his head for a moment with her fingertips. “You change your mind quickly, I think.”

Charles laughed, embarrassed. “Are you beginning to lecture me too?” he asked, in a low voice. “Don’t think that I am too cowardly to fight. I have no desire to exercise an authority which does not belong to me. Burgundy’s punishment is a matter for the government. He wants nothing more — does Burgundy — than to get my brothers and me into trouble. You understand, I’m sure, that the easiest thing would be to give him what he wants. But I will not let him have that satisfaction. If he wants to fight me, he will have to violate the agreement which we made at Chartres. Then he will be the disturber of the peace, the spoiler, and that will cost him the King’s favor.”

“Charles,” said Isbelle suddenly, “try to maintain good relations with my mother the Queen. You will have gained much once she is on your side. And listen to me. Be wise and try to get back the land they confiscated from you — or demand compensation. That is your right.”

“True.” Charles sighed deeply and sat up. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but I have no desire to talk about these things now. It’s such beautiful weather. Look, even the season has taken off its winter cloak and decked itself in green and gold and blue.”

He paused, for Isabelle had turned her head toward him in surprise.

“That was prettily put,” she said. “Let us also take off our mourning dress — like the season — and go clad in gold and green and blue as though we were to attend a festive ball.” She began to hum again, but Charles saw that her eyes were filled with tears. He took her hand in his and looked up. The swallows skimmed through the bright sky, the sun sparkled on the wavelets of the river; moment by moment the world adorned itself with new leaves, new flowers.

Charles and Isabelle did not stay long in Melun. The King was in no condition to see them; he spent his days in a specially guarded tower of the castle, cared for by Odette de Champdivers. Isabeau was distracted; the news from Paris did not please her. Burgundy, apparently convinced that he needed again to present himself to the Parisians as their champion, had ordered an inquiry into the expenditures of money by the officers of the Crown. Isabeau knew only too well what that inquiry would bring to light. The officers of the court administration and the Audit Room were often forced to juggle figures because the Queen neglected to state accurately what she spent, or because she demanded more money than her expenses justified. In the last few years Isabeau had been on a mad spending spree: she had bought land, jewels, furniture, ornaments. The government had been distracted by other matters; nothing more was demanded of the officials concerned than an apparently balanced budget. The Queen was afraid that through Burgundy’s probing, most of these transgressions would be unearthed and be traced back to her.

She was too annoyed and uneasy to pay much attention to the visit of her daughter and son-in-law. The young couple did not mind; after a few weeks they went on to Montereau, a castle near Melun that belonged to Charles. They wanted to spend the summer there, but de Braquemont warned that the armed escort was too small to defend that castle if the necessity arose. With some reluctance, Charles and Isabelle returned to Blois in July. After the carefree happiness of the early summer, life within the walls of Blois felt doubly oppressive; although the sun burned on the roofs of the houses and on the fields around the town, Isabelle shivered in her apartments — it was always chilly inside the thick walls. Even the arrival from Paris of the state bed could not put the young Duchess in a more cheerful mood.

At noon on the tenth of September, two women from Isabelle’s retinue brought Charles the news that Madame d’Orléans felt suddenly unwell; she had been taken to the lying-in chamber. Charles waited with Philippe. Dusk fell and then night; they passed the time playing chess until midnight, after which Charles sent a page to his wife’s apartments. The young man returned quickly to say that according to the physicians the birth of the child would be delayed a few more hours. But he did not mention what he had heard the court maidens whispering — that it was not going well with the young Duchess, that she would have to fight hard for her own life and the life of her child. Unaware of this, Charles spent a sleepless night; he had sent Philippe off to bed and sat alone now, reading by candlelight. The hours crept by slowly; he heard the page speaking in an undertone with a soldier of the guard in an adjoining room — the silence of Blois was broken from time to time by the sound of a dog howling at the moon.

Toward dawn Charles could not bear it; it was impossible for him to distract himself any longer with the tales on the parchment. He took up the candlestick and tiptoed from the room through a side door. Etiquette prevented a husband from coming near the lying-in chamber during his wife’s labor; if he wanted to inquire he sent a messenger. Charles had never doubted the wisdom of this custom — now all this secrecy seemed irksome and stupid to him. The first apartment was empty. In the second, Isabelle’s court maidens and servant girls knelt, praying aloud for aid and succour for their mistress. The Dame de Travercin, Isabelle’s companion, frightened, came swiftly to Charles; her eyes were red from weeping.

“In God’s name, Monseigneur,” she whispered, “you cannot come here.”

“I want to know how it goes with my wife,” replied Charles; he had no intention of being sent away without information. It was not necessary for the lady to tell Charles anything now: suddenly, from behind the closed doors of the lying-in chamber came a hoarse shrieking which filled Charles with deep horror. Even in that awful sound he recognized Isabelle’s voice.

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur, will you be good enough to go away?” The Dame de Travercin was at her wits’ end. “The master of the council and the physicians are with the Duchess. They are doing what they can, Monseigneur, but Madame d’Orléans is having a most difficult time. We do not know how it will end.”

Her words echoed in Charles’ ears long after he had returned to his own room. He could not sit still; he paced back and forth, pushed open a window shutter, looked outside: a grey line was visible on the horizon, a harbinger of dawn; cocks crowed around Blois and farther away on the farms. A bell began to peal somewhere; the sound brought the young man to awareness of the reality of what was happening behind the closed door. He fled to the chapel in the inner court of the castle.

In the gilded candlesticks on the altar tapers were burning. The lighted altar seemed an island of peace and safety in the gloom of the early morning. He remained kneeling even after the sun had long risen. Philippe joined him.

“What news is there?” Charles whispered; but his brother shook his head without replying. Why must she suffer so? thought Charles, while he murmured mechanically all the prayers he thought appropriate. As the day went on he felt more and more beset by doubt: was this a punishment because he had not kept the promise that he had made to his mother? Must Isabelle do penance for his irresolution, his reluctance to attack his hereditary enemy with fire and sword? Was God’s finger pointing at him: could he perhaps free Isabelle from her suffering by swearing anew, this time by all that was holy, that he would not shrink from the destiny that had been laid out for him?

“Vota meaDomine reddarn” prayed Charles more loudly. “I shall fulfill my vows unto the Lord.” Philippe looked up in fright and astonishment and tapped him on the arm, but Charles wiped the sweat from his face and walked quickly from the chapel. In the courtyard he found one of the doctors, who told him that the progress of the labor showed little change. However Monseigneur must not despair; it might take a few more hours.

It lasted another twenty-four hours; on the afternoon of September twelfth 1409, Madame Isabelle at long last brought a child into the world, a daughter. The baby was healthy and well-formed, but the birth cost the young mother her life. Physicians and nursing women had to stand helplessly by while the Duchess of Orléans bled to death under their hands.

By candlelight and amid the tolling of church bells Isabelle was laid to rest in the church of Saint-Sauveur, beside the spot where Valentine had been buried not quite a year earlier. Tearless, silent and motionless, Charles attended all ceremonies. Then he returned to the castle; in the great hall he accepted condolences, and gave necessary orders: he requested de Braquemont to dispatch couriers to Saint-Pol and to his royal kinsmen in all parts of France. Later he went into the lying-in chamber for a moment; the beautiful state bed stood made up, unused, in the middle of the apartment. The women showed him his little daughter, Jeanne, the name Charles and Isabelle had chosen in the sunny meadow near Olivet: it was in memory of their mutual grandmother, the wife of Charles the Wise.

Silent and surprised, Charles looked at the infant; he felt nothing at all for this little creature, red, naked and helpless as the young earthworms which appear when spring rains disturb the earth. The Dame de Travercin led Charles to a corner of the chamber where some garments were spread out on a chest: the beautifully embroidered mantles which Isabelle had planned to wear after her confinement.

“What do you wish me to do with these, Monseigneur?” whispered the lady. Charles looked at the finery, now so meaningless: gold on green, silver on violet.

“Give them as gifts in my name to the priests of Saint-Saveur,” he said after a pause, turning away. “Let them make chausables and dalmatics from them. Perhaps you will be so good as to give me in the near future the names of all the women and maidens who have served Madame d’Orléans. I shall have pensions and annuities paid to them.”

The Dame de Travercin curtsied; she would have liked to utter objections, suggest alternatives, but the tone of Monseigneur’s voice, the look on his face, imposed silence upon her. Charles left the lying-in chamber. His little daughter began to wail in a thin but penetrating voice; he quickened his step, his head drooping in deadly exhaustion.

In the month of February of the year 1410, Charles set out with a great entourage of armed soldiers for the castle of Gien-sur-Loire; he had chosen the place for a rendezvous with all the great lords and their vassals who had pledged to serve the cause of Orléans. The environs of the castle looked like an army camp; countless tents stood in the fields. Farmsteads and houses were cleared out to serve as lodging for the warriors and stalls for their horses. The peasants who lived there had fled or been driven away from garden and farmyard; the cattle and stores of wine and grain which they had left behind served the always-hungry soldiers as food and drink. The tents and camps swarmed with Gascons, Bretons and Provencals — for the most part rough, brutal men, difficult to control, unreliable, fond of looting and arson and, in battie, truly ferocious cruelty.

When on the bitter cold, misty morning of the twenty-fourth of February, Charles rode through the fields to Gien, he had ample time to review these troops; he knew that the majority of men assembled here were in the service of his new ally, the Count d’Ar-magnac, with whom he had negotiated since October of the previous year by means of letters and couriers. De Braquemont and de Villars were wont to say that one could know a general by the appearance and conduct of his soldiers; if this were true, thought Charles, he could hope for littie good to come from this meeting with Bernard d’Armagnac.

The soldiers who lined the way to watch Orléans’ men enter Gien were filthy and unkempt. They were singularly arrayed in parts of old armor, worn-out leather, mantles and coats of mail raggedly pulled together. As they lounged before the houses they had taken over, their demeanor was insolent or indifferent; some wandered in groups over the fields, trying to see what poultry they could catch; others squatted around the great fires which burned here and there among the tents and huts.

The road to Gien was nearly impassable; the horses hurt their legs on sharp crusts of frozen mud, or slipped on ice-covered pools. A stinging cold mist hovered over the land, making it difficult to see. Charles, at the head of his slowly riding, silent escort, saw himself as a traveler in Virgil’s underworld — the dark, misty borderland of Hell, filled with faint spectres whom it was wise to leave undisturbed. Charles closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders; the edge of his mantle touched the bottom of his bonnet, giving him the illusion, at least, of shelter against the penetrating damp cold.

Since Isabelle’s death he had made no more effort to evade the fate which had apparently been reserved for him. He had resumed operations. His captains de Braquemont and de Villars had at first been suspicious of his air of grim resignation, but later they observed his resumption of operations with growing satisfaction: the garrisons were strengthened, the vassals and their men who had started for home had been recalled, messages had been sent to the allies, the Dukes of Brittany and Alençon. Now that Isabelle’s retinue, her maidens and servants, had left the castle, now that her clothes had been given as gifts, her jewels and trinkets put away, and the morning slippers which still stood under the marriage bed had been quickly removed, so that the sight of the small red shoes would not cause Monseigneur sorrow — now that all reminders of the short existence of the young Duchess had vanished, Blois looked more than ever like a fortress, a barracks, with the inner courts and outbuildings filled with archers and foot soldiers. A few women still occupied the series of apartments on the south side of the castle: the old Dame de Maucouvent and some maidservants who looked after the two little girls, Mademoiselle Marguerite, Charles’ three-year-old sister, and his daughter Mademoiselle Jeanne. They lived there in a world of their own with scarcely any attention paid to them: two little maidens who could not play a role of any significance in this drama of hatred and revenge.

Charles had reacted to Isabelle’s death more with bitter amazement than with grief. Gloomily he asked himself if this were to be his life then: a long journey with no resting places except those of mourning and catastrophe. He had found some verses among the papers which had belonged to his father; he remembered when Herbelin the minstrel had set these words to music: “En la forest de Longue Attente, Chevauchant par divers senders… In the forest of Long Awaiting, Biding along its many paths…” When he was a child, Charles had not understood the imagery; now he was struck by the metaphor and he found the verses harmonious; they awoke a feeling in him which he could not name: they gave him comfort but also profound pain and uneasiness. He often repeated the beginning of the song in his thoughts, or in an undertone. He did not know why he did this; it gave him a feeling of peculiar gratification.

However, he had little time to indulge himself in these kinds of thoughts. He worked together with his captains to raise the army which had been called together after his father’s death. And he had many letters to write to the Lords of Coucy and Luxembourg to remind them of their vows of fealty and immediate support in case of need. In January he received assistance from an unexpected source: the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon wrote to him in detail, informing him that they had severed all ties with Burgundy and were disposed to help Orléans’ cause. Now that they had publicly proclaimed their withdrawal from the Council and affairs of state, they felt they could justifiably offer Charles their counsel. Burgundy’s indifference and insults had driven both old Dukes to frenzy; however, they had had to give way to him. Berry especially was stimulated to renewed activity by the jeers leveled at him. He had initiated the idea of approaching young Charles, who could not oppose Burgundy without experienced assistance.

“He is too young and we are too old to raise and lead armies,” said Berry to Bourbon during one of the numerous discussions they held after their resignation. Wrapped in furs and velvet, they sat, two gouty, corpulent old men, facing each other by the hearthfire in one of the halls of the Hotel de Nesle. Bourbon, who was a trifle dazed and lax, said little; Berry talked a great deal. His small, piercing eyes sparkled; his hands, loaded with jewels, did not rest for a second.

“We have the experience and the ability to open negotiations with the people whom we will need most. He has the name of Orléans and full reason to go to war. What we need now are a few fellows who can fight and a list of ringing names to give substance to the whole undertaking.”

Berry was not satisfied with words alone; thanks to his efforts, Bourbon’s son, the Count de Clermont, and the Constable d’Albret declared themselves ready to support Orléans in the struggle against Burgundy. Berry’s son-in-law, Bernard d’Armagnac, seemed an even more valuable acquisition. Berry congratulated himself on his cleverness in winning over the Gascon to his nephew’s side. The counts of Armagnac and their troops were known, and for good reason, far and wide: for more than half a century they had served as mercenaries, both at home and abroad, to anyone who paid them well and did not look too closely at their methods. The Gascons had fought for Florence twenty years before; without scruple they had afterward deserted to the troops of Gian Galeazzo and Louis d’Orléans. Under the leadership of their captain, de Chassenage, they had finally forced Savona and a number of other cities to surrender to France.

Bernard d’Armagnac lent a willing ear to Berry’s summons; he was attracted for a number of reasons by the offer to become a pivotal force in Orléans’ army. Although he belonged to the oldest and once most powerful family in the Kingdom, the Count d’Ar-magnac enjoyed little respect; the princes and members of the royal family looked upon him as a brigand, an adventurer, the leader of a pack of plundering brutes. He had never appeared at court; his peers avoided him. When he was not fighting abroad, he was to be found in one of his fortresses in Armagnac, everywhere and always surrounded by troops of soldiers. Although he frequently and loudly proclaimed that a good understanding with his peers did not interest him, Armagnac secretly felt himself to be an outcast. Berry’s proposal gave him the chance to get his foot firmly into circles which until that moment had been closed to him. He wanted to nestle perma-nendy into the world of powerful men.

When, therefore, young Orléans, in a personal letter, requested that he come to Gien-sur-Loire, he did not hesitate for a moment. At the head of a constantly expanding army, he rode to the meeting place. In the ranks which followed him there were well-equipped horsemen, many heavily armed, pugnacious battlers who for the most part had been in the service of Armagnac for twenty years or more — but there were also bands of adventurers eager for plunder and murder; vagrants, escaped criminals and half-grown young fellows who would do anything rather than run behind a plow. Like one of the plagues of Egypt they moved through the land, leaving a trail behind them of demolished farms, barns stripped bare and carcasses of slaughtered cattle. So Bernard d’Armagnac came to Gien, where he found the Dukes of Berry, Bourbon, Brittany and Alençon and the Count of Clermont. They awaited only Charles d’Orléans. On the morning of the twenty-seventh of February, a messenger rode into Gien with the news that Monseigneur was approaching; he would reach the castle before the midday meal.

“I say, fight!” Bernard d’Armagnac placed both palms flat on the table and looked at his confederates. His yellow-brown eyes glinted in his weather-beaten face, which was full of lines and scars, a face that looked as though it were carved from wood, with high cheekbones and a heavy lower jaw. Among his companions he looked like a giant, taller than they, with a broader, coarser frame. He did not care about his appearance or his behavior: his thick grey hair hung to his shoulders; he wore a stained leather jacket, worn-out boots, a coat of mail on which the lions rampant of Armagnac were already faded. Around him hovered an acrid odor of hay, dogs and horses, of smoke and sweat. He reminded Berry of a beast of prey: the blazing yellow eyes, the hairy wrists and sharp eyeteeth could scarcely be termed human.

The lords sat in one of the empty chambers of the castle of Gien. The castle was seldom occupied and was neglected: the furniture and tapestries which Charles had sent from Blois could not make the cheerless shabby rooms more comfortable — moreover, it was very cold and draughty. The allies had been meeting together since the midday meal. The misty day had passed unperceived into night; for a long time candles had been burning on the table. Leaning forward, Bernard d’Armagnac inspected the other members of the company, one by one: the almost toothless, white-haired Berry, despite his old age keen and ready for fierce repartee, dressed up like a strutting peacock; the young Orléans who spoke little but listened all the more attentively; the Constable d’Albret; Bourbon’s son Clermont; the Dukes of Alencon and Brittany. Methods of bringing about Burgundy’s downfall had been discussed in great detail; Bourbon, his son and Brittany advocated indirect action: a letter signed by all of them and directed to the King demanding compensation and rehabilitation of Orléans’ honor as well as Burgundy’s punishment and exile. Berry and the Constable d’Albret held that dispatching such a petition was a waste of time; it would never reach the King’s eyes. The Queen and her Council would dismiss it or, in the most favorable circumstances, table the matter indefinitely with vague promises and evasive answers. Bernard d’Ar-magnac loudly supported Berry.

“I say, fight!” he repeated. “That is our only chance. We must batter Burgundy to a pulp. I am not afraid to risk a fight, my lords. I have stood with my Gascons before hotter fires. Besides, we are in good shape; for more than three years we’ve been fighting against the English in Bordeaux, and the English-loving Bretons in our midst. Give my men the chance to march against the Flemish peasants — they want nothing better, Messeigneurs. And as for me …”

He raised his hands and then dropped them back on the table with a thud. “I have offered my services here; I do nothing halfway.” He looked at Charles d’Orléans; his brown chapped lips split into a crooked smile. “I have an interest in the matter too. Burgundy’s ally, Navarre, is my hereditary enemy as well as yours, my lord.”

“Yes, yes, I know it.” The old Duke of Bourbon sighed impa-tiendy. “Fight — that is easily said — but Burgundy’s strong; he has powerful allies. He has bought our cousin of Anjou. Ludwig of Bavaria supports him and the Queen protects him.”

Berry burst into laughter, the malicious chuckle he often emitted when Isabeau’s name was mentioned. “Ah, the Queen,” he said with apparent casualness, “she will find that she has been deceived. She imagines she has done something clever by entrusting the Dauphin to Burgundy’s care. Like all mothers, she is vain and she is blinded by that vanity; she thinks she controls the Dauphin and through him, Burgundy. Sooner or later she will regret this stupidity. I am completely in accord with my worthy son-in-law Armagnac. We must attack Burgundy, Messeigneurs.”

“Orléans hasn’t spoken yet,” remarked the young Duke of Brittany; he shot a glance from under his heavy black eyebrows at Charles, who sat at the head of the table. “His vote must turn the scale — we are now three against three …”

Berry, who had been keeping a sharp eye on his grandnephew — why didn’t the boy speak, what did he have in mind? — began to talk quickly, cutting Brittany off.

“The miserable state of the Kingdom, Messeigneurs, calls for acts, not intermediate negotiations. We are all bound to the King by ties of blood; we all owe him fealty and respect. Therefore we are chosen first for the great work I propose to you: we must fight to defeat the King’s enemies — fight for the welfare of the Kingdom — that is the task set out for us, my lords! That is why it is our duty, our obligation as honorable men to defend the good name of our late nephew and kinsman, Monseigneur d’Orléans …”

“In my opinion that is the principal purpose of this enterprise,” said Armagnac, interrupting Berry’s flow of words. “So far as I am concerned, Orléans, I will readily admit that I would rather fight for the restoration of the honor of Monseigneur your father than for the King or the people of Paris. I knew your father well. At first I thought of him as only a courtier, an elegant lord without much backbone — but I finally had to admit that he knew what he was doing — he could ply a sword with the best of us, if it came to that, and he had a clever tongue. I never had to wait for pay and compensation for expenses when I fought for Orléans in Italy!”

He flung his whip on the table and moved closer to Charles. “We often agreed about a lot of things,” he went on, staring at the young man from the corner of his eye, “Together with your father, I also turned against the English and with good results, believe me. I drove them out of more than sixty villages and they never returned. You buy no pig in a poke when you buy my services, worthy friend; let me manage this business of Burgundy for you. Fight, young man, fight! I don’t see any other way for you to achieve your purpose.”

He slapped Charles on the shoulder. Then he folded his arms and looked with glinting eyes at the row of faces before him. He prided himself secretly that he was the only real man in this elevated company. Berry and Bourbon were old; Alençon and Clermont both insignificant; d’Albret and Brittany two hotheads, and finally young Orléans — a quiet youth, still almost a child. It seemed a foregone conclusion to Armagnac that he himself would be the leader here — followed and obeyed by men who bore the most impressive names in France, he could ascend a steeper path than ever he would have dared to choose.

All eyes were now fixed upon Charles d’Orléans; he sat erect, in the seat of honor, thinking about all this. He had heard and seen enough by now to know that none of his allies was motivated by overwhelming neighborly love; he had had to buy the support of the Constable d’Albret, just as his father had once had to buy the support of Alencon. Brittany wanted to spite Navarre and Burgundy. Bourbon and Clermont who, under the rule of Burgundy, had had little opportunity to play an important role, hoped that after a victory of Orléans’ party they could move again to the forefront. Finally Berry, furious because he had been driven from office, nursed even more rancor against the hated House of Burgundy; the old Duke wanted to settle accounts once and for all with the son for the abuse he had taken for so many years from the father. And as for Armagnac, Charles had watched him during the discussions; he considered him a crafty, callous man, one who would not hesitate to take advantage of the circumstances if there should be war between Orléans and Burgundy.

Charles was afraid that he would lose the friendship of many of his supporters if he chose the troops of savage Gascons to defend his cause. De Braquemont and de Villars had already warned him against it, and what he had seen with his own eyes on the way to Gien did not make him any the less uneasy. However, he knew that it was impossible to get rid of Armagnac now that they had accepted him as an ally and informed him of their plans. It was a matter of controlling him; it had not escaped Charles that Bernard d’Armagnac wished to be lord and master here. The young man realized that he must be very clever if he were not to be deprived of power. He was not yet entirely certain of what to do, but he knew he must speak. He stood up, with his hands resting on the edge of the table before him. In order not to let his attention be diverted, he did not look at the row of faces illuminated by candlelight. He fixed his eyes instead on the escutcheons hanging on the opposite wall.

“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 distance 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 conversation 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.

In Paris he carried on a campaign with good results. He succeeded in filling the people with terror over the approach of Orléans’ troops; tales were told of the horrible cruelty of the Gascons and Bretons, street orators and agents reminded everyone once again of the sins of the late Orléans. The Provost des Essars, one of Burgundy’s most passionate partisans, rode by day and by night through the city, armed and with a great following of horsemen and soldiers — thus the atmosphere of disquiet was heightened. The burghers addressed a humble petition to des Essars: they knew of course that the Provost and Monseigneur of Burgundy would leave no stone unturned to protect Paris, but could the populace not set watches and patrols in each district for greater security? This was precisely what des Essars had wanted — and so it came to pass.

In September when Charles d’Orléans and his allies appeared before Paris — they had arrived with all their troops to hand the manifesto personally to the King — they found the gates closed, the city fortified. In the villages and the outskirts lay the armies of Burgundy.

“Now surely everything has been said and done!” said Bernard d’Armagnac impatiently; he strode up and down, stamping on the plank floors so hard that the dust rose up in clouds. The allies, their commanders, advisors, clerks and chancellors, were in a house at Montlhery, about seven miles from Paris. The troops had pitched their tents in the fields outside the village where they awaited the decisions of the great lords. In the meantime the troops were not impatient: in the vineyards and orchards ripe fruit hung for the taking; the country people, having learned prudence through bitter experience, seldom ventured into the fields.

“The King has sent letters, the University has sent a delegation, and Her Majesty the Queen was so kind as to come to meet us at Marcoussis,” Armagnac went on. “They beseech us tearfully to send our troops home before we visit the King. We have said no three times. Now what do we do, my lords?”

“We have made demands too,” remarked Charles; he straddled a bench. Since he had begun to wear leather and mail, his movements had lost that deliberate formality which had always been characteristic of him. He walked and sat like a soldier; not bothering to be courtly in speech and demeanor. These changes were observed with approval by Charles’ entourage — finally Monseigneur d’Orléans was becoming a warrior.

“You might as well ask for the moon, son-in-law,” said Armagnac contemptuously, “as ask that Burgundy be gone from Paris and the Provost des Essars be dismissed from his post! I do not see your demands being granted, although a hundred times those fellows from the University have declared themselves ready to mediate. In the first place Burgundy pays no attention to the University, when it comes to that, and in the second place those in purple cassocks have their heads set on other things. Believe me, son-in-law, the Council of Pisa is more important to them than a row between you and Burgundy. They take the new Pope more to heart than the King. Don’t count on their intercession! But seriously now: what do you intend to do? Paris sits sealed shut — a company of my men rode by the ramparts this morning hoping to break a lance, but no one ventured outside. Not even when my fellows fired a dozen arrows!”

“That was surprisingly stupid and reckless,” Charles said coldly; he tapped angrily on the edge of the table. He had noticed repeatedly that Armagnac, in spite of decisions made in joint council, gave arbitrary orders, allowed his troops to behave defiantly and tolerated licentious and coarse behavior.

The journey from Chartres to Paris had not passed off without trouble: the closer they came to the city, the more hostile were the people. The fear which the populace exhibited toward Armagnac’s men set Charles to thinking. In addition, he could see, every day, how the Gascons and Provencals accepted discipline. Ignoring the express command to preserve order and refrain from acts of violence when they passed through towns and villages, Armagnac’s men had plundered right and left as they chose; they flogged those who resisted them and violated the maidens and women who fell into their hands. Sometimes stones and abuse rained down when the soldiers passed through; usually the townspeople hid behind bolted shutters and doors. Charles had been sorely provoked by the brutal, obstinate behavior of his new father-in-law; how could he strive honorably for what he considered his just due when his men behaved like a pack of devils? Neither pleas nor rebukes had any effect upon Armagnac; he listened to everything, but he refused to change his ways. What Charles, his captains and the Dukes of Bourbon and Alencon feared, came to pass: the Gascons’ actions stigmatized the entire enterprise. Henceforth the Orléans party, both inside and outside France, were called nothing but Armagnacs. “Armagnac” was the worst term of abuse one could find for an enemy; the accusation “He is an Armagnac” was like a sentence of death.

“I do not understand, father-in-law, why you do not hold your men in check,” continued Charles evenly, doing his best to control himself. But passion drove the blood to his head. “Do you want them to call us bad-tempered disturbers of the peace because of our violence? Do you want them to think that we are trying to force war upon the King and Burgundy? We are here to demand justice; we can take up arms only if they refuse us that justice.”

Armagnac laughed loudly and spread his arms in an eloquent gesture of scorn and impatience. “By Christ’s wounds!” he swore. “Do you seriously believe that there is something behind all those words and formalities? Frankly, I call that blather on both sides. Burgundy is trying to gain time, he hopes to make us uncertain by delay. He thinks our vigilance will slacken after weeks and months of waiting. I am eager to know now, Orléans, what you intend to achieve by dawdling and diplomatic talk. I take it you are pursuing a definite course of action. Don’t tell me you are in earnest about your requests for justice and your demands for satisfaction? That would be the greatest farce I ever…”

He tossed his ever-present riding whip on the table and approached Charles.

“Even senile old Bourbon still had ambitions,” he said in an undertone. “Are you still wet behind the ears then, son-in-law?”

“Will you be quiet now?” cried Charles passionately, glancing at the gentlemen seated at the foot of the table: Alencon and d’Albret with their army captains, officials and priests who belonged to the council of the Orléans party — Brittany had had business to settle elsewhere, and Berry, who did not feel well, lay in bed. “Do not forget that we all wear mourning for Monseigneur de Bourbon.”

“Naturally. May God rest his soul.” With a mocking grimace Armagnac tugged at the crepe which he, like his confederates, wore bound about his right arm. “Now to business. What do you plan to do?”

Charles rose, “Messire Davy,” he said loudly to his Chancellor, “be so good as to read Monseigneur d’Armagnac the letter we received this morning from the King in Paris.”

“From Burgundy,” said Armagnac, also loudly.

“The messenger says the King is somewhat recovered,” remarked the Chancellor. He unrolled the letter and began to read from it slowly and carefully about distress in the city; now that the armies of Orléans and Burgundy occupied the countryside around Paris, the flow of victuals was greatly impeded, yes, made impossible. Food supplies were depleted. Fear of the soldiers prevented the populace from bringing in the harvest — whatever harvest could still be reaped. The King was extremely displeased with the attitudes of both parties. Did the treaty of Chartres mean so little to them? It was the King’s wish that Orléans as well as Burgundy and all their vassals and allies should return to their own domains. A board of impartial councillors would henceforth assist the King. The Provost des Essars was relieved of his office.

“That means our first demand is granted,” said Charles, motioning to Messire Davy to withdraw. “In the manifesto we declared that we wished to free the King from Burgundy. The King has now taken this measure himself. I am positive he will hear with favor my petition for justice.”

“Do you mean to say that I must send my men home without anything to show for their efforts?” Armagnac put his hands on his hips and set one foot on the bench. “They have smelled the odor of roasting meat, and now must they leave the fat drumsticks lying there? What do you think we are, Orléans?”

In November a new treaty was signed in the castle of Bicêtre — a treaty as troublesome and tricky as the preceding one. Berry, invited by the King to resume his seat in the Council, appeared this time also as a peacemaker and chairman of the discussion, much to the indignation of Charles, who could not understand how his great uncle could change his opinion with such rapidity. The Duke of Berry was able to adapt himself to every circumstance with bewildering ease. He pleaded the durability of an armistice and reconciliation between both parties with the same eloquence with which he had advocated war a good half year before. Burgundy himself did not appear; he had sent a number of well-armed envoys with a numerous following. Armagnac had also declined to engage in the discussions. He declared bluntly that the matter was no concern of his. In Bicêtre it was finally decided that the armistice would last until Easter; after that, they would negotiate anew.

In the southerly tower of Blois, Charles wrote a long letter to the King. Respectfully, patiently, driven by the sacred intention to put an end to a situation which one could call neither peace nor war, he set down once more his grievances against Burgundy. He sat in his own room, sober and quiet as a monk’s cell. The bed with the green curtains in which he had slept as a child filled the small room almost completely; between both narrow windows stood a cupboard with shelves where he kept his books, and an iron chest containing a few personal belongings: the golden goblet and the crucifix which his mother had given him, a handsome triptych, buckles and rings, his collar of the Order of the Hedgehog. There was no chimney in the room; Charles had to content himself with the heat from the glowing charcoal brazier at his feet. He sat in a chair at a reading desk such as monks used, and wrote page after page in his own hand; he found great satisfaction in this occupation as well as in the careful composition of the letter.

It was snowing outside: the fields around Blois were white, the roofs of houses and barns and the boughs of the trees heavy laden with frost. For days, thick swarms of flakes had fallen from heaven; all sounds were muffled as though they came from far away. All activity had stopped. In the castle and the city the inhabitants lived on stores of provisions piled up over the years. By now Blois contained almost three times as many soldiers, horses and beasts of burden as before; only scanty portions could be doled out if there was to be any hope of survival through the winter without famine. Maintenance of the troops cost Charles handfuls of money; the previous autumn he had had to order his treasures sold in Paris: crowns, chains of honor, a golden ship which had been used as a table ornament, images of saints, candlesticks and jewels. Now the soldiers of the household had been paid to the last denier: whatever remained of the money had to be used for the customary New Year’s gifts to members of his household. In order to meet his necessary expenses Charles was forced to borrow small sums from his physician, his Chancellor and substantial citizens of Blois. He himself lived with extreme frugality; in the book in which he listed his personal expenses only three items appeared that winter: a hood, a box of writing materials and a pair of mittens.

Bonne d’Armagnac’s dowry seemed finally to amount to nothing more than a drop on a scalding platter. Moreover, there was no guarantee that his father-in-law would keep his word about the payment terms. Charles had seen his new bride only once, during the wedding ceremonies at Riom, one of Berry’s castles; of the child Bonne he remembered nothing except that she had black braids and round red cheeks. After the church service she had been taken back to her mother. No one had had the time or the desire to organize a fete.

Charles was pleased that he was not required to keep the girl with him. In Blois there was hardly room for women’s quarters, and besides, he could not afford a retinue for the new Duchess. Surely Bonne would not have liked to live in the nursery. Charles seldom visited the apartment where Marguerite played with her wooden dolls and his little daughter crawled on a mat. When he stepped inside and saw the clothes hanging by the fire to dry, or heard the Dame de Maucouvent singing nursery songs in her shrill voice, he fancied himself a child again. It seemed to him at those times only a short while since he himself had lived safely hidden inside the four walls of the nursery, surrounded by toys, protected from worry and pain. He lifted his daughter in his arms. Day by day she was becoming more human, he discovered, easier to understand, a creature of flesh and blood like himself; the frail little doll in the cradle had inspired only wonder and deep pity in him.

Although Blois was blanketed in a winter silence, Charles could not recapture the calm life of the past. The forced inactivity weighed heavily upon him. Writing the letter to the King gave him an illusion, at least, of accomplishment. He poured into the words all his botded-up energy, all his anxiety to be finished with the task which was his inheritance.

Once again, aided by his secretary Garbet, Charles went over the documents concerning the murder and everything that had happened after it. Once more he had to relive those dreadful, tragic days. Only now did he seem to feel the violence of the blow which had struck him; he had not been able at the time to grasp the full significance of his father’s death. A feeling of bewilderment and painful impotence had overwhelmed him when, with Isabelle, he had watched beside his mother who was half mad with grief; now on reading the account of the murder and burial, on reviewing Petit’s accusations, going over once more the royal letters informing him of the confiscation of manors and castles, he understood for the first time his mother’s courage. Indignation and sorrow made him express himself in a way which perhaps did not belong in so solemn a document as his letter to the King; if he had asked his advisors’ opinion they would have told him to mitigate the emotional tone of the letter, and the way in which he had underscored each point in its long list of events.

He forgot that he sat in his quiet room between his bed and his bookcase, that the snow fell silently and unceasingly behind the small window panes, that his feet, near the charcoal grate, were warm, but his fingers stiff from cold. He saw himself in the dark alley where his father’s bloody body lay in the mud; later at the funeral mass he saw Burgundy, dressed in mourning, holding the edge of the pall; he saw his mother kneeling in humble entreaty for justice; he relived the empty ceremony in the cathedral of Chartres.

“… And therefore, my Prince and Sovereign, we implore you — nay, we insist that you give us leave to obtain satisfaction ourselves in every possible way for the murder of our dearly beloved father and lord, may God forgive his sins. We are obliged to do so, we cannot leave it undone with impunity. There is not a man alive, no matter how humble he may be, who will not pursue the murderers of his father to the death. We therefore beseech you to stand by us and help us, as much as it lies in your power, to punish the murderer, liar and traitor. All this I have truly written, so help me God…”

The snow had melted and the tepid spring rain was falling when Charles had carefully signed his name to this long and detailed letter. He told his brothers the contents and asked them if they wished to sign their names beside his. This they did, gathered on a spring afternoon in the chamber they habitually used; the silver letters gleamed dully against the black background on the walls: ‘Rien ne m’est plus, plus ne m’est rien.” Philippe, Count de Vertus, was fourteen years old now, a sprightly youth with charming manners. Durine Charles’ absence Philippe had acted ably as lieutenant-general of Orléans’ estates. He patterned himself wholly after his elder brother whose commissions he punctiliously fulfilled. He accepted Charles’ decisions without questions; all his life he had heard that Charles was the more thoughtful and sharp-witted of the two. Charles, on his side, found support in Philippe; his brother’s carefree disposition, his continually stimulating humor, formed a desirable counterweight to his own retiring, somewhat melancholy nature. But it was his youngest brother, Jean, whom he loved best; Jean, who reminded him strongly of his mother. The nine-year-old was rather small for his age and not particularly robust. He stood somewhat apart from the others — too old for the nursery, too young to take part in business affairs like Philippe, and at the same time not vigorous enough to do as Dunois did and exercise daily in the courtyard of Blois with the soldiers. Louis’ bastard son differed from his half-brothers in every respect; he was broad and strongly built, with sandy hair and light eyes. He lacked to a degree the courtliness, the innate dignity which Charles and Philippe possessed. But he lacked also Charles’ inclination to melancholy and vacillation and Philippe’s easy carelessness.

Dunois consciously followed a well-chosen path: he intended to become a skilled warrior, to lead men in battle, to lay siege to fortresses. He intended when he was older to serve the House of Orléans in this way, so that his half-brothers could devote themselves to matters of state. Already he saw his tenacity rewarded: men praised him for his facility with sword and bow and his proficient horsemanship. Toward Charles and Philippe, Dunois behaved with respect and with a certain reserve: he was only too aware of the difference between his position and theirs. Nevertheless, he showed no trace of humility or envy. Nor was he at all ashamed of his illegitimacy: he was proud to be a son of Orléans; he asked no greater favor of fate than some day to be able to avenge his father’s death. Although he did not add his name to the letter, he was present. The others — and he himself too — considered it quite natural that he should enter in all discussions and give his opinions on everything.

“Do you think the King will read your letter now?” Philippe asked after he had carefully written his name, adorning the P with intricate, interwoven lines.

Dunois looked up and asked quietly, “Is Monseigneur de Berry for us or against us this time?”

“I don’t know.” Charles siehed and shruffed. “He always defends his viewpoints so well that I am inclined afterwards to agree with him. He writes me that he considers himself an outpost in the enemy camp. He believes he can do more for us by exercising influence in the Council and with the Dauphin than by siding with us openly if it comes to hostilities again. I cannot deny that there is truth in what he says. The citizens of Paris have always had high regard for Monseigneur de Berry.”

“Is it true that Brittany has deserted us?” Dunois looked worried; he had heard the news from de Braquemont.

“Yes, he wants to remain aloof.” Charles sighed again. “But meanwhile I have paid all his men.”

“If only he does not go over to Burgundy now, the coward!” Dunois banged his clenched fist on the table. But Charles shook his head and said:

“I believe he has enough reason not to do that.”

Dunois, who had immediately fallen silent out of courtesy when Charles began to speak, had more to say. He did not want to seem disrespectful, but he could not be quiet.

“Why don’t you follow the advice of Messires de Villars and de Braquemont?” he asked. “Why don’t you let men come from Lom-bardy and Lorraine? You can get as many as you want.”

“Listen, Dunois, you must leave that to me.” Calmly, Charles began to roll up his parchment. “Don’t forget that I gave my word of honor at Bicetre that I would not begin anything until Easter. I — at any rate — intend to keep my word. How can I justifiably complain to the King if I do not obey his wishes? It was to be expected that Burgundy would violate the provisions; thus my case is strengthened.”

Philippe and Dunois stared down at the table in some embarrassment. They were surprised at Charles’ tart tone. It was unlike him. Their silence was more eloquent than any objections they could raise. For his part Charles already knew their arguments by heart.

“I do not feel responsible for the actions of Monseigneur d’Armagnac,” he said curtly. It troubled him deeply that he could not sever his ties with his father-in-law. “He refused to take part in the discussions at Bicetre; he insists that the treaty has nothing to do with him. It is bad enough that he drags the name of our party in the gutter — I do not see why I should be held accountable for his behavior. Damn it! I have warned him enough — not a day passes that I do not beg him to curb his troops. I believe he is afraid that they will desert if he forbids them to loot and rape. And indeed, alas, words of honor, promises, vows … these make little difference to Armagnac — to him they are just meaningless words. By Chrisfs wounds! What a pity that I fare so ill with the man whom I need most.”

He saw his brothers’ bowed heads. They sat silently together, three youths dressed in mourning. This is now my family council, Charles thought despondendy. He rose with a sigh. These are the only people I can really trust. And for their sakes I must persevere; they are still minors, they have no protector except me. No one but I will fight for their inheritance — no one will put out a hand to restore to them what has been taken from them.

“Forgive me, Dunois, if I spoke harshly to you. I did not mean to do it, brother. I know very well that nothing lies closer to your heart than the honor of Orléans.”

Charles walked around the table and patted his half-brother’s shoulder. “The world is divided unfairly, Dunois. Our cause would have fared far better if you had stood in my shoes and I in yours.”

On the twenty-fifth of July, 1411, the Herald of Orléans appeared before the gate of the Hotel d’Artois; when he was admitted to Burgundy’s presence he read the following challenge in a loud voice:

“ We, Charles, Duke of Orléans and Valois, Count of Blois and Beaumont, Lord of Coucy; Philippe, Count of Vertus and Jean, Count of Angoulême, to you, Jean, who call yourself Duke of Burgundy. Because of the treacherous and premeditated murder committed by hired assassins upon the person of our greatly revered and beloved lord and father, Monseigneur Louis, Duke of Orléans, despite your vows and expressions of friendship, and because of the further betrayal and crimes committed by you against the respect and honor of our sovereign Prince and King, and against us, we do advise you that henceforward from this hour we shall strive against you with all our power in every possible way. May God be our witness.’ ”

“You see, Saint-Pol, they put the noose around their necks themselves,” said Burgundy. He sat in the room where he received his friends and indmates. Depicted on the heavy Flemish tapestries covering the walls were the birth of Mary, the Annunciation, the sorrowing mother under the cross. Burgundy stood straddle-legged, staring at the splendor of line and color; his hands were clasped behind his back and his underlip, as usual, protruded pensively. He was speaking to the man whom he considered his most valuable collaborator: Waleran, Count of Saint-Pol, descended from the royal family of Luxembourg, Burgundy’s right arm, commander of armies and, recently, a captain of the garrison of the city of Paris. The Count of Saint-Pol was a stocky man with a broad, florid face; despite his weight, he moved with the buoyant elasticity of a man who exercises regularly. Stories circulated about the remarkable strength of his hands. He stood with his hands at his sides, listening to Burgundy, his face impassive.

“You accepted the challenge immediately, Monseigneur?” he asked.

Jean de Burgundy laughed curtly and drew a rolled sheet from his sleeve; silently he offered it to Saint-Pol.

“ ‘We, Jean, Duke of Burgundy, Count of Artois, etc., etc.,’ “ the Luxembourger read half-aloud; he held the parchment at arm’s length and squinted slightly — he was myopic—” ‘to you, Charles, who call yourself Duke of Orléans; to Philippe, etc, etc, who have sent us your challenge, etc., etc., know then that in order to put an end to the crimes, conspiracies, sorcery, etc., of the late Louis, your father, and thereby to protect our Sovereign Lord the King, we caused the said Louis to be killed, etc. Since you and your brothers intend manifestly to tread the same pernicious and ruinous path as your late father, we take upon ourselves the task, pleasing to God, of bringing you to your senses and chastising you duly as the liars, rebels and braggarts which you are. In witness thereof we sign these papers with our own seal, and so forth.’ Precisely.” Saint-Pol rolled up the parchment and returned it to Burgundy. “Precisely. This time you are really in earnest, my lord?”

“This time I am really serious, so help me God,” replied Burgundy.

It was clear to Saint-Pol that the Duke was delighted with the situation; it was to his advantage that Orléans had begun by sending him a challenge.

“I am ready,” Burgundy continued, always with that secret laughter in his voice and that air of enjoying someone else’s discomfiture. “So far as I am concerned, Orléans could not have chosen a better moment. Our troops stand ready. Paris is prepared for a siege. Let them come — I shall receive them warmly.”

“Hm.” Saint-Pol ran his palm over his lips and chin. Burgundy looked at him with a frown. “Don’t you agree with me, Saint-Pol? Out with your objections if you have any.”

“Hm,” repeated the Luxembourger; he sniffed a few times and gazed pensively at the scenes on the tapestries before him. “Are we really so sure of Paris, Monseigneur? Believe me, this matter has been carefully planned. Orléans’ challenge indicates that he feels pretty confident.”

“Do you doubt my influence over the Parisians?” Burgundy demanded irritably. “Wait and see whom they will choose if it comes to that.”

Saint-Pol thrust his hands under his broad girdle and put his head back as though he saw something fascinating on the sculptured beams of the ceiling.

“Things are no longer as they were. In fact I would almost say that you have squandered the most auspicious moment when you could have sent Orléans packing. In the course of the last two years you have made too many enemies. The University too is no longer well disposed toward you. You have become too powerful, and — with that power — a little too careless. It is no use to strike me,” he continued impassively, as Burgundy whirled quickly toward him with upraised hand. “What I say is the truth. You would do better to acknowledge it.”

Burgundy lowered his fist, strode to the other end of the room and sat down. Saint-Pol did not move. He seemed to be studying the tapestries with close attention.

“What are you driving at, Saint-Pol?” Jean spoke brusquely; he tapped the table top angrily with his fingers. “What are you trying to say? Must I bring more troops into Paris, must I imprison or exile Orléans’ people, must I buy the support of certain men — and if I must — who are they? Do not come to me now with vague hints. Facts, Saint-Pol, facts, if you please. But tell me only what I do not know myself.”

“Monseigneur.” Saint-Pol leaned toward Burgundy with both hands on the table. “So far as I can tell, two hostile groups are facing each other in the city: on the one hand the officers, magistrates and merchants — in short, everyone who used to enjoy power and a certain respect; on the other, the people from Saint-Jacques’ quarter — the butchers, flayers and tanners with their partisans and all the adventurers and vagrants on the other bank of the Seine. Now my advice to you is this: you must take advantage of this mutual hostility. If you support the Saint-Jacquards, you don’t have to fear that the officers and merchants will bring the Armagnacs inside. The butchers and tanners and all the idle rabble will preserve you from any possible traitors in their own camp. Enlist the butchers’ guild on your side, my lord, and you have a vigilant army always at your command.”

Burgundy frowned, and thrust forward his lower lip in thought. His father’s words kept darting through his mind: keep the people as your friend, the people can make and break rulers; never underrate the power of the mob; seek your strength in public favor, my son.

“Arm those fellows of Saint-Jacques then, but do it quickly,” he said to Saint-Pol. “Organize the guilds into troops, give them money, ask them their grievances, and make them promises; I don’t doubt that you will be able to find your way through those districts. Give them gifts, greet them with courtesy. Evidently you know what pleases those people most. But see to it that they receive weapons and instructions before Saint-Lawrence’s day.”

“Monseigneur, I think it advisable that you make this request for cooperation yourself,” said Saint-Pol mildly, but with determination. “You can accomplish more by personal sympathy than I can accomplish by promises or gifts. There are people, Monseigneur, who will go through fire and flame for a leader. They need to follow, to cling to something. You can be their leader if you approach them in the right way.”

Burgundy sniffed contemptuously.

“I have never heard that a member of a royal House had to beg for an alliance with butchers,” he cried, leaping to his feet. “A Duke of Burgundy does not beg for a treaty with butchers.”

Saint-Pol shrugged and bowed.

“It shall be as Your Grace desires,” he said formally. “I thought only that a personal appearance would fully restore the confidence in you which had been somewhat dispelled in the course of the year. The people are still well-disposed toward you, Monseigneur, but already there are many who ask themselves why you have not gone forward with the reforms in the Audit Chamber, why you have not revised the taxes, why you have not restored order in municipal affairs during your administration. You know how difficult it is to keep the people as a friend. But perhaps I do not see these things in their proper light, my lord. In that case I beg you to forgive me. A few days ago I heard a couple of small children singing in the street — The Duke of Burgundy! May God keep him happy!’ I hope that will always be the wish of Paris, Monseigneur.”

He bowed once more and walked backward to the door; as he passed he took his riding gloves from a chest. Burgundy watched him, overcome by an uncomfortable feeling of having made a mistake — worse still, of having made himself ridiculous. He knew that in matters like these, Saint-Pol was seldom wrong; the Luxembourger was a shrewd judge of people, a disinterested and devoted counselor.

“Stay, Saint-Pol,” he said curtly even before the other had reached the door. “Sit down here and let us discuss this matter thoroughly.”

Saint-Pol put his gloves down again and briskly approached the table. Burgundy told him that he intended to communicate personally with the Legoix brothers. No twitch in his face, no flicker of his eyes, no irony in his voice betrayed his satisfaction as Saint-Pol replied, “Of course. I endorse your plans heartily. I shall execute your instructions at once.”

Charles d’Orléans awoke from a deep slumber; it had been a long time since he had enjoyed such a sound, dreamless, undisturbed sleep. He turned onto his back and stretched. What he saw around him in the dusk brought him quickly back to a realization of time and place. He raised himself at once on his elbows and peered through the dawn, listening intendy. He lay on the camp bed in his tent. He could hear his pennant fluttering overhead in the wind, horses neighed nearby; further away someone blew a horn. Charles’ squire lay curled up on a heap of straw before the curtain which covered the entrance to the tent. Charles leaped from the bed and nudged the sleeping youth.

As the squire sat up, Charles pulled the curtain ropes; a cold morning wind blew in his face. Grey light filtered into the tent.

“Dry weather, clear sky,” he muttered. “God be praised. We can finally begin to do something. We have had two days now without rain. I hope the terrain has become a little less swampy. Over here!” he called out to the youth who, still half-blind from sleep, came carrying the leather doublet which was worn under the armor. While his arm and leg pieces were being buckled on, Charles looked outside.

The morning star sparkled over the horizon; the tents of his allies and vassals stood to the left and right of Charles’ pavilion, outlined against the clear sky. Banners and ensigns floated from their tops; shields with escutcheons hung over each entrance. As it grew lighter, the colors and armorial bearings painted or enamelled on the flags and shields could be distinguished: the lions, falcons, lilies, crosses and stars in saffron, sable, argent and lapis lazuli. Behind the city of tents lay the army camp. The men had spent the night in the open air, in deserted barns on the field, or under hastily constructed shelters made of twigs, straw and hides. The great fires, which the soldiers had kindled after sunset to protect them at least partially from the night cold, were still burning. An odor of roast meat drifted over the camp. Directly opposite Charles’ tent on the other side of the field, rose the roofs of Saint-Denis, a suburb of Paris; above the houses stood the heavy walls and towers of the abbey.

For a week Orléans’ troops had besieged Saint-Denis — or rather they had camped around the town, for storm and rain had prevented them from launching an assault. Paris had denied them an entry; the gates were closed, soldiers stood on the ramparts. Armagnac, who had been thoroughly informed of the conditions around Paris, led the army to Saint-Denis; if the village fell, they would have an advantageous base for operations. The people of Saint-Denis had not been fully prepared for the arrival of Orléans’ troops. They had not expected that anyone would desecrate by siege so holy a place which held both an abbey and a cathedral. They acted in great haste, pulling down the market stalls to use the wood for shooting weapons and slings. Heavy rainfall brought a welcome postponement of hostilities.

While Orléans’ people waited for the sky to clear, the burghers consulted with the Abbot of Saint-Denis. They felt obliged to defend their village for the sake of the people of Paris: bread, firewood and seafish could reach Paris only through Saint-Denis. On the other hand, the Abbot feared that the church and monastery buildings would suffer irreparable damage if there were a siege. He felt responsible for the treasures and objects of art which were stored in the abbey. For that reason the Abbot counseled voluntary surrender. Inside Saint-Denis, opinions on this matter varied widely: the people’s terror mounted when somebody on the ramparts reported that Orléans’ army was preparing for an attack. It was rumored in the village that the assault would be led by the Armagnacs, who were feared and detested everywhere.

Orléans now donned his armor. Taking his helmet under his left arm, his sword in his right hand, and followed by his squire, he walked past the tents to the great pavilion where he and his allies met early to eat and talk. Here he found his brother Philippe and Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Alençon, surrounded by nobles of their retinues, already assembled. The Constable d’Albret and Armagnac were not yet present; since dawn they had been busy calling up and instructing the men.

“The weather holds well, my lord,” remarked Bourbon after greeting Charles. He was a tall, plump man of middle age, with an affable, but rather weak, face. He had narrow shoulders, bad posture, and looked somewhat ineffectual in a hauberk and coat of mail. His allies considered him something of a dead weight on them; he was excessively cautious, worried constantly, seeing danger or bad luck everywhere; moved slowly and was distinguished by a striking sluggishness in thought and action. In the most favorable circumstances he showed himself to be calm and reliable, just as his old father had been before him; it was perhaps also because of this quality that he had not allowed himself to be swayed by the recent effort of the opposition party to win him over, with his troops and resources, to Burgunds cause.

“I have just left Monseigneur d’Alençon,” continued Bourbon hesitantly, in a low voice, while he bowed to Charles. “We ask ourselves continually whether it is really wise of you to let Armag-nac’s men lead the attack on Saint-Denis. It is true that they know the neighborhood much better than we do, but after the failure at Ham and the events last year …”

Followed by Bourbon, Charles walked to the table which stood in the middle of the tent and let himself be served with bread and meat. Bourbon’s words troubled him because they expressed a doubt which he himself shared almost constantly. It had indeed been Charles’ intention to let Saint-Denis be taken under the command of de Braquemont and de Villars. He now had a strong, well-equipped army, substantially larger than the previous year, for it had been reinforced by companies from Lombardy and Lorraine. When he had met his father-in-law again in Beauvais a few weeks before, he had believed at first that he was finished with the latter’s recklessness for the present. Armagnac’s soldiers were more squalid and gaunt than ever, their ranks notably diminished, their knapsacks and carts empty, because they had been forced to leave their booty behind at Ham and had had little time for plunder during the flight.

Next to the seemly, well-disciplined troops of Orléans, Alencon and Bourbon, who had recently left fortresses and quarters supplied with weapons and fresh provisions, the men of the Midi looked like a pack of beggars. In addition, it was difficult to handle them; they brought fellow soldiers from other districts into great disrepute, stole clothing and food, horses and weapons, and caused unrest in the army by their raucous, lawless behavior.

“You know nothing can be changed now, Bourbon,” said Charles. “Everything has been arranged. All we can to is try to prevent Armagnac’s men from looting the city once it falls into our hands. I intend to place the abbey and marketplace under guard. I am counting on you and Alencon to cooperate.”

Bourbon made a wry face, but before he could voice his objections, Armagnac and d’Albret entered the tent with their following of armed nobles. Armagnac was in rare good humor. He had already drunk copiously before daybreak; the prospect of combat which would unquestionably result in victory made him jovial and boisterous.

“Well, son-in-law, what do you have to say about the beautiful weather?” he asked, throwing his armored arm over Charles’ shoulders. “We could not have hit it better. By starting in early we will have the sun at our back as long as possible. In fact, I venture to predict that you will eat your mid-day meal in Saint-Denis. The village will fall apart like a house of cards, mark my words. They can’t do much with the weapons they’ve put on the ramparts. My men are fresh and pugnacious — they have had an eye on the abbey for a long time now. Well, what is it?” He turned impatiently to one of the knights of his retinue. Near the entrance stood a few armed men belonging to a watch patrol; they requested admittance.

Charles stepped forward and told the men to enter. They reported that a number of citizens carrying white flags had just left the Saint-Denis gate. Armagnac snorted contemptuously and hurried out. Standing with his hands on his hips, his legs spread, he watched the delegation approach the camp of tents through the dank grass; there were magistrates in dark tabards and surely a half dozen clergy — all older men who held up their mantles while they warily sought a path around pits and pools.

“Well, well,” remarked Armagnac. “White flags. They come to request an armistice, Orléans, while they go to fetch Burgundy. Don’t let them pull the wool over your eyes!”

Charles’ lips were tightly compressed, his eyes dark with anger. He ordered the guards to bring the delegates from Saint-Denis into his tent. Soon the men entered; they knelt and delivered their message.

“Monseigneur, in order to avoid senseless bloodshed, the city of Saint-Denis surrenders to you. Monseigneur, we place ourselves under your protection. We entreat you to spare us the indignity of robbery and mistreatment.”

Armagnac moved quickly forward, to stand between Charles and the delegation.

“Son-in-law, they have no right to ask that of us! For a whole week they kept their gates closed and threw stones at our reconnaissance posts. They tried to offer resistance. Surrender cannot mean the same thing for them as for those who open their gates at once. I repeat — they have no right to protection.”

The men who knelt before Charles looked up. The Gascon stood in front of them; he blocked their view of Charles. They were afraid that Armagnac would convince his son-in-law. The princely allies and their nobles, however, ranged in a close circle about the group, saw what was hidden from the suppliants: Charles’ eyes flashed with fury.

“Be quiet, Armagnac,” he said, calmly and coldly. Those who had known his father listened expectantly. “And please be good enough to stand either beside me or behind me, so that I can at least look at these gentlemen while I speak with them. The petition is addressed to me personally — and I grant it. No son of France will plunder Saint-Denis. Even if we had taken the city by storm, I would have forbidden pillage and robbery. It is my express will that there should be no disorder.”

He looked searchingly past the row of horsemen; his eyes became fixed upon a robust, erect man in black armor who stood watching the scene. He carried a helmet and battle-axe under his arm.

“Monseigneur.” Charles bowed slightly; the warrior stepped toward him and doffed his leather cap, revealing his tonsure.

“My lords, this is the Archbishop of Sens,” Charles said, turning back to the envoys. “I confide the custody of the church and abbey of Saint-Denis to him and his troops. I will visit the Abbot myself today with my kinsmen and allies to inform him of my intentions.”

“The devil take it, son-in-law, have you lost your mind?” screamed Armagnac, his face purple with rage. “I have promised my men this day’s spoils. They have not been paid for a long time, Orléans. I have been so generous with you that I cannot fulfil my obligations to my soldiers. After the reverses of the past few months, my men have a right to compensation. Saint-Denis is rich; the storehouses in the great marketplace are crammed with grain and the merchants’ money chests are overflowing. Those people will start earning money again when the war is over; let them help us now, freely or otherwise — what difference does it make to you, son-in-law? The cathedral holds enough gold to keep all the armies of Christendom under arms for as long as they live.”

“I repeat,” Charles said slowly, “I repeat that I will not tolerate pillage in Saint-Denis. I give you my word of honor, Messires. My troops will occupy the city, but we shall buy our provisions from you.”

Armagnac burst into loud, malicious laughter, shoved the listening nobles to one side and hurried to the entrance of the tent, his spurs jingling and his sword striking against his thigh.

“With your leave, son-in-law,” he remarked, “you will not go far as a captain if you wage war continually in this way. Buy! Pay! Come, d’Albret. Don’t they say that insanity is hereditary in the House of Valois?”

Armagnac and his companions went off through the tents to the soldiers’ camp. Charles remained standing silently until the sound of heavy footsteps had died away. He waited until he had completely regained his self-control. The citizens of Saint-Denis still knelt before him. They did not feel as certain as they would have liked. They believed that young Orléans had acted in good faith, but they were not pleased by the Gascon’s attitude: he who behaved so brashly toward his superiors in rank would probably pay little attention to a direct command.

“Return to the city and tell them that during the course of the day I shall enter the gates with an army of occupation,” said Charles in a more severe tone. “Prepare the Abbot of Saint-Denis for my arrival. You may go now.”

The leader of the delegation humbly thanked the Duke of Orléans for his kindness; however, the men left the camp with heavy hearts.

After their departure there was a momentary silence in the tent; Charles stood motionless, staring with knit brows at the ground. Alençon approached him.

“For a moment I thought I heard your father speak, Monseigneur,” he said. “He would not have spoken differently to Monseigneur d’Armagnac.”

Charles looked up. “Please leave now, my lords. I request all those who belong to my troops to call their men together. Keep yourselves ready. We are going to enter Saint-Denis within the hour.”

“We grant your demands, Monseigneur,” said the Abbot of Saint-Denis. He stood with bowed head before the table in the abbey refectory, surrounded by a group of clergy. The Duke of Orléans and his brother, their counselors and captains and the Archbishop of Sens occupied the high benches along the wall. “We shall provide shelter for Monseigneur de Sens and his followers in the abbey,” the Abbot went on. “Have I understood you correctly that you, Monseigneur, and the princes who have arrived here with you, will not take residence in Saint-Denis?”

“We shall spend the night in our tents,” replied Charles, “and station our troops in the local villages and hamlets. Only the army of occupation will remain outside your gates. Now send me some men so that I can arrange to buy provisions.”

The Abbot bowed again. He moved his hands uneasily inside the wide sleeves of his cassock and glanced at his priests as though seeking support. “Monseigneur,” he began hesitantly, “may we then rely completely on your promise, your assurance, that the valuables in the abbey and in our treasury will be safe?”

“Of course you may.” Charles frowned, displeased. The Abbot had already broached this subject several times during the discussion. “It is my intention to hear mass with my allies on the eighth day of the feast of Saint-Denis,” he concluded, rising. His colleagues followed his example. “At that time I will be glad to view the holy relics and the tombs of the kings.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.” The Abbot approached, sighing, to lead the young man out. At that moment there came from the inner court the loud, confused hubbub of galloping horses, shouts, the clash of arms and the creaking of doors being thrown violently open. Charles and his knights stood stunned; a few fumbled for their swords.

“To the doors!” shouted Archambault de Villars. “Guard the entrances! This may be a trap, my lord. The people of Saint-Denis have admitted Burgundy.”

The Abbot attempted to refute these accusations, but there was no need for explanations. At the end of the long passageway which led from the refectory to the first buildings, Armagnac appeared, closely followed by a thick crowd of men from his retinue. With jingling spurs they invaded the refectory. Armagnac was holding his whip; he slammed it against the corridor walls so that the statues trembled in their niches. The Abbot and the brothers retreated to the table. Charles put up his sword and waited until his father-in-law had entered the refectory.

“I came to lend you a hand, Orléans,” Armagnac called. He was laughing boisterously, but his eyes were keenly fixed upon Charles. His followers had entered the room behind him; they stood ranged around their commander in a half-circle and smirked at Orléans’ men.

“I thought it was clearly understood that I was to come here alone today.” Charles made an effort to speak calmly, although the pounding of his heart almost took his breath away. “Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Alençon both understood that.”

“Certainly.” Armagnac’s bright eyes strayed over those present; he stood before his son-in-law, his legs apart, striking the palm of his hand repeatedly with the blade of his sword. “Yes, certainly, Orléans, but don’t you really think it an outrage to treat your companions like this? I would not want you to lose the support of my men for anything in the world. I know them, believe me, I know how to deal with these rascals, I know how to make them fierce fighters and keep them pugnacious. Let them fill their bellies and their packs — then you will have the best soldiers, son-in-law.”

“What are you trying to tell me by this?” asked Charles. Armagnac and he faced each other, standing on the tiles which shaped a cross in the middle of the refectory, as though they were in an arena.

“Well,” Armagnac raised his voice, “I have just given my men permission to take whatever they need from the public granaries. They did not have to be told twice. How those rascals can run!”

It was as though something exploded suddenly in Charles’ brain; he did not know what he was doing. He raised his sword in both hands and sprang forward. Steel slid against steel; Armagnac’s sword parried Charles’. They stood motionless for a moment, square against each other, their weapons crossed. De Braquemont and the Archbishop of Sens came between them before Charles could strike again.

“Monseigneur,” said the prelate in a stifled voice, “this is senseless.”

Charles dropped his sword and took a step backward. He shrugged; it was not clear whether he sighed or shivered.

Armagnac snorted a few times to demonstrate his indifference; he was secretly delighted at the looks of dismay on the faces of Orléans’ men.

“Come, come, I was only jesting,” he said loudly. “Monseigneur d’Orléans does not take this seriously, surely. He will see that I mean well by him, when he hears the news which my scouts have just brought from Paris.” He paused for a moment, smacking his lips. Charles stood without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“My lords,” continued Armagnac; with pleasure he heard his voice reverberate against the beams of the ceiling. “Know then, my lords, that four days ago an English army landed in Calais. It can reach Paris in a quick day’s march. Nay, gentlemen, this time it is not a matter of fighting against the Kingdom; these are auxilliary troops which Burgundy, it seems, requested urgently as soon as he saw that the Flemings had deserted him.”

“Monseigneur de Berry has been promised impartiality by England,” said Charles dully. Nothing could amaze him now. Armagnac shrugged.

“Come, son-in-law, promises …! However that may be, it is a strong, well-armed troop. We shall thus have something to do speedily, I think. Under these circumstances you will agree with me that we must leave no stone unturned to provide ourselves with money, food and equipment. No one knows how long we shall remain in the field. Look here …” He walked past Charles to the Abbot of Saint-Denis, who stood leaning against the table. “We strive for a good purpose: justice and the restitution of honor. That must ring gloriously in your ears, doesn’t it? These are still Christian concepts, whatever you may say. They have cost us — me and all our confederates here — handfuls of money, Monseigneur. A greater and better army than ours does not exist anywhere. We will surely gain the victory. But now we are hard up, and we need a trifle to pay our men.”

The Abbot made an involuntary gesture.

Armagnac tossed his head back and burst into a roar of laughter. “You have a sharp nose. You smell what I want already.” He laid his large, iron-gloved hand on the Abbot’s shoulder. “I am well informed; don’t attempt to deny it: you are guarding the Queen’s treasure in your cellar vaults. Better give me the keys of your own volition — believe me, my methods of persuasion are far from pleasant.”

“I forbid it, Armagnac!” Charles cried vehemently, pulling his father-in-law by his riding coat. “This is contrary to all rules. The Queen’s treasures are inviolate. Moreover, I have sworn that we would not touch the valuables or the abbey.”

“Come, and how shall we conduct war then?” Armagnac asked over his shoulder, without releasing the Abbot. “How will you defeat Burgundy, son-in-law, how do you propose to keep your soldiers friendly? We have sustained enough losses: the English always shoot home like Death itself. You are still inexperienced, Orléans; for once trust the judgment of a man who knows what’s necessary. Let me negotiate quietly with these brave gentlemen here. Monseigneur d’Orléans will give you a receipt, naturally,” he said to the Abbot of Saint-Denis. “But I wager that Her Majesty will raise no objections when she hears how well her money has been spent. Come forward then: where are the keys?”

In the vaults of the abbey, on the steps which led down there, and even in the inner courtyard, a bitter struggle was already raging among the plunderers; Charles, looking at the colors of the tunics amid the screaming, fighting, half-crazed horde, saw many of his own men — chiefly Lombards from Asti, German soldiers from Wen-ceslaus’ armies, and mercenaries of divers nationalities, who had offered him their services at the last moment. Brutally, the knights had cleared a path to the lowest, most carefully concealed cellars, for themselves and their lord. In the light of the torches the glitter of gold and precious stones could be glimpsed between the shifting bodies of the fighting men: a chest fell open; flashing coins streamed forth. A Gascon who tried to escape unseen, his arms filled with golden candelabra and chalices for the mass, was compelled at knife point to relinquish the booty. The men fell over each other in their haste to snatch the treasure from one another.

In the vault where Isabeau’s treasure lay concealed, Armagnac was busily giving directions. The men could not come in here: it was Armagnac’s intention to see personally to the chests and their contents. He stood with his arms akimbo before a pile of gold dishes. It was a king’s dinner service which Isabeau had earlier stolen from Saint-Pol. The luster of jewels hovered like a brilliant mist over the open chests of treasure. The discovery surpassed even Armagnac’s expectations. That his son-in-law stood there watching him did not please him at all. He raised his brows and squinted sideways at the young man who, pale and unmoving, supported himself on his sword as though he were dazed. Suddendy Armagnac grinned; he stooped and snatched from one of the chests a crown adorned with golden lilies, a king’s crown worn by the Valois in an earlier time.

“Here, Orléans,” said Armagnac. “Here, boy, do not say now that your welfare and prosperity do not lie close to my heart.”

He moved quickly toward his son-in-law and pressed the crown upon his head. “If it depended upon me, I would soon call you ‘Sire, my Sovereign’, and have the king of France as my son-in-law.”

Charles snatched off the crown and flung it among the gold dishes and goblets. Armagnac, who had bent his knee before him, made a gesture of mock surprise.

“He throws away the Crown of France as though it were a wilted garland,” he said. “I see that Monseigneur still has much to learn.”

In the first week of November, a meeting took place in the slaughterhouse of Sainte-Geneviève under the chairmanship of the owners, the three brothers Legoix. In honor of the event the flagstones of the great room had been purged of blood and filth, the slaughtering blocks and tubs scoured clean. Pickaxes hung in the background. But the stench could not be driven away — the brackish smell, the sharp odor of thousands of pigs and catde which had been driven in here over the course of time.

The long, narrow slaughterhouse was crowded: by the bleak light of the November day which filtered through the windows mounted high in the wall, the participants in the gathering greeted one another: butchers and skinners, sausage fillers, pastry makers and peddlers, fell-mongers, cobblers and leather-workers; not only the bosses and masters, but also journeymen, servants and apprentices, bare-armed in grimy aprons.

A plank had been laid over a few slaughtering blocks; on it stood those in charge here: Thomas Legoix and both his brothers and the butcher bosses, Saint-Yon and Thibert of the great slaughtering houses.

The oldest Legoix, a giant of a man with a full florid face, kept his eyes fixed intendy on the door. From time to time he saluted those who entered with a distracted gesture and shook his head impatiently when his neighbor Thibert nudged him; it was obvious that he expected someone who had not yet arrived.

“Begin now, Legoix, before it gets too dark,” said Thibert. “Surely you can still open your mouth. God knows the surgeon must be drawing blood somewhere. An hour from now we won’t be able to see each other’s noses here.”

Legoix continued to shake his head.

“What do I have torches for?” he asked sourly. The answer awoke interest; one of the men who stood around the plank — a peddler — shouted loudly, “Where do you get your torches from, Legoix? There isn’t a chip of wood anywhere in Paris. The people in my neighborhood are burning doors and window sills. Do you wander off to Saint-Denis to get kindling wood?”

There was laughter, but without real humor; the effects of the long siege were beginning to be felt. Provisions in the city had run out quickly and the food supply had virtually ceased. As usual in bad times the herds of catde were the first to go; they were driven to safer quarters by the fleeing peasants to protect them from the besiegers and the roving packs of vandals. The cattle, pigs and sheep which had been wont to feed on the city ramparts had been slaughtered a year earlier to prevent them from falling into the hands of the Armagnacs. For the butchers and related guilds there was therefore precious little work; from time to time they saw an opportunity to bring, with a well-armed escort, a few hundred head of cattle into Paris from oudying districts. Legoix had made use of the encounter of both enemy armies at Montdidier to make hasty conveyance of another herd of cattle. But what did that signify in a city which yearly required 30,000 cattle and 20,000 sheep for subsistence? Prices had shot up fantastically; bread was nearly unobtainable at any price, and as for fruit and green vegetables — they simply did not exist. Those citizens who had gardens, plots of ground at their disposal, could save themselves; they had roots, potatoes, carrots, parsnips and herbs. A man of the people, however, had to do with less; he had to be content with the common people’s food in wartime: stinging nettles boiled in salt water.

Thomas Legoix leaped from the platform, shoving aside the bystanders in his haste to reach a man who had just entered: the surgeon, Maitre Jean de Troyes. A murmur of satisfaction arose; the surgeon, a lean, dour middle-aged man with extremely penetrating dark eyes, was greatly respected in the butchers’ guild; he had connections in the University, was eloquent and was considered both clever and learned.

He waved both his arms in greeting to this assembly and called out joyously, “God be with you, colleagues — for we are colleagues, aren’t we? In fact, we exercise the same calling.”

He gave Legoix, who led him to the platform, a sidelong glance, and grinned derisively.

“I belong to your guild, Legoix, because I can assert without hesitation that I bleed chiefly swine, catde and sheep. Greetings, Thibert; greetings, Saint-Yon; greetings, Legoix. Legoix,” he continued, waving his hand rapidly at the four men who already stood on the planks, “hoist me up, I am not as nimble as I was a year or so ago.”

Thomas Legoix lifted the surgeon as though he were a child and then leaped onto the board himself. The uproar in the butchers’ hall had subsided somewhat; the men pressed closer around the slaughtering block, their faces raised. In the front rows stood the guildmasters, the owners of the workshops and factories, the heads of the various branches of the meat and hide industries; men of various ages: some arrayed in furs and rich cloth, others in work clothes. Behind the masters pressed the apprentices, for the most part youths and men from the lowest classes, big-boned, with coarse features, whose doublets and aprons seemed to be permeated with the fetid stench of the work rooms.

The slaughterhouse was completely full; nevertheless still more spectators managed to squeeze inside: ragged students from the colleges of the University quarter, beggars and street loafers who had increased in number since the outbreak of war — they had apparently sensed that something was afoot. Even before Legoix’s servants could shut the doors of the slaughterhouse, a troop of vagrants, wrapped in rags, kicked and fought their way inside in frantic haste.

“Men!” roared Thomas Legoix, crossing his sinewy arms, “men, I have something to tell you. The day after tomorrow we leave the city with Burgundy’s troops to attack the Armagnacs in Saint-Cloud.”

A loud shout of approval greeted this announcement to which the butchers and their partisans had looked forward eagerly ever since the time, late in the summer, when they had accepted arms from Burgundy. Almost daily they patrolled Paris in groups, led by knights and horsemen from the retinue of Count de Saint-Pol, under the colors and emblems of Burgundy — a lily in the heart of a Saint Andrew’s cross against an azure field. They called themselves the army of Paris and marched with resounding steps through the streets.

“More than 2,000 of us are expected at Saint-Jacques’ gate at midnight,” Legoix went on. “Captain Saint-Pol says there are not more than 1,500 Armagnacs lying in Saint-Cloud. Together with Burgundy’s men we are surely three or five times as strong.”

“Give them hell!” shouted the students, who had climbed onto the cross beams under the roof; they sat there like a flock of famished crows.

“The Armagnacs slander God and offend our beloved King Charles,” said Saint-Yon in his gruff, slightly cracked voice. “They cut off their prisoners’ noses and ears and say, ‘Go back to Paris and show yourself to your crazy king!’ ”

“Long live the King!” The shouts reverberated under the arched roof. The butchers and journeymen and all the men who stood around the slaughter blocks took up the cry. They stamped on the floor and banged on the walls until the meat hooks jingled.

“Yes, come on, long live the King!” A voice roared above the din. “Away with the Armagnac-loving officials and courtiers who give him bad counsel and stick his money in their purses. Away with Berry, the filthy traitor!”

The man who shouted this was hoisted instantly onto the shoulders of the spectators. He was short and thick-set with a broad face disfigured by strawberry marks. He might have been considered deformed if the bundles of muscles on his neck and arms and his thick, somewhat bent fingers, had not betrayed a strength which dwarves and hunchbacks seldom possess. He had a short, flat nose with wide nostrils; his front teeth protruded so far forward that he could not close his lips. Despite his terrifying appearance, he was highly respected and to a certain extent feared by his comrades and the inhabitants of the Saint-Jacques quarter. When anything happened which frightened and upset people, he did not just grumble and complain like the others; he was always ready to resist with words and blows, to stand up for himself as well as for his friends and acquaintances. His name was Simon le Coutelier. He was nicknamed Caboche and was a skinner by trade.

“By Christ’s blood, no more babble!” he roared, emphasizing his words with his raised fist. “We can curse and complain until we turn blue, brothers, but the court wolves and vultures don’t give a damn whether we are friendly to Armagnac or Burgundy now. Who is still so foolish as to believe that he will better himself by running after the Burgundians? Get to work, do your own job, lads! Kill those you hate and take what you can’t get any other way! What have the politics of the great lords to do with us? We must have grub, a fire on our hearth and money in our pockets, no matter what!”

The servants and youths, the students on the crossbeams and the beggars and vagrants, thieves and pickpockets who stood in the back of the slaughter hall, struck up a deafening roar; knives flew from their sheaths and those who had staffs and cudgels flourished them wildly.

“Simon, Simonnet!” boomed the students in chorus.

“Caboche, you speak like a fool!” cried the surgeon in his high, shrill voice. “You would not go far in the world, man, if you insisted on having your own way every time. There is still room for more thieves and murderers in Montfaucon, even if plenty hang there already, God knows, in bundles like smoked fish, next to each other and above each other and below each other! If we seriously wanted to put an end to the sorry state of affairs, which I don’t need to describe, because we get up with anxiety and go to bed with misery — we would have to proceed some other way. All around us disorder and lawlessness are the order of the day; let us at least go to work deliberately and sensibly to create law and order. But first we must drive the Armagnacs from our gates with the help of Monseigneur of Burgundy’s troops. We can’t do anything while Paris is in danger.”

“Do you think I have a mind to fight next to the English dogs?” screamed Caboche. “Once they have beaten off the Armagnacs they will try to make us a head shorter. Let us lie low, lads, and go our own way, that’s the safest course.”

“Silence!” Thibert banged the platform angrily with his staff. “In God’s name how can we make up our minds if those fellows keep on screeching like that?” He turned to Legoix. “Tell them to hold their tongues. Let’s listen now without interruption to Maître de Troyes who speaks here in our name. Quiet!”

Legoix had stood motionless, his arms crossed, after pushing the surgeon forward; he frowned, to be sure, when Caboche took the floor unbidden, but he said nothing. During the uproar which followed the skinner’s brief speech, he remained thoughtful, with an expression of uncertainty on his broad, florid face.

“Aye, I don’t like it either,” he said abruptly to his friends on the platform. “It was an ugly thing for Monseigneur of Burgundy to have brought the English here. How will it end now? They know very well that we don’t like them; they couldn’t find quarters anywhere in the city. They won’t soon forget that either. I don’t trust them, these hard-headed sons of whores.”

“Use your head, Legoix!” Maître de Troyes wheeled violently toward the owner of the Sainte-Geneviève slaughterhouse. “The English remain here as long as we need them to defeat the Armagnacs and not a day longer. If Monseigneur of Burgundy raises any objections to their departure, we are still here to remind him that we don’t want those bastards within our borders. Friends of England have never gotten far here; believe me, Legoix, the Duke knows that as well as we do. Listen, men!” de Troyes continued more loudly, “How often must I tell you: first we get rid of the Armagnac’s army and then we can insist that the Council and municipality be purged. We can go far with prudence and patience. Monseigneur of Burgundy needs us badly — don’t forget it! Our time will come; we will see to it that peace and prosperity return to every inhabitant of city and farm in France. If the King can’t listen or help us, what is to prevent us then from demanding another king for the sake of the people? Yes, it sounds like heresy…” He glanced quickly right and left at the astonished, angry faces of the heads of the guilds. “But I only repeat what such learned and devout doctors of the University as Maître Gerson and Maître d’Ailly have asserted all along, that a king who is incapable or evil can and should be dethroned!”

Simon Caboche raised both his hands.

“Then what are we waiting for, friends?” he yelled at the surgeon. “If it is as you say there, we don’t need to be ashamed. We are in good company. The big shots of the University you’ve just named will be sure to give us absolution if we accidentally cut a few more throats than are strictly necessary!”

Thibert banged his truncheon again; Legoix, now really enraged, stepped to the edge of the platform and ordered the skinner to be silent and to put his feet on solid ground — Caboche still sat enthroned on the shoulders of his followers.

“By the Devil, Legoix, do you support these tonsured fools?” Caboche half-closed his small, bloodshot eyes and opened his large mouth in a grimace. “What little dickey bird has chirped in my ear that you curse and damn the friars of Sainte-Geneviève day in and day out — didn’t they keep rapping your knuckles for selling meat during Lent?” He grimaced again at his audience. “And it’s obvious that you’ve gobbled up everything you’ve slaughtered in the past year, friend. You’re as fat as a pig before Christmas.”

The beggars in the rear of the hall and the students on the beams burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“To the meat hook with Legoix!” someone yelled.

The butcher boss’s face turned red; he was at the point of leaping from the platform to attack Caboche, but he was held back by de Troyes and Thibert. With great effort he swallowed his anger and chose the wisest course, which was to join in the boisterous laughter.

“I can see that you don’t understand politics, Simon Caboche,” the surgeon said acidly. He thought the skinner was a dangerous man; he did not like the way he sat grinning over the heads of his supporters in the calm awareness of his power. The surgeon decided to try intimidation through subde eloquence. “Violence breeds violence — haven’t you seen enough to know that yet? We shall restore order — but like thoughtful men, not like wild beasts. We don’t want a repetition of what happened here sixty years ago when the Provost Marcel stood up for the people’s rights. He was in too much of a hurry, he acted harshly and violently — and what were the results? Paris lost its privileges; the citizens were plundered more viciously than before. Let’s demonstrate that we’ve learned our lesson from the past. No brute force, no robbery and murder, Caboche. We’ll punish whoever needs punishing, but only after careful deliberation, and after trial.”

Now that the uproar around them had diminished somewhat, the men became aware of sounds outside the butcher hall. The bells of Notre Dame were pealing; now the bells of Sainte-Geneviève church picked up the message; then Saint-Jacques, Saint-Pol, Saint-Germain PAuxerrois, Saint-Jean. One by one the churches, the cloisters and chapels joined in; the air was filled with the sounds of all the bells of Paris, large and small.

“What can be going on there?” Thibert asked. “It’s still too early for vespers.”

Not even Legoix’s servants, who entered the murky slaughterhouse with burning torches, could explain these solemn sounds; many of the men hurried outside to join the curious crowds filling the streets in the hope that Paris was suddenly about to be delivered from its besiegers. The peals lessened and died away; shortly after that, word began to circulate from the direction of the Grand Pont that Orléans and Armagnac had been excommunicated and declared oudaw in the church of Notre Dame because they had committed rebellion, robbery and sacrilege. The solemn ceremony had been performed, amidst the ringing of bells and with smothered candles, in the name of Urban, the new pope in Rome. The Duke of Burgundy had been present, along with several high dignitaries of the Church.

“Did you know that, lads?” Caboche asked the men in the hall. He stood in the doorway, his hands under his apron. The students had lowered themselves from the crossbeams, ready at the first sign of trouble to dash away through streets and alleys to their own quarters. The tramps and beggars, who had been the first to vanish when the bells began to chime, had now unobtrusively turned up again. They liked to be near Caboche, whose bold comments gave them the opportunity to revile the authorities in public at the tops of their lungs, to shout complaints, curses and ridicule, to air emotions which must otherwise be prudently repressed.

“Berry — the old swine — has also been declared outlaw,” the skinner said. “Was I right when I said the old greasebag was busy selling us hide and hair to the Armagnacs? Come with me to the Hôtel de Nesle, comrades, and let’s give him a professional skinning in his own courtyard!”

The noisy crowd pressed around Caboche; a few students had already snatched torches from the rings on the wall. But Thomas Legoix, followed by his younger brothers, leapt forward from the group of guildmasters who stood in conference near the slaughter blocks.

“Have you gone crazy, Simon Caboche?”

Roughly, Legoix thrust aside the men who had already drawn their knives, bent upon blood and booty — it was said that the vaulted cellars of the Hotel de Nesle were full of wine and salted meat.

“Are you all stark mad? You couldn’t do anything more stupid! If you don’t know how to keep your hands to yourself and can’t obey our decisions, get out! Blockheads and rioters do our cause more harm than good!”

“I don’t give a damn about your blather.” Caboche cursed and put his hands on his hips. “Where’s the grub? That castle is full of it from top to bottom! Believe me, that pig Berry knows how to live; he takes good care of himself and his pages.”

For further news, Maitre de Troyes had gone with a few butchers to the great island in the Seine; now he pushed his way back inside past the men who blocked the entrance. He knew from those who shouted and stamped impatiently outside the door, what was going on in the slaughterhouse.

“Listen!” he shouted, hoarse from the effort of trying to make himself heard. “Legoix, Caboche, listen! Berry fled from Paris tonight and the Hotel de Nesle has been assigned to the Earl of Arundel and his English!”

The angry shouts of the comrades grew louder. They were too hungry and too poor to listen to the voice of reason.

“So the foreigners will fill their bellies with good French food bought and paid for with our centimes!” Caboche leered at the anxious face of Thomas Legoix, who exerted great self-control to keep from assaulting the skinner with his fists. Legoix himself had no love for the English bowmen, but neither had he any stomach for a fight inside the walls of Paris on the eve of a joint action against the Armagnacs.

“Send Caboche and all these fellows away,” Maitre de Troyes whispered sharply into Legoix’s ear. “It’s impossible to hold a meeting with the skinner here. He keeps interrupting and confusing the whole issue with his insolent mouth. Tell the men now that they must be at Saint-Jacques gate at midnight tomorrow and then let us go to your house to talk this over with the guildmasters. We don’t need all these people here. We have to get away from Caboche’s people, those loud mouths and the scarecrows too …”

Legoix objected; he was afraid that the skinner and his friends would not leave willingly. However, after a brief consultation with Thibert and Saint-Yon, he ordered Caboche out of the butcher hall. Strangely enough, no one protested. Caboche left at once, followed by nearly all the workers and servants, the students and vagrants. Legoix led those who remained — no more than thirty or forty men — through a hidden passage to his own house which lay beyond the slaughterhouse and its adjoining stables and barns. He was not happy with the silent withdrawal of Caboche and his men. He kept asking himself what the skinner was up to: it seemed obvious that he was up to something — Simon Caboche had never yet shown a willingness to obey a command or fulfil a request without an argument or a show of reluctance. Legoix decided that something must be done about Caboche, even if it meant strangling him with his bare hands, if the skinner persisted by his bestial behavior in endangering the business of the burghers. Legoix had no intention of letting himself or his colleagues lose their authority to a brute who was interested only in his own profit.

The common people, who until recently had looked up to the slaughterhouse owners as powerful protectors and trusted them as leaders, were tending more and more to support Caboche, because he appealed to their basest instincts. The dream of recovering prosperity, public order and moderate taxes under a fair administration would undoubtedly go up in smoke if Simon Caboche were allowed free rein to stir up the hungry mob.

Legoix was forced, more quickly than he had expected, to make a decision about the fate of the skinner. Just before daybreak Maitre de Troyes came pounding on his door. The surgeon pointed to the glowing eastern sky.

“That’s outside the city,” Legoix said. He threw a cloak over his shirt and went up the street with de Troyes. “The Armagnacs have set fire to another town.”

“No no, Legoix,” the surgeon said despondendy. He sighed. “That’s the work of our friend Caboche. He convinced five or six hundred men with his wild talk. My apprentice told me that after dusk armed men were seen on their way to an unguarded spot in the city walls. Now they’ve come back — the ignorant idiots — and they’re bragging about their bravery. Instead of the Hotel de Nesle, they have sacked Bicetre castle — and set it on fire.”

At dawn the streets of Saint-Jacques streamed with people who had taken part in the nocturnal expedition. Those who were not too drunk to talk — they had loaded vats of wine from Berry’s cellar onto carts and taken them along — were able to tell marvelous tales about the splendor of the ducal palace. They showed splinters of gold leaf which they had wrenched from the walls, and fragments of Berry’s precious stained glass windows. Gold and silver, however, were nowhere to be found — could it really be true that the Duke had stripped himself to the bone to aid Orléans in his struggle? The plunderers had found only the collections famed far and wide: books, stuffed animals, relics of saints in golden shrines. They had thrown the books and beasts into the fire, but they fell eagerly upon the relics. All day, laden with booty, singing and shouting, the butcher apprentices and their hangers-on marched through the streets of Paris, led by Simon Caboche, who had dressed himself in one of Berry’s scarlet ceremonial robes, heavy with golden ornaments.

Repeatedly Legoix summoned the skinner to a meeting. At last, with his brothers and associates, he set off for the quarter where Caboche lived, but the skinner appeared only when he was surrounded by followers armed with knives and cudgels.

After midnight more than 6,000 soldiers left Paris under the command of the Duke of Burgundy. While they advanced overland to Saint-Cloud, ships loaded with burning pitch floated down the Seine. So at daybreak the Armagnacs, within their hastily fortified village, found themselves threatened on two sides. The bridges over the Seine and the neighboring wooden barricades went up in smoke, creating a diversion which facilitated the invasion of the village by Burgundy’s troops. For hours there was bitter fighting in the village and in the neighboring fields. The garrison of Saint-Cloud — Bretons and Gascons from Armagnac’s army — was vasdy outnumbered and unprepared for the attack from the city. Burgundy’s troops left the dead and wounded on the battlefield to the wolves and ravens and chased the fleeing Armagnacs toward Saint-Denis.

Charles d’Orléans spent the winter at Blois, depressed and embittered. He knew that he owed the failure of his campaign to Armagnac’s crude indifference, and to the irresolution and delay of his other allies. And once more Charles had borne the brunt of the defeat. Armagnac had made off with the gold of Saint-Denis. Once more Charles was compelled to raise wages for his soldiers and ransom for the prisoners in Saint-Cloud. The treasury of Orléans was empty: bankers and money-lenders came to Blois to view and appraise the valuables on display, which for the most part were trifles: crucifixes, mirrors, bound books, relic caskets, two gilded birdcages — all of which had belonged to the Duchess Valentine. The proceeds were not nearly enough. Charles had no alternative but to levy a huge tax on the wine and grain in the territory of Orléans so that he could have a substantial sum of money at his disposal.

Now everything seemed to conspire against him. It was true that Burgundy, thinking of ice and snow, had voluntarily refrained from pursuing Orléans’ retreating troops, but the winter cold did not prevent the Count of Saint-Pol from occupying the territories of Valois, Beaumont and Coucy. It was impossible for Charles to mount a counter-attack: Bourbon and Alençon, equally threatened by Burgundy’s troops on the borders of their own domains, had their hands full. Armagnac wandered with his men as usual from district to district, plundering and destroying at will. Berry had retreated within the strong walls of Bourges, the capital of his feudal state. His couriers traveled weekly to Blois with news and letters; now that he had fallen again into disfavor at court, the old Duke appeared disposed to donate whatever energy and insight he possessed to his nephew’s cause.

This time Berry was profoundly grief-striken and angry: the loss of his power and influence in Paris was nothing to him beside the wanton destruction of his collections. The knowledge that nothing remained of Bicetre except charred heaps of rubble, that precious manuscripts had been burned to a crisp, stained glass windows smashed, the relics stolen by vandals who could hardly comprehend the value of their booty — the thought of this tormented Berry night and day. In the course of his long life he had never been particularly truthful, upright or merciful; he had lied and deceived, betrayed and blasphemed without scruple whenever it suited his convenience. Now he wept like a child in impotent rage and bitterness over the loss of Bicetre.

“Worthy Nephew,” he wrote to Charles in a private letter, “we cannot ffo on in this wav. You don’t have a sou left, and I am ruined. In order to fortify Bourges I have sold whatever valuables I owned here; my properties in Paris have been confiscated. My beautiful Bicetre was, as you know, razed to the ground by the rabble which still continue to rob and murder respectable citizens every day. Nephew, I have learned from a good source that they are preparing a new campaign against us: it is said that Burgundy will march upon Bourges after Easter. The Dauphin has been dubbed a knight in Paris; he will lead the army with Burgundy. We are enemies of the state, Nephew, our cause looks bad. That is why I wish to suggest something to you. I have been in touch with the King of England. He has reason to complain because of the manner in which Burgundy treated the auxiliary troops which were despatched to him a year ago from over the sea. Through the mediation of Armagnac and Brittany I have been able to learn the attitude of the King and Queen of England toward the situation in our kingdom. They are willing to send us some reinforcements under certain conditions. I enclose a draft of the treaty in which they list their demands. Think now, Nephew; we have no choice. Decide as quickly as possible; send couriers to Bourbon and Alençon and request them emphatically to do what I advise you to do. This will make probable a quick settlement of the matter. My clerks can fill in the text of the treaty later.

“There is no time to lose, Nephew. Burgundy’s army stands at Melun. They have stopped there because the King is unwell, but it cannot be long before they reach Bourges. I expect a siege about Saint-Boniface’s day; I can offer resistance for — say — roughly two months, but no longer. Before that time has elapsed, I must have help. Do not delay, Nephew; remember, our cause stands or falls with Bourges. If I am defeated, it will be your turn next at Blois. Your allies cannot help you. Consider all this carefully, sign the blank document and forward it at once. Hurry.”

Charles convened his council immediately: his brother Philippe, the Chancellor Davy, the Captains de Braquemont and de Villars, the Governor of Orléans, de Mornay. Hesitantly, with marked reluctance, he told them what the Duke of Berry had written. Amid a silence which held a sharper protest than any spoken argument, he read the points of the treaty: the King of England declared himself ready to despatch at once 8,000 foot soldiers and archers, provided that Orléans and his allies pledged themselves to help him regain Guyenne and Aquitaine to which the English Crown laid claim of old.

The others remained silent even after Charles had finished the letter. They sat motionless around the table, without looking up.

“I am waiting, my lords,” Charles said at last, attempting to cover his uneasiness with formality. “I am eager to hear your views on this proposal.”

Philippe moved as though he were going to leap from his seat, but he controlled himself and remained sitting with his face averted. The others exchanged glances. Finally de Mornay rose to his feet with a sigh.

“Monseigneur.” He paused and stared distractedly out the window at the blue-white, bright vernal sky. “Monseigneur, we have come to a sorry pass when a man must choose between hanging and drowning. I do not know what to advise you. I agree with the Duke of Berry that without swift, vigorous aid from abroad, your armies and your allies’ armies will be crushed before the year is out, because they are scattered and weakened and we know now that unity in action and obedience to a central authority are impossible. With the help of the English the party of Orléans would certainly win — for the present, at any rate. The English fight better in France than we do. You would be able to defend your rights yourself, Monseigneur, but at what cost? As for myself, I would sooner lose my life and all that I own than enter into a pact with the enemies of France.”

De Braquemont rose too.

“In any case,” he said, “what reason do these bastards have to meddle in our domestic disturbances? If they see that we are divided among ourselves, they will be all the more eager to wage war against all of us together. I advise you to let things take their course, my lord. How can you be sure that Burgundy will besiege Blois after Bourges falls? It seems more likely to me that he will turn back, especially now that he has the sick King with him. We will have time to plan then.”

“And suppose that Burgundy seeks a reconciliation with England again?” De Villars remarked sharply. “He has already done that once before; is his daughter not half promised to an English prince? If the English come against us even once, we are truly lost — because a thousand of these bowmen fight better than the whole of Burgundy’s army.”

The Chancellor Davy, however, shook his head.

“It is those damnable conditions which make it impossible for us to sign the treaty. England wants our promises now, in black and white. They have learned from Burgundy what happens when one has no written agreement.”

“But if we help the English conquer Guyenne — it is high treason!” Philippe exclaimed. He looked imploringly at his brother. “You cannot, we may not do that, Charles.”

“Nay,” Charles said calmly. “I shall write my uncle of Berry that we cannot accept this proposal. Then we can only march to Bourges with all the men we have here.”

That night Charles could not sleep at all: he let the candle burn on the table in his room, and when the tiny crackling flame finally threatened to go out at the bottom of the candlestick, he kindled a new one. He had not taken off his clothes and he could not sit still; with his hands clasped behind his back he paced back and forth from wall to wall, from bed to chest, from table to window. Around midnight there was a soft rap on his door; Charles pushed the bolt aside. From the darkness of the vaulted stairhead Dunois appeared, clad like his brother in doublet and hose.

“What is it?” asked Charles, surprised and slightly annoyed; he did not want to be disturbed now.

“I could not sleep, brother.” Dunois sat down on Charles’ clothes chest and pressed his hands together between his knees. “I could not help thinking about what you told us today. Is it really so bad with us? Will we lose our war against Burgundy?”

“We will certainly lose,” Charles said, shrugging, “unless we get money soon and are able to persuade the soldiers in our service to obey our exact orders. It is our misfortune that our army has a half-dozen commanders who are constantly at loggerheads. If we had discipline and order among us we would not have been defeated so decisively at Saint-Cloud, brother. I don’t know where to hide from shame when I remember that day. No wonder our enemies call us empty braggarts.”

In silence Dunois looked at his half-brother. Charles had grown thinner, his face had a yellow tint: his outdoor life had made his skin tawny so that he could not be called pale even now, when all the color had vanished from his face. Although he shaved closely, the blue shadow of his beard was always visible on his cheeks and chin. He was so accustomed to wrinkle his forehead in thought that even when he relaxed a crease remained between his eyebrows. He looked much older than his seventeen years: this was noticeable especially in his eyes. He had the weary, mournful, somewhat suspicious look of a man who has been frequently injured and disappointed. He had a habit of looking downward when he wanted to hide his uncertainty — he did this often.

“What happens if we lose?” asked Dunois matter-of-factly.

Charles glanced at him askance.

“That depends. We are outlaws. They could kill us or send us into exile and claim all our possessions for the Crown again. I really don’t know, brother. But it does not look very promising.”

“What would Monseigneur our father have done?” asked Dunois brusquely. Charles said nothing. He knew only too well that his father would never have allowed himself to become embroiled in such a hopeless and dismal situation; he would not have let Armagnac bully him; the Lords of Luxembourg and Picardy would never have deserted him. The thought of his father filled him with bitter shame; here he sat, the heir to a great name and to power and vast estates. How had he discharged his task? He had lost half of his lands and all his money and valuables; the blows he had received in his struggle against Burgundy had thoroughly dissipated the glory of the name of Orléans. He had not avenged his father’s death nor redeemed the vow he had made to his mother; there was no future for himself, his brothers, his small sister and his child; at best they would be poor exiles.

“What is better now, brother?” asked Dunois in a clear voice. “To defeat Burgundy with the help of the English or to allow ourselves out of loyalty to the realm to be hacked to pieces by Burgundy? I know very well that the English are our hereditary enemies, but you have heard yourself how Burgundy let the butchers take over Paris, how they set fire to the churches and then drove women and children into the flames, how they plunder and murder to their hearts’ content. Wouldn’t the King prefer to lose Guyenne to the English rather than all France to fellows like the butchers and Ar-magnac’s men? If you win the struggle, brother, and are restored to honor, you will be powerful. If you were the King’s right hand you could issue laws to protect the people against rovers and free looters. Perhaps it would be easier then to maintain a vast, well-trained, orderly army to defend the land against foreign invasion, which is something Burgundy will never do.”

Charles, who stood by the table, raised his head, startled, and looked attentively at Dunois. He had never heard the youth give so long a speech. Dunois was reticent by nature; he was also unaccustomed to express his opinion unasked. He was about twelve years old, but strong and sinewy as an adult; in his wide fair face his grey-green eyes gleamed, remarkably clear, like the waters of the brooks which flowed through the city of Blois. His thick, sandy hair was clipped so short that he seemed almost bald. He sat in the same position on the chest, hands between his knees, his eyes fixed quietly on Charles.

“So you think I would be no traitor if I did what Berry proposes?” Charles asked gravely, sitting down on the edge of the bed opposite Dunois. “It’s merely a question of whether the King will ever think as you do, brother!”

Dunois laughed easily.

“The King himself has eaten and drunk with the Earl of Arundel when he was in Paris,” he said. “I know that from La Marche, the Burgundian whom you took prisoner.”

Charles sighed and nodded thoughtfully.

“We shall still have to fight the English again for all that,” he said finally. “Everyone sees clearly that it must end sooner or later in war. That is why I find this alliance so dishonorable.”

“Oh, but the English are perfectly aware of that too.” Dunois frowned slightly as though he were surprised that Charles could doubt him on that point. “It is certainly awkward that we need their help now. They will undoubtedly laugh at us because we cannot keep peace in our own lands. But don’t you think, brother, that Burgundy is more dangerous than the English?”

Charles sent his half-brother to bed; but he himself remained awake until early morning. Doubt kept him company. He was se-credy ashamed of the desires which sometimes crept over him; he felt an urge to relieve himself as quickly as possible of the worries and burdens, the responsibility and unrest, which had fallen to his lot after his father’s death. What difference did it make whether he was defeated and exiled? He had demonstrated his good will; the circumstances were stronger than he was. He was always painfully aware of these and similar thoughts. He reproached himself for being cowardly, weak, ungrateful, unworthy. What sort of man was he that he seemed sometimes to lack utterly the will to persevere, the power to act, any impulse to heroism? Dunois’ words spurred him to persist anew. What the devil, this was politics; now he must demonstrate his ability as a diplomat. Burgundy had managed to use the English and skilfully move them aside when they had fulfilled their purpose. Must he fail where his enemy had succeeded?

Standing before the window, Charles watched the stars fading in the morning sky. He had made up his mind to sign the English treaty.

On a certain day in the middle of June, the army which had arrived in Bourges under the command of the King and Burgundy, prepared for a ceremonial meeting of both parties. A wooden structure, a platform divided in two by a railing, had been erected on the marshy field outside the ramparts of Bourges. Towards noon the Duke of Burgundy and the Dauphin left the royal tents attended by armed nobles, priests and advocates in official robes. Since the mounted heralds, stationed in the field to announce the approach from the city of Berry and his retinue, made no attempt to blow their trumpets, Burgundy and his royal son-in-law continued to pace up and down over the swampy grassland, watched from a respectful distance by their gentlemen-in-waiting. The sun stood high in the sky; it was unusually warm. The Dauphin sighed incessantly; he would gladly have exchanged his heavy gilded cuirass for the silk clothes which had cost him so much money in Paris, but since he had to appear here as a surrogate for his father — they had, after second thoughts, sent the King home — he had to continue playing the soldier. Under the large blue and white plumes which adorned his helmet, in the opening of his visor, the Dauphin’s face looked childishly small and peaked. He walked ahead of his father-in-law with a peculiar, exaggerated gait like a strutting young cock with stiff tail feathers.

Burgundy, arrayed as usual in his scarlet mantle, followed, looking surly. For the past few days he had been sorely irritated by the Dauphin’s behavior — the fact that this sixteen-year-old brat held an official post did not give him the right to interfere high-handedly in Burgundy’s plans and affairs. Burgundy wanted to raze Bourges to the ground, batter it to rubble, force Berry to submit to the paying of tribute, and then march directly on Blois. He had no intention of returning to Paris until he had squared accounts with his enemies thoroughly and for good.

The march to Bourges had not been easy. The army had had to stop repeatedly because of the King’s health. Then there were prob lems with feeding the troops and providing them with war materiel. When he finally reached the walls of Bourges, Burgundy had sent Berry a formal challenge. The old Duke had replied curtly that he was always willing to open the gates to the King and the Dauphin, but not to certain malevolent persons into whose power the King and the Dauphin had unfortunately fallen. The soldiers and burghers crowding onto the ramparts of the city expressed agreement with this in no uncertain terms. They shouted curses at the Burgundians, accused them of holding the King captive, and called them filthy traitors.

Burgundy felt he had good reason to use drastic measures: he ordered battering rams and catapults made ready for an attack; the tall buildings and towers directly behind the ramparts made an excellent target. But opposition to this came from an unexpected source: his son-in-law the Dauphin, who until now had always supported Burgundy’s decisions, had resolutely opposed the use of heavy artillery.

Burgundy swore under his breath; the sun burned on the steel of his armor, on the mail covering his neck and arms. With a jerky movement he flung back his heavy red cloak and walked quickly up to his son-in-law.

“Monseigneur,” Burgundy said, making an effort to be courteous, “I wish to draw your attention once more to the fact that your method of procedure is dramatically opposite to the resolution which the Council adopted before our departure. As you will undoubtedly recall, we agreed then that we would make every effort to carry this action to a successful conclusion.”

“Yes,” said the Dauphin impatiently. “That’s quite true. But now I wish to put an end to the struggle between you and Messeigneurs, our kinsmen. I find it extremely tedious. It costs an appalling amount of time and money. What kind of life do we actually lead? I have no desire to sit in tents and armed camps for the rest of my life. If my father should suddenly die, I should be saddled with nothing but burdens.”

“Are you opposed to purging the Kingdom of rebels and traitors?” Burgundy asked, sneering. “What we do here is in your interest too.”

The Dauphin laughed, the shrill, affected titter so characteristic of him.

“Ah, come,” he remarked, glancing sideways at his father-in-law under raised brows. It was, thought Burgundy, the selfsame glance which he had always found unbearable in Queen Isabeau. “Ah, come. I fight against kinsmen because they demand satisfaction for the murder of my father’s only brother. That is really rather strange, don’t you agree?”

Burgundy stood motionless for a moment and then took his son-in-law roughly by the arm.

“Are you with Orléans now?” he asked, with a quick suspicious glance at the group of dignitaries and nobles who stood waiting around the wooden platforms, chatting among themselves. Their armor flashed; their purple and violet state robes and mantles reflected the sunlight. Burgundy reviewed the ranks: he felt suddenly uncertain. The Dauphin had loyal friends and followers. Who of the prelates and knights were traitors, serving Orléans’ cause? The thought had already flashed through his mind that the meeting between the Dauphin and Berry might be a trap. He had to be ready for anything and take measures accordingly. A group of trustworthy councillors and proven knights from his own suite would be with him at all times during the discussions; moreover, horsemen and soldiers whose loyalty he could equally trust, stood stationed a short distance from the rendezvous.

“Father-in-law, you search for too many meanings behind my actions,” said the Dauphin, annoyed. “How often have I told you that I do not wish to see Bourges destroyed!” He made a long face to let Burgundy see that his patience was at an end, and ratded off his reasons once more in a bored monotone. “Berry has no son; after his death his estates revert to the Crown and I shall get them — that is already decided, as you know. Bourges is a beautiful city; the churches and towers are valuable — it cost a lot of money to build them. I’m not interested in receiving a gift of heaps of rubble, which I should have to clear away and rebuild at my own expense. I have nothing now but barren fields and blighted vineyards. So how can I raise taxes? No thanks; I have no desire for poverty. I see daily from your example how important it is to own thriving estates.”

Burgundy thrust out his lower lip. He had deliberately encouraged the young man’s taste for luxury by helping him to live extrava-gandy in order to control him; now it looked as though the youth’s demands were getting out of hand. They had reached the end of the small strip of passable ground bordering the swamp; they retraced their steps. Two hundred paces away stood the platform adorned with flags and banners and divided in half by a wooden railing.

“That is all well and good,” said Burgundy roughly, “but you cannot disregard the decisions of the Council and negotiate by yourself. Don’t forget that the opposition party has been declared outlaw. And don’t forget, too, Monseigneur, how much has happened over the past year. By God, you cannot ignore me and my grievances any longer!” he exclaimed abruptly, stopping before the Dauphin. “This whole plan for negotiation is ridiculous, son-in-law. What is there to discuss? De Bar is behind this, I’m sure of it! He is the traitor, he has a brother in Berry’s retinue. I’ve always thought that that alone laid him open to suspicion!”

The Dauphin flushed angrily.

“De Bar stands under my protection,” he said excitedly, with a catch in his voice. “I forbid you to attempt to act against him in any way. He is no traitor. No one is going to hurt you, you don’t need to disgrace yourself. Now I want to conclude a peaceful treaty with Monseigneur de Berry and my cousins. I have no inclination to carry on your wars. Go and fight to your heart’s content without me. The people of Orléans are my kinsmen; they belong to my retinue and should be in my court. Why should I behave in a less honorable way than princes and monarchs in other countries simply because you have a mind to quarrel? I don’t have to live like a country bumpkin just because my father is crazy and sick!”

The Dauphin gave an angry shrug and walked more quickly to escape his father-in-law. At that moment the gates of Bourges opened, the drawbridge dropped over the moat and a long procession of horsemen rode out. Burgundy made no effort to overtake the Dauphin; he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully while he watched his son-in-law: the silk tunic, gold breastplate and plume made the heir to the throne appear more helpless and clumsy than he actually was. The armor hindered him; he waddled when he walked. The armor plate on his legs forced him to keep his knees stiff. Burgundy grinned. He always felt angrily ashamed of his own physical shortcomings; it pleased him to notice the imperfections of other men. He ascended the platform behind the Dauphin. Advisors and armed soldiers closed in around both princes. There, protected by a double railing, they awaited the arrival of Berry.

The old Duke approached, with scorn and resentment written clearly on his features. His opponents had protected themselves from him as though he were a ferocious beast. When he learned what precautions were being taken against him by Burgundy, he had decided to behave in a similar way. He brought only his own advisors to the platform; the horsemen and soldiers who had accompanied him from Bourges remained standing at the same distance in the field as Burgundy’s men. For the occasion Berry was clad in armor from head to toe; he refused to give Burgundy the satisfaction of sneering that his uncle was too old and too fat to wear armor. He wore a crowned casque and held axe and sword in his hands. A broad, heavy cloak studded with silver daisies dragged over the ground behind him. Although he could scarcely breathe under the burden of steel and leather, he managed, through great effort, to maintain a stiff, dignified bearing. It was certainly promising that he had been invited to this discussion before a single arrow had been shot or a single stone hurled. The English auxiliary troops had not yet arrived; a postponement of hostilities was certainly welcome. He had no idea what Burgundy and the Dauphin had in mind, but he knew, alas, they had little reason to fear him.

Berry was seventy-four years old. He could not help but notice that his strength was no longer equal to the task which, in rage and bitterness, he had taken upon himself. He was no longer capable of waging war. In God’s name, they must cease hostilities at once and if any reasons cropped up for future action, he would not be one of the parties. He had had his fill; he wanted to spend the rest of his life peacefully in a comfortable castle somewhere far from politics and court intrigues. The more he thought about it, the more desirable it seemed to him to setde this matter swiftly. He had doubts — it was not in fact so simple as it seemed and the peace was built on quicksand. But what happened later would not concern him anymore, thank God. Orléans could do as he chose; if he received the same conditions that Berry had, he could stop fighting. What the devil, that feud could well be forgotten!

Berry swore solemnly that he would persuade Charles d’Orléans and his brothers to accept the truce; he then handed the keys of the city of Bourges to the Dauphin through two bars in the railing. This action made him heartsick; he could not restrain his tears.

“My uncle is in his second childhood.” Burgundy shrugged, looking after Berry — the old man walked somewhat unsteadily back to his escort. “YouVe had your own way, Monseigneur,” he continued loudly to the Dauphin, who was as captivated with the keys of Bourges as a child with a new toy.

In the city of Blois consternation prevailed; two reports had arrived simultaneously: that peace negotiations were being conducted in Bourges, and that the English reinforcements under the leadership of the Dukes of Clarence and Cornwall had landed on the coast. Charles sent desperate letters and envoys to his great-uncle in Bourges who was preparing to leave for Paris. The reply which he received was brief: Berry washed his hands of the whole affair; he had done his best to aid his nephew. If complications had arisen now, it was not his fault. He advised Charles to reach an accord with Clarence and Cornwall as quickly as possible: they would probably be willing to cancel the treaty in return for certain financial considerations. “And come to Auxerre as quickly as possible, Nephew, in order to negotiate the peace personally: if you word it wisely you need not singe your wings at all,” Berry concluded.

After he had read the letter Charles sat motionless for a long time with his hands pressed against his eyes. He fancied he saw small, multicolored shapes revolving against a dark background: stars, rings, spheres. They whirled off and on, burst asunder into sparks or shrivelled into dots. Inside his heart it was utterly empty and cold; faith and hope, never completely dispelled despite reverses, had gone now for good, along with his youthful dreams.

Toward his councillors he used a tone which they had never heard from him before: harsh and indifferent; the tone of a gambler who rashly stakes everything he owns on a weak hand. Through the mouths of Mornay and Davy he began negotiations with the English, who from day to day advanced more deeply into the country, roaming aimlessly, plundering with impunity now that they could no longer be sure of war and its booty. Clarence replied that he had never seen so disorderly and riotous a situation as in the Kingdom of France; never had he dealt with such irresolute allies. He would regard this affront to him as healed if he and his men were paid 150,000 ecus. The amount made Charles dizzy. Although he did not know yet whether he would be able to raise that sum, he quickly replied that he agreed to the terms, provided the English put to sea before New Year’s Day, 1413.

“Agreed. Before January first,” replied Clarence, smelling the possibility of a greater profit, “but in that case I must request 60,000 ecus more from Your Grace.”

Charles wrote bluntly that he saw no chance of collecting such a vast sum; but the cold, matter-of-fact Englishman managed to find a solution, thanks to his advisors. He demanded important hostages who would be freed when the money had been paid. Charles agreed to send hostages at once, on the condition that Clarence’s troops would cease their looting during their retreat to the coast. But agreement to this stipulation carried a further price: the English demanded a final hostage, a brother of the Duke of Orléans, of his own choice.

In the presence of loyal friends and members of his household, Charles read aloud Clarence’s most recent letter. He hardly dared raise his eyes from the parchment; he could not endure the embarrassed, solicitous, disheartened expressions on the faces of his friends and aides.

‘I must send seven hostages,” he said at last, returning Clarence’s letter to his secretary, Garbet. “Six men from my immediate entourage and one of my brothers.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.” De Mornay stepped forward. “I know that I speak in the name of all of us when I request that you make a choice now”

Charles looked, almost in supplication, at the row of faces. He saw that they still stood motionless, waiting: the captains, the Chancellor, the Governor, his chamberlains, the nobles of his retinue, old Garbet, beside whom sat Philippe and Jean. Philippe tugged at the lacings on his sleeve in ill-controlled excitement. He didn’t want exile — he didn’t want to go! But he was afraid that he had to go and he could not oppose Charles.

“Is there anyone among you who wishes to be excluded, who has urgent reasons?” Charles asked slowly in a low voice, as though each word cost him great effort. The men remained silent.

“Yes, forgive me, but I cannot do it,” Charles said suddenly. He made a short, violent gesture of desperation. “I cannot choose.”

Archambault de Villars stepped out from the group; he bowed stiffly to Charles and stood at the foot of the table.

“I place myself at your disposal,” he said shortly. “I request five others to follow my example. Each knows best for himself what he must do.”

Almost immediately Chancellor Davy stood beside him; the Chamberlain des Saveuses and three knights joined Davy. Others who had stepped forward moved back when they saw that the required number had been reached. Charles thanked the volunteers. He knew there was little he could say to them; he was only too well aware of the hopelessness of their position. He might never be able to pay the ransom money: under even the most favorable circumstances, many years of exile awaited them. The silent group at the foot of the table had made a great sacrifice for his sake. He could offer them nothing in return — not even a promise or a word of hope.

He turned to his brothers: he saw Philippe’s deep flush and compressed lips; the pale, suddenly adult face of Dunois, who felt himself to be an accessory in the matter and suffered because he knew he could not atone here. The Bastard of Orléans was not highly regarded enough to be a hostage. But now Charles met the dark, tranquil gaze of his youngest brother, Jean.

“Let me go, Charles,” said the youth. His voice was still childish. “You can’t spare Philippe. You don’t need me here. At least this way I can serve you and our House. Let me go, brother, I won’t give you any reason to complain about me.”

Philippe quickly raised his head and looked at his brother with tense expectation. He saw in Charles’ eyes that his elder brother agreed that he could not be spared. Philippe knew he was not going into exile; he thanked all the saints for his deliverance.

Charles went up to Jean and embraced him, pressing the youth’s head against his shoulder.

On the day of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, in a monastery outside the city of Auxerre, peace was restored once more between the parties of Orléans and Burgundy. In the presence of princes, nobles, citizens and prelates, representatives of the Council, Parle-ment and Audit Chamber, and deputies from all the great cities in the land, Charles dissolved his allegiance with Berry, Bourbon, Alençon and Armagnac, and cancelled the treaty with England, which had just come to light. In his turn Burgundy swore that he would negotiate no more with the enemies of the Kingdom.

On the fields and highways near the monastery of Auxerre, the inhabitants of nearby towns and villages stood in groups, looking at the noble travelers, the horses and wagons, the flags and equipment, at the banquets in the open air, at the sham fights held by the high lords inside an arena cordoned off with gaily colored ribbons. The spectators were gloomy; they could not believe that their anguish and distress had ended. And now the region was afflicted by a pestilence; people said it came from the armed camp before Bourges. All that babble of eternal peace could not dispel the knowledge that every hour men and beasts were dying in the farms and houses in the countryside. For over a century the fear of disease, hunger and war had sunk deep into the hearts of the people. Better times are promised in Heaven, said most men, but Paradise lies far away — we sinners know not where.

To reassure and pacify the crowds huddled in the fields of the monastery, Burgundy and Charles went outside together; they passed back and forth between the decorated tables, sat together on the same horse at the Dauphin’s request — Burgundy in front, Charles in back — and rode, amidst the acclaim of the spectators, around the arena. From the monastery chapel, choirboys emerged holding burning candles in their hands. They sang “Glory to God in the Highest” and now the bystanders and participants finally joined this strange game of princes with the most beautiful of songs: “Peace on earth to men of good will, hallelujah, hallelujah!” at first hesitantly, but growing gradually louder, stirred by the pealing bells, the burning tapers, the voices of the choir and the magnificent banners.

Meanwhile the plague raged, the mercenaries of Burgundy and Orléans and all their allies, dismissed from their bond of service, plundered everywhere; Armagnac with his Gascons proceeded to harass the regions between the sea and the Loire, and the English, already in possession of the hostages they had demanded, withdrew to their ships, robbing and burning despite the agreements and promises. “Peace on earth,” sang the people, not knowing what the morrow would bring; “Men of good will,” hummed the powerful with uneasy and distrustful hearts. “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” they shouted all together; bonnets and hats flew off, banners fluttered in the wind. The horse which bore Burgundy and Charles began to rear, frightened by the noise; he had to be held fast so that both riders could dismount without mishap.

Now it so happened that a peasant, Jacques d’Arc by name, lived in Domrémy in Lorraine in those days, and at just about this time his wife gave birth to a child. It was the fifth child and a girl, and she was christened Jeanne.

Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe accepted the Dauphin’s invitation to accompany him to Vincennes castle. The King’s son wished to become better acquainted with his cousins now. Monseigneur d’Aquitaine of Guyenne, as the crown prince was called, had become gradually disenchanted with the manner in which Burgundy still attempted to exercise guardianship over him. The young man had tried a few times to assert his independence, and there were enough men in his suite who encouraged him to rid himself of his father-in-law at any cost. Isabeau, apparently completely on Burgundy’s side, tried to influence her son by indulging him immeasurably. She gave him houses, money and valuables, and did not attempt to oppose the frankly licentious life he led.

She thought with regret of the good times of the past; when the Dukes had ruled she had been powerful — now no one listened to her. Her brother, Ludwig of Bavaria, who was continually at her elbow, showed her the way to new influence. The Dauphin was fully grown. He was a shallow, erratic young man who in reality had neither the desire nor the disposition to rule. He was interested in dancing, feasts and carousing, in silk clothes and beautiful jewels. He who succeeded in gratifying his cravings for these things won his confidence completely and could mold him as he wished. Burgundy, once so indulgent toward his son-in-law, began to display more and more irritation when he learned about the amounts of money demanded and squandered by the Dauphin.

Isabeau had to take advantage of this friction if she wanted to rule again through the youth. Accordingly she closed her eyes to her son’s excesses; she listened impassively to the hints of the clergy and the complaints of subordinates. What business was it of hers if the Dauphin and his friends drank and danced each night with harlots in the Hotel de Behaigne, if they annoyed inoffensive citizens with their wild and not always harmless pranks? She flattered his vanity, loaded him with gifts, whispered new notions into his ear — Isabeau had her fantasies too — and at the same time advised him to seek a fresh rapprochement with the party of Orléans — weren’t all the princes of the blood on that path already? The Dauphin considered his mother to be an ugly, self-seeking, disagreeable woman, but he had a still greater aversion to Burgundy who, despite the fact that his son-in-law was the heir to the throne, scolded and nagged him incessantly. Monseigneur de Guyenne felt himself old enough to fill the elevated position to which he was to be called, but he wanted to do it in a suitable manner: in order to be able to give himself up undisturbed to luxurious pleasures, he wished to distribute responsible positions in the government among friends and relatives who were clever enough to prevent disorder and to understand that the wearer of the crown was not to be bothered needlessly.

In Vincennes, the Dauphin overloaded his cousins of Orléans with marks of favor and gave fetes and hunting parties in their honor. In Philippe, who was completely dazzled by the splendor of court life, and who spent his days intoxicated by joy and hitherto unknown delights, the Dauphin instantly found an enthusiastic, indefatigable boon companion. Charles, however, did not unbend; he could not quickly forget what he had left outside those festive walls decorated with wreaths and garlands. He was filled with bitterness and regret by the thought that he had sacrificed his brother for no purpose, since the English had broken their promises. For the first time in years, Philippe went about dressed in gold and bright colors, but Charles refused to lay aside his mourning. Like a stranger who cannot understand the language of his hosts, he lived among his royal kinsmen and their household. He saw his brother, flushed with excitement and exertion, trying to follow the Dauphin’s example in the row of dancing courtiers; beautiful women laughed at the youth and held out their hands to him invitingly.

But Charles sat under the canopy beside the Queen, who found him dull; once, in Chartres, she had thought she had discerned the promise of wit and rare courtliness in young Orléans; now there seemed nothing more to say about him than that he was agreeable and well-mannered. Charles was only too well aware of his inability to join in the exuberance and loose jests of the others; this realization made him all the more silent and monosyllabic, especially since he detected in himself a desire to be as carefree and happy as the ele-gandy dressed young men he saw around him, leading the women to the dance with light, courtly phrases.

The beauty of the women both confused and enraptured him. He thought he had never realized that such lustrous warmth and grace existed; in the curve of an arm, the drop of a veil, the lines of neck and shoulders, a timeless enchantment lay concealed, a temptation which Charles felt all the more strongly because timidity and lack of experience made him defenseless. But he did not reveal his emotions; he sat with the older men and talked politics. He considered it his duty to learn the opinions of this group with whom, until now, he had had so little contact. Besides, he felt uncertain: what he had been promised in Auxerre, restoration of honor and property, remained still only words on paper. The Council had not yet convened, Burgundy had gone to Flanders; the restoration of honor existed only in the courteous and sympathetic reception afforded him by the Dauphin.

Charles spoke candidly with only one person while he was in Vincennes. One evening he noticed among the spectators in the banquet hall a thin, middle-aged woman in a dark red gown, with sharply chiselled features and intelligent eyes. He remembered her at once and went up to her, although he knew that etiquette demanded that she, as a subordinate, must salute him first. But he remembered how he, as a small boy, had sat at her feet, between the deep folds of her dress, while she, in a low gentle voice, recited verses to his mother. He found that Christine de Pisan, widow of the Sire de Castel, had changed very little.

He spoke with her at length and often; he found it easy to confide in her. She had known his grandfather, admired his father and had been a friend and compatriot of his mother. He greeted her almost like a kinswoman.

In the twelve years which had passed since Charles had seen her last, the Dame de Pisan had gained renown and esteem; her talents were no longer doubted by anyone; she was the guest and close friend of monarchs and, not the least, among great scholars in wisdom and knowledge. Although Burgundy was her protector, she remained impartial. Charles felt that she could be trusted with his confidences.

When they talked together during fetes or meals or in the Queen’s reception halls, Charles and the poet observed etiquette: she stood or knelt in his presence; he touched on general subjects only, requesting her to instruct him about literature and philosophy. It was soon not unusual for members of the royal household to see Monseigneur d’Orléans and the Dame de Pisan immersed for hours in conversation. But sometimes Charles invited her to visit his private rooms with no other listener than Maitre Garbet. There he told her frankly what he thought and felt, what distressed him, insofar as he could give a clear account of all this himself.

Christine understood him; she knew what it meant to live bitter and aggrieved among carefree people.

“When my husband died, I stood alone in the world, Monseigneur,” she said, fixing her calm, intelligent eyes upon him. “From the beginning I had to take care of my children and worry about my closest blood kin. I too had to wage a long and bitter struggle to try to save my inheritance. I did not succeed, my lord. But God has given me the ability to say many things in rhyme. Thanks to that ability I could earn my livelihood and was able to raise my children. Believe me, I know what afflicts you so deeply: to feel isolated, alone in a room full of merry-makers. I could, when I had just lost my husband, sing only of grief and love and you know, Monseigneur, that such songs are fashionable for dancing. I sold my heartache for a handful of gold pieces.”

She paused and raised her long narrow hands in a gesture of resignation. “I often thought that no worse fate existed on earth than my own. But, alas, my lord, one becomes older and wiser and one learns from day to day. Now it often seems to me that I wept too quickly over my own grief. I look about me and I cannot understand how I can bear with dry eyes the suffering of France. My lord, my lord, how is it possible that kings and princes can still sleep peacefully at night?”

The Dame de Pisan was able to tell him a good deal about the calamities which ravaged the people: she was no stranger to poverty; often enough she had been close to hunger, cold, pestilence, cruelty and injustice. Her words brought Charles back again to a sense of what he must do.

He took leave of the court and marched south to his castle in Beaumont, which had suffered exceedingly under the occupation of Waleran de Saint-Pol. Philippe he left behind in the Dauphin’s retinue; the young man wanted nothing more than that. Before Charles left, Christine de Pisan presented him with a book of her poems, Epistles of Othea to Hector. In exchange, Charles gave her his gold cross; he was not rich enough to reward her with a princely gift of money. His friendship with the poet had warmed his heart. He left Vincennes considerably less embittered and depressed than when he had arrived.

On a rainy, chilly spring day in the year 1413, Philippe, Count de Vertus, rode into the city of Blois; he came from Paris, not with a well-armed escort as befitted one of his rank, but in great haste on a horse chosen at random, attended only by two grooms. Without stopping to change his clothes, Philippe went straight to his brother. He found Charles in his old study, busy checking accounts and receipts with the aid of Maitre Gar bet and a few clerks. Charles leaped up with a cry of surprise. Philippe was still breathless from his fast ride and hard walk. And he wore a disguise — cloak, bonnet and hose like a traveling merchant, and he was covered with mud and dirt. Philippe did not let his brother get in a word.

“I fled from Paris,” he said, while he tugged at the lace of his cloak. “I have ridden for two days and nights without pause, brother. They were close at my heels.”

Charles motioned the clerks to withdraw. The faithful Garbet, concerned, remained standing behind the table.

“Come sit down, Philippe,” said Charles, “and tell me what happened there.” He kicked aside the damp, grimy cloak which Philippe had dropped on the floor, and thrust his brother down on the chair. “A few days ago another refugee arrived here, your physician-in-ordinary, Messire Pion.”

“Thank God he is alive. I thought they had killed him,” cried Philippe. Charles drew a footstool toward him with his foot and continued.

“Nay, but he was a great deal worse off than you, brother. He came on foot, half-naked and famished. He lies in bed still, too ill to talk much. I know that a rebellion broke out in Paris, that the people are laying siege to the Bastille.”

“Alas!” Philippe gestured with impatient excitement. “That was weeks ago — so much has happened since then. The butcher rabble rules Paris; they walk about with large knives and axes. They have fortified their districts as though they were castles. None of those fellows works any longer, they do nothing but patrol the streets and plunder, killing anyone who is not especially dirty and does not shout as loud as they do.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that already.” With a gesture Charles checked his brother’s flow of words. “Are you able to tell me quietly what you know or do you want to eat and sleep first?”

“Are you mad? I’m not tired, brother.” Never before had he been in such great danger or been involved in such exciting events. He found that he was extremely well-informed; he could enlighten his brother as well if not better than couriers or letters from the court. “I shall tell you everything in detail. It had already begun when I arrived in Paris with the Queen and Monseigneur de Guy-enne. Every day there were riots in front of the palace and fighting in the streets because the King had made peace with us. Of course Burgundy stood behind all this. Each day the butcher folk stood before Saint-Pol screaming for Monseigneur de Guyenne. At last he was forced to appear in a window, whether he wanted to or not. Those people have an orator — a surgeon or some such thing, and he addressed Monseigneur, telling him that he was their only hope, but that he had evil companions and advisors, that he behaved like a profligate and wastrel. Aye, the surgeon said that, brother, and all the time the butcher bosses stood there in their Sunday finery, nodding agreement, but the rabble who are always near them brandished knives and sticks. They wore white bonnets — the bastards, that is their symbol; all Paris walks about wearing them and those who do not wear them are killed. Then Monseigneur de Guyenne — in order to provoke the butchers — donned a cap with long flaps which hung over his shoulders. He looked as though he wore the ribbons of our party!”

With animated gestures he described how the rabble stormed up the stairs of Saint-Pol and forced their way into the halls; how many eminent courtiers had been dragged away, among them Lud-wig of Bavaria, the Queen’s brother, and a number of ladies of the court who had attended the Dauphin’s banquet. The prisoners were locked up in the Louvre and guarded by a growing mob. Burgundy, who had rushed out of the Hotel d’Artois, had tried to appease the men by facing them and appealing to them himself, but it was useless. Yes, it seemed that even the butcher bosses could no longer control their apprentices and mates. A delegation — Philippe remembered the names Saint-Yon and Thibert — had arrived, imploring Mon-seigneur’s forgiveness for the behavior of the citizen army, but immediately afterward the same troops appeared, led by the former city executive Capeluche, and Caboche, the most notorious rebel of all, and made a new expedition inside the palace walls, this time with the express purpose of seizing and murdering anyone who had ever had anything to do with the party of Orléans.

“I still don’t know how I managed to escape,” Philippe said, raising his goblet courteously toward his brother before drinking. “I climbed over a wall. A peasant brought me over the Seine in a rowboat. One of Monseigneur de Berry’s retainers hid me for a few days in a hovel in the fields outside the Hotel de Nesle. Then I heard further news: the butchers guard the Dauphin and allow no one near him. Nevertheless he managed to send me a message. Here …”

From his sleeve Philippe drew a dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which the Dauphin had written in large sloping letters: “Help me. Recruit troops and allies. They threaten me, they wish to force me to sign over my rights to my brother of Touraine. They demand that I use force against Orléans. Be on your guard. Help me!”

Once more Charles d’Orléans entered into negotiations with his erstwhile allies, Alençon, Bourbon and Armagnac. Incessantly the Dauphin despatched messengers and letters with requests for speedy help. In Paris all was confusion and alarm. The butchers, who wanted to fight the Armagnacs and the English together, were now busy collecting the money required for a campaign. Nobles and wealthy burghers were murdered or driven away and their houses looted.

This time Charles saw himself cast in a new role: now he marched upon Paris not as an opponent of his arch-enemy Burgundy, but as a defender of King and Kingdom, a protector of the reign. Circumstances had undoubtedly never been more favorable for him and his cause. He realized that he had not created these circumstances; he had the rabble to thank, and their rage; he could never have accomplished this by himself. Armagnac appeared with a considerably larger force than before; the Gascon’s behavior was as crude and coarsely grasping as ever. Although Charles always treated him with noticeable reserve, Armagnac acted as though there had never been any friction between his son-in-law and himself. He constantly sought Charles’ company, sat beside him at council meetings and meals, rode with him, and behaved in general as though he were the confidant and right hand of Orléans. In response Charles could use no weapons except coldness and silence, but he understood very well that Armagnac fervently craved the end which he now regarded as almost within his grasp. He smelled success and wanted to be the first to be considered for favors and gifts when Orléans marched into Paris. Although Charles might thus control his father-in-law’s behavior by encouraging his belief that ultimate victory was at hand, he himself looked to the future with fear and misgivings.

On the first of August, Charles appeared before Paris with his armies: he offered the King his help in exchange for the properties which had been taken from him, full restoration of his father’s honor and good name. When the people’s militia saw the cordon of armed men encircling the city, trouble broke out in their ranks. The men flocked to the marketplace to hear Caboche’s response, but before the skinner could open his mouth, here and there among the restless, uneasy mob arose cries for peace. Those who were not part of Caboche’s immediate circle were more than sated with murder and pillage, with this harsh and uncertain life. The workshops remained closed, business was at a standstill, the purveyors of food seemed in a constant muddle. The privilege of roaming the city armed to the teeth and letting blood flow with impunity did not outweigh all these inconveniences.

“Peace! Peace! Those who want war step to the left; those who want peace to the right!” cried a voice from the mob. This proposal was immediately echoed and chorused; before long the square resounded with shouts from a thousand throats. Caboche’s voice was drowned in the sea of sound; he had to look on helplessly while the men, whom until then he had held in the palm of his hand, crowded to the right side of the marketplace. No one dared to remain standing on the left side. This incident had notable consequences: within twenty-four hours the city had completely changed.

The gates were flung open and Charles d’Orléans and his princely allies marched into Paris. The inhabitants of the city, wild with joy, did not bother with half-measures: huge bonfires flamed in the marketplaces and on street corners; here was a chance to dance and drink in the open air until long past midnight. Wine and excitement drove the people to another extreme. Even before dawn broke, Caboche, Saint-Yon, Thibert, de Troyes and a number of butchers and butcher’s companions were driven away and their houses looted and put to the torch. In Caboche’s lodgings they found a document signed by Burgundy, which contained a long list of names of citizens of Paris; each name was preceded by a sign: D, P or R. Everyone knew what that meant: death, prison or ransom, Many of the names thus marked belonged to people who had always been confirmed supporters of Burgundy. The discovery of this document spelled the end of Burgundy’s power. All those who had once been willing to follow him blindly now turned against him. When Burgundy heard that the people in the streets were vying with the Armagnacs to shout, “Burgundian dogs, we will cut your throats!”; that they were beginning to arrest the officials appointed by him and to kill his servants, he considered that he was no longer safe, not even in the donjon of the Hotel d’Artois. He fled unceremoniously from Paris, leaving his followers behind in peril of their lives.

Burgundy had scarcely reached Arras when he learned that his enemies were advancing under the King’s banner to compel him by force of arms to beg forgiveness, and to make amends. So Charles d’Orléans rode into battle beside the Dauphin; before him he saw the silken pavilion covering the carriage where the King sat; over his head fluttered the blue and gold banners of France and the ensigns with the inscriptions “Justice” and “The Right Way”. Nevertheless, there were still moments when he thought that he dreamt; sometimes he closed his eyes expecting, when he opened them again, to see the walls of Blois around him, to encounter the desolate landscape at Gien. But this was reality, he was the confidant and favorite of the royal family; they were concerned about him, they defended his cause. Here he was marching to punish Burgundy, supported by the highest authority; he had almost achieved his purpose.

But for all that, he knew no peace of mind. He had only to turn his head to see Armagnac riding behind him, a crafty smile forever on his cracked lips.

The stubborn presence of the Gascon distressed Charles sorely; he could not help thinking of the vultures who often in time of war arch over the advancing armies, knowing instinctively that they need not wait long for the carrion. During the brief time he had spent at the court, Armagnac had already made a number of enemies by his crude and repulsive behavior and unabashed greed. Many saw with trepidation and displeasure that three-fourths of the army with which the King went forth to battle for justice was composed of savage, untrustworthy mercenaries; the memory of their outrages in the outskirts of Paris was still fresh in people’s minds.

That the King and the Dauphin had allowed themselves to be persuaded to wear the white band of the Armagnacs on their right arms, thoughtful people considered to be an insurmountable scandal — worse still, a great imprudence: the King had to stand above all parties, and should not identify himself with so disreputable a horde of soldiers. Charles was afraid that those who spoke that way would all too quickly be proven right. Indeed, time had taught him that his fears were only too well-founded: the towns which the army had captured on the way to Arras were, in spite of the King’s orders, pillaged and reduced to ashes. Charles saw the city of Soissons after the Gascons and Bretons had rampaged there; as long as he lived the image of the horrors would remain with him: the charred beams and black scorched walls, the mutilated corpses of women and children, the rows of dead hanging on trees and palisades. Over the years he had, indeed, learned to control himself well, but on seeing this senseless destruction, this bestial ferocity, he could contain himself no longer. How could a venture be blessed which owed its success to such behavior?

Charles was not surprised to see that the King’s army was stranded before Arras; the city seemed impregnable. Moreover, the camp was ravaged by heavy rains; fever broke out among the troops. The end of the campaign was ignominious: peace negotiations were re-opened once more at the request of the Dauphin, who suffered from the damp climate and was becoming weary. For the fifth time in seven years they entreated Charles to reach out his hand to his adversary. Three times Charles refused. He obeyed only when the Dauphin, enraged by his cousin’s persistent refusals, had stalked out of his tent, stamping his foot angrily. But Charles did not look at Burgundy, nor did he speak to him. The King, who had just enough sense to realize that young Orléans was deeply offended, thought that Charles had to be kept satisfied one way or another.

“Let us, for the sake of my brother whose soul is now in Paradise, hold a service in Notre Dame for the dead, when we return to Paris,” whispered the sick man, gesticulating quickly to the Archbishop of Reims. “With a thousand candles and torches and black curtains, knights and priests and singing boys, as if it were the funeral of a king. I shall be there too in my prayer chair,” he concluded in a mysterious tone, nodding his head like a satisfied child.

So it happened. Before the high altar, heaped with gold candlesticks and flickering lights, Charles heard his father’s memory praised by no less a personage than the very learned and eloquent Maitre Gerson, who twenty years before, in an equally passionate flow of words, had called Louis d’Orléans a wastrel, a woman chaser and a heretic.

Toward the end of October Charles set out for the castle of Riom, to meet there with his wife Bonne d’ Armagnac for the first time in four years.

“I ordered my daughter to come to Riom,” Armagnac told him shortly after they had returned from Arras. “She is now fifteen years old, old enough to bear children. You can take her along now, son-in-law, it is growing too expensive for me to keep on supporting her.”

Charles realized on this occasion that he had never given thought or word to his young wife. A few years earlier he had dutifully sent her some gifts for the New Year, in honor of her name day — rings, pins, a golden triptych with angels playing the harp. The bride’s mother, Berry’s daughter, had sent him a letter of thanks in the girPs name; from this he learned that Bonne was well, and thought of him with respect and affection. Charles knew that this was nothing more than a courtly phrase; he had never attached any importance to it. When he had lost contact with Armagnac after the failure at Saint-Cloud, he had also stopped sending Bonne letters and gifts, not so much intentionally as from forgetfulness. Bonne was for him hardly more than a name, he did not think of her, or if he ever did, it was with a certain antipathy because she was the daughter of a man whom he found frustrating and contemptible. Armagnac’s words reminded him of Bonne’s existence; he realized that she had grown up now and was entitled to the respect due to a Duchess of Orléans, and to husbandly affection and devotion. He could no longer shirk these obligations.

While he rode over the roads to Riom, accompanied by a large retinue of horsemen and servants, he reflected, with the resignation which had become characteristic of him over the last few years, that he ought to be happy to a certain degree with this solution; he was now at an age when a man ought to be married. Although up to now he had had little time or inclination to involve himself with women, passion and desire were not alien to him; he could easily imagine what he had never experienced. He understood now what it was that Isabelle had found lacking in him. Now that he himself knew the torment of sexual deprivation, he thought of his dead wife with compassion. Restrained by inner scruples Charles had not sought the short-lived pleasure which is easily accessible or can be bought with money. In the army camps around Blois, in the camp before Saint-Denis, in the cities through which he had ridden at the head of his troops, there had been enough women ready to oblige him at the slightest sign. Although no one would have blamed him in the least if he had let himself go — on the contrary, his abstinence provoked ridicule and a certain disdain — he suppressed his mounting desires. He longed for something which he himself could not yet clearly visualize; he knew only that gross sensuality, blind passion without anything else, did not attract him. In his solitude and voluntary chastity, he experienced at least the curious sweet feeling of anticipation which had charmed him so when he was a child. He did not discuss these and similar matters; he realized, to be sure, that men found him odd — even his own brothers found him so. Philippe was proud of the casual adventures he had had during these campaigns; Dunois, young as he was, could romp and banter with his half-brother’s maid-servants.

At the court of Saint-Pol in Paris, a new world had opened for Charles: a class of women he had never met before lived there. At first he had been deeply impressed with their beauty, the splendor of their finery, their courtly manners and clever conversation, but soon he could not help noticing that in many cases smiling lips and lustrous eyes concealed an inner darkness that he had never imagined. Monseigneur de Guyenne, the Dauphin, already well-schooled in the arts of Our Lady of Love, invited his cousin to attend certain fetes in a private circle. Charles drank and danced like the others — little by little he had come to understand that it is frequently unwise to behave differently from your fellows — but his heart was bleak with bitterness and aversion. At the Dauphin’s request he laid aside his mourning — for the first time since his father’s death he wore colored garments: violet and gold brocade, crimson and silver like his royal cousin.

He did not feel at home in this unwonted splendor; he thought he looked like a gilded weathervane, a motley popinjay. The coquettish ladies of the court and the frivolous demoiselles who kept the Dauphin company at his fetes did Charles no service by demonstrating their interest in him. He despised the crown prince who did not seem to be able to get enough of this kind of life, who spent the nights carousing, the days in gambling halls and bathhouses. Frequently on these occasions Charles attended the Dauphin’s retinue. He knew that it was considered to be a great honor to sit with the successor to the throne of France in a tub full of steaming hot water while half-naked bathhouse girls offered them wine and sweetmeats.

When Armagnac told him that Bonne was at Riom, Charles did not hesitate for a moment; on the contrary, he was delighted to have a reason to leave the court. The atmosphere at Saint-Pol was beginning to stifle him; he was amazed that Philippe had no sense of the chill, corrupt air in that hotbed of intrigue, where the Queen, immobile in her corpulence, sat watching play and dance with gleaming shrewd eyes while the mad King wandered mumbling through the halls, followed by insolent, indifferent courtiers — at least when he did not stand knocking on the bolted door of his chamber, screaming hoarsely.

Now that at last diere was peace, the King could turn to his favorite diversion: processions and passion plays. To please their beloved monarch, the people of Paris marched barefoot through the streets with burning candles in their hands. Little children carried small flags and pasteboard lilies; they sang hymns of praise and litanies. The plays were performed in the great marketplace: the Fall of Man and the Expulsion from Paradise, the story of Cain and Abel, the Passion of Our Lord and the Crucifixion. Surrounded by retinue and kinsmen, the King sat on a decorated platform; leaning his head on his hands, weeping, laughing, shouting, he watched the performance. After it was over he spoke to the players, to the indignation of the Queen and her son.

“I am like you, brothers,” he said in a whining voice, while — he shook a handful of gold pieces from his sleeve and distributed them to the players. “Neither more nor less — a poor comedian. Pray for me, brothers, pray for me!” He remained standing, babbling and waving his hands until they dragged him away to his carriage. Since they had taken Odette de Champdivers from him, he had never again been completely lucid. The Queen had sent her home when it appeared she was going to give the King a child; no dangerous bastards were wanted at the court.

No, Charles was not sorry to see Paris vanish behind the horizon: he did not know what awaited him, but after what he had endured he could adjust to anything. So he approached Riom: in the vast woods that surrounded the castle the leaves glinted russet and amber in the October sunlight. The undergrowth had already lost its leaves, and a brown glow lay over the fields. Autumn appealed to Charles as no other season did; he felt a certain affinity with the world on the verge of winter, when the land seems strewn with red and yellow gold like a page in an illuminated breviary; when the cry of the birds flying south is both sad and ominous.

The castle of Riom loomed amidst the flame-colored forest; from its peaked roofs and towers fluttered the banners of Orléans, Armagnac and Berry. Charles saluted the people who came running from the small homesteads along the road. A drift of smoke hung over the trees; he saw the glimmer of fires. A group of children ran along with the procession part of the way, but when the ramparts of Riom came into view, they vanished, laughing and shouting, into the forest. The ladies of the house were not yet ready to welcome Monseigneur d’Orléans; Charles deduced this from the confused rushing about of stewards and servants. He had arrived earlier than expected. Because the weather promised to be so beautiful he had left his lodgings at dawn.

Charles was secretly amused; he looked up at the windows facing the courtyard. Behind the thick walls, he thought, they were astir, hurriedly adorning the bride. For the first time a feeling of curiosity crept over him, and even a certain uneasiness. He had no desire to enter the castle. He nodded to a page and rode out the gate. He preferred to spend some time in the forest beyond the ramparts, where the beech trees, with their trunks layered with gray-green moss, rose tall and straight. He let his horse move at a snail’s pace; the dry leaves crackled under the hooves. The sound of laughter and singing led him to the spot where the children were playing. He watched them, unperceived, from the depths of the forest. The children danced in a circle; they were filthy and dressed in rags, but their eyes shone and their laughter was carefree. They moved hand in hand. In the center of the circle a girl, her head covered with a blue cloth, stood singing. The tune and the words seemed familiar to Charles: in his childhood he had played a similar game — at a certain moment one had to run hard to try to reach a particular spot before being tagged by the child in the center of the circle. The children flew away in all directions; the girl in the blue kerchief kicked off her wooden shoes and began the pursuit. It was a merry and cheerful sight. Charles was so amused that he decided to give something to the children. Undoubtedly they belonged to the houses and farms of Biom’s peasants and servants. The children tumbled over one another, romping and squealing with laughter. The girl had caught someone now; they were beside themselves with delight. They were so absorbed in their game that they noticed the stranger only when he was directly upon them. They stared at him, their mouths open, frightened and confused; the smallest crept behind the girl’s skirts.

Charles took a silver ecu from his girdle and gave it to the girl with a few friendly words. She did not thank him but stood gazing at him with eyes as amber as the leaves overhead. This gaze astonished Charles; he was not accustomed to be stared at attentively by peasant girls; this gaze was not without a trace of secret mockery, despite a certain diffidence which was far from meek. They stood together under the October leaves, a hushed group: the shy children, the barefoot maid, and Charles, richly clad in gold and brown, on his horse Perceval. The forest was still as death: only the page who stood at some distance behind the trees coughed slightly. He could not understand what his lord was doing there. The spell seemed suddenly shattered; the maid tucked up her skirt and darted away over the leaves, followed by the frightened, screaming children. In a few moments they had all vanished from sight as swiftly as hares and squirrels. Startled, Charles laughed; he wheeled his horse around and rode slowly back to Riom.

The Countess d’Armagnac and her women received him in a lofty hall with white-plastered walls. Charles spoke briefly to his mother-in-law about events at court, his own plans, the arrangements for Bonne’s retinue and future position. Charles was at the point of asking where his wife was, when he heard a soft rustle behind him.

“This is my daughter, Monseigneur,” said the Countess with visible relief. Charles turned toward his bride; he had to bow deeply to raise her from her curtsey.

“Welcome, Monseigneur,” said Madame d’Orléans, offering her cheek to her husband for a greeting kiss. Only when she secretly pressed a silver écu into his hand did Charles recognize her.

For Charles, Bonne was a source of infinite, unprecedented rapture and surprise. No matter what she did, the young man found her continually fresh and captivating; he who had known only sorrow and worry, of whom until now life had demanded only self-mastery and responsible acts, could now bask for the first time in a bliss which was as radiant as it was unexpected. Charles behaved as reticent and solitary natures usually behave under these circumstances: he gave himself wholly, without reservation. His heart was so full of love for Bonne that he knew he could never express his feelings. What he could not put into words or translate into action oppressed him like a pain that nevertheless did not make him unhappy.

The days came and went, but Charles lost all sense of time. The sand in the hourglass, the shadowy streak on the sundial, showed him only that he had spent time with Bonne; they were together everywhere and always — first at Biom, later at Montargis, one of Charles’ castles. The young Duchess of Orléans had a sunny, playful disposition; she was slight, swift and happy as a bird; as light as the leaves in the wind, carefree without being frivolous and changeable without inconstancy. She possessed all the qualities which Charles lacked and which he desired: the ability to live easily, without worry, to act boldly on a whim, to laugh heartily, to enjoy the good things in full measure, to be warm and loving without constraint. Everyone — young and old, adults and children, courtiers and servants — loved her. As for Charles, he had the feeling that he could not do without her for a single moment; when she was not there, he longed so much for her that he knew no rest; when he saw her he could think of nothing else. He perceived, in truth, that in Bonne he had found a good woman, despite her youth; she had been wisely brought up by her mother.

The Countess d’Armagnac, whom a hard life had made into a prudent woman without illusions, had not neglected to take into account the possibility that Orléans might one day be an impoverished exile. Bonne could read, embroider and play the lute as befitted a noblewoman, but she also knew how to bake bread, make soap and wash linens. In Armagnac’s ramshackle castle, she had learned how to mend clothing again and again; she knew how to be thrifty and keep a sharp eye on servants. Moreover, she had a strong belief that highly placed persons were responsible for the welfare of their subjects. Armagnac’s wife, who had made it her task to try incessantly to alleviate the distress caused in and around the castle by her husband’s cruelty, had been unable or had not wished to spare her child the spectacle of sickness and misery. Bonne visited the poor, tended the sick, played with the children. She continued this custom even in the castles where she stayed with Charles for only a short time. They traveled together from region to region, surveying the damage to the country estates ravaged by war, reviewing the harvest and the produce from the fields. Bonne had good sense; she was a great comfort to Charles.

Every day he felt greater amazement that she could be a daughter of the loathsome Gascon; nothing about her reminded him of his father-in-law, except possibly the color of her eyes. She resembled her mother; she had in fact seldom seen her father; she feared him and was ashamed of his reputation. Eagerly, Charles heaped gifts upon his young wife; for the first time he regretted having sold all his jewels and ornaments. But Bonne, laughing, disputed his rueful ruminations. She threw her arms about his neck and said that she did not need jewels and rich clothing. “Good health and a happy heart — and of course Monseigneur’s love — for me these are the most valuable ornaments.”

“You will never lack that last, Bonne,” Charles said. “My own fear is that one day you might get tired of it.”

Bonne looked at him with shining eyes and shook her head. They were in the bedchamber at Montargis. The fire flared up the chimney, the February wind roared behind the shutters. Charles unbuckled his girdle and put his clothes, one by one, on the chest at the foot of the bed, purposely loitering so that he could watch Bonne, who knelt before the fire in an ample white night shirt, holding a kitten which she had found somewhere. Her long, coal-black curly hair hung down to the floor. She disliked wearing nightcaps.

“Bonne,” Charles said abruptly, “I am eager to take you back with me to Blois. I feel most at home there. I think you will like it too.”

“Yes, of course.” Bonne smiled at him over her shoulder. “And there are the two little girls there too. It’s time that you looked in on the poor wretches again. But we have to stay here for now, don’t we?”

Charles was awaiting a delegation from Asti; in addition the Duchess of Brittany, the wife of his former ally, had announced her intention to pay a visit. The messengers had arrived from Lombardy to pay homage to the young Duke in the name of the people of his domain; but Madame of Brittany’s visit was inspired — Charles knew this from the letters — by less agreeable motives. In the past few months Charles had been only remotely conscious of politics; he did not ask for news. But he could not hide from reality behind the fragile walls of his dream castle. He was forced against his will to hear an account of recent events.

The King of England was dead: the son who succeeded him under the name of Henry V had shown himself, after a rather wild, pleasure-seeking youth, to be a disciplined, faithful, austere and ambitious ruler, firmly resolved to complete the conquest which his father, always thwarted by domestic strife, had been unable to finish. With growing self-confidence, the young King had watched the turbulence in France; he believed that God had singled him out to punish the dissolute crowd; England, he thought, had an ancient right to Guyenne, Poitou, Angiers and Perigord, but he believed it would be better and simpler if England and France could be united under one Crown. The time was ripe for swift, vigorous action.

Henry surveyed the game and marshalled his troops. Jean of Burgundy, after his defeat before Paris, had resumed negotiations with England; it was not very difficult for Henry to persuade him to sign a declaration that he would not intervene in the approaching conflict. This done, Henry sent an emissary to France with unheard-of demands: the hand of the young princess Catherine, a dowry of two million gold francs, a series of important territories. It could not be supposed that he expected these demands to be granted; therefore it was quite clear where the matter would lead. Berry and Armagnac, who ruled the Council at the time, kept negotiations going for as long as possible, while they sent couriers to the princes of the realm requesting that they send more men. Charles had received a similar summons. More and more lately he had been receiving news about the state of military operations; Bourbon, Alencon and Brittany were already busy raising troops.

Charles knew that it would be impossible to come to an accord with England in the present circumstances; he too expected war. For Bonne’s sake he decided to live, during the visit of the Duchess of Brittany, in a style befitting the name and rank of the House of Orléans. To this end he borrowed money, mortgaging his property. He relished the sight of Bonne, beautifully dressed, moving through festively decorated halls, and presiding at a well-stocked table. The guests were entertained royally with hunts, balls and tournaments. While the Duchess of Brittany and her advisors spoke to him about the need to prepare for war at once — they had heard that King Henry was on the point of taking ship with a large army — Charles, with a smile, toasted his young wife’s health. In her honor he had ordered the sleeve of his tunic embroidered with the opening words of a love song which the minstrels sang in parts: Madame, je suys plus joyeulx…, Madame, I am overjoyed. My wife, never have I been as happy as I am now.

The moon hid behind clouds; a fine, even, cold rain fell. There was no wind, but the raw damp of the long night seemed far less bearable than a dry cold. On the muddy plain the French army stood with its vast camp of tents: hundreds of bonfires smouldered in the dank mist. Torches flashed like comets through the darkness. Flags and banners hung limply; from the pointed tops of the tents water trickled down the gold and silver escutcheons.

Inside the tents the noble lords sat over their wine, cards and conversation; the men in the open fields tried to keep warm by stamping their feet, running hard or shoving, with curses, for a place near one of the fires. The Gascons and Bretons who, as usual, made up the majority of the foot soldiers, were especially exasperated. They hated campaigns in the northern part of the Kingdom like the plague. At Arras they had had their fill of rain, fog and mud. What possessed the captains to keep waging war in the fall? This was already the night of the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth of October; winter was at hand. What the devil! The English should have been attacked long before this — as soon as they landed; when they besieged Harfleur; when, enfeebled by sickness and losses, they began their rash, presumptuous march north to Calais across enemy terrain. This view was shared by most soldiers, horsemen and knights. Those who had some knowledge of strategy believed that the Constable and other royal commanders were wrong to cling to the old rules of knightly combat with a formal challenge and a traditional order of battle.

This desire to exact a proper vengeance for the defeats suffered by the French half a century before at Crecy and Poitiers had caused the supreme command to delay endlessly, much to the annoyance of the more experienced soldiers. No one doubted the imminence of victory: that a handful of exhausted Englishmen could be routed without much trouble. It was a matter of fifty thousand against eleven or twelve thousand at the most. The counts and barons would not allow themselves to be deprived of such a wonderful opportunity for military renown. From their treasuries and arsenals they brought forth their splendid armor, ancestral broadswords, crowned and plumed helmets, unrolled their stitched and painted banners, re-gilded their coats of arms. The honor of France was about to be defended against the arch-enemy; the long-awaited moment had arrived. Everyone in the Kingdom who bore a famous name had a grandfather, father or kinsman to avenge. The lions ascendant, the hawks and eagles, the griffins and panthers were ready with pointed claw and cleft tongue — they did not fear the British unicorn.

In an open patch of ground between the tents, heavily armored horses covered with hanging scalloped cloths stood together motionless in the rain; only their eyes gleamed moistly behind the large openings in their almost ridiculous iron masks. Those who were to ride these monsters were already being thrust into their armor. Straddle-legged, with extended arms, the knights stood in their tents. Through the drawn-up flaps of the tent-openings, they exchanged words with their friends and kin who were all similarly occupied. Meanwhile, beakers and bowls made the rounds; it was senseless to fast on the eve of such an easy conquest.

The men of lesser rank, camped under tents of hide, wood and straw, showed no more inclination to abstain from the pleasures to which they were accustomed than their lords; they had fetched supply wagons inside the camp, shared food and drink and rolled in the mud with the whores who were part of the army’s equipment. The horses, driven together into a gigantic herd between the palisades, neighed incessantly, upset by the fires and the rain. Dark shapes loomed outside the reddish fog which hovered over the camp: thickets, a row of trees, an abandoned hut. When the moon became faindy visible through the clouds and the fog, there could be discerned against the night sky the massive towers and ramparts of Agincourt, after which the field was named.

Toward midnight Charles d’Orléans left the Constable’s tent where the commanders were gathered — the Dukes of Bourbon, Bar and Alencon, the Counts d’Eu, Vendome, Marie, Salm, Roussy and Dammartin, the Marshal de Longny, Admirals de Brabant and Dam-pierre and a great number of captains. After long arguments they had decided who would stand at the head of vanguard, center, rearguard and flanks; because each of the great lords coveted a place in the front lines, these ranks would be formed almost exclusively of princes and nobles with their heralds, pages, squires and armed following. Knights of lower rank, horsemen, bowmen and foot soldiers had been relegated to the rear guard.

Charles, who had listened quietly all evening to the battle of words, got up to leave as soon as he heard that he would be one of the leaders of the vanguard; he had confidendy sought the post, his rank entitled him to it. He felt little inclination to remain in that company until daybreak. He had agreed to risk a reconnaissance of the English camp, which lay a few miles away against the hill of Maisoncelles. The separate parts of his armor lay displayed in his tent: mechanically he examined the arm and leg pieces, tested the mobility of the scales at the neck and gaundets. He had a new breastplate of burnished black iron decorated with golden lilies. By the light of the torch overhead, he saw his face reflected vaguely in the glittering surface. He looked away; a shudder of cold apprehension passed through this body. For five long years he had done almost nothing except wander about at the head of an army, but he had never yet engaged in combat — never released an arrow, never used a sword or lifted his shield in self-defense, except for exercise. Charles knew himself well enough to recognize that he had little talent for military heroism, but after all he was a man and naturally he wanted to prove himself. He had not yet killed a knight because he had never enjoyed man-to-man combat. He had planned the reconnaissance so that he could march into battle as a fully worthy knight; he thought perhaps blows would fall on this eve of battle.

Before he left Blois he had exercised vigorously for a few weeks with lance and sword; he had exerted himself to the utmost, especially because Bonne was watching him from the window of her chamber. It was for her sake in the first place that he craved military fame; in addition he hoped to have an opportunity, if the English army should be defeated, to liberate his brother Jean. In any exchange of prisoners Charles’ brother would undoubtedly be returned to France. But along with these thoughts a slight fear mounted to his heart, a fear of unknown dangers, of the arrow destined perhaps to strike him, of the enemy who could defeat him in a hand-to-hand melee, of the death which he dreaded especially just now. He picked up his sword, a beautiful narrow weapon with a cruciform hilt which his mother had brought from Italy as part of her dowry; for a moment he held it high between the palms of his hands. The blade, catching the glow of the flame, seemed a long line of light. Charles had ordered the weapon consecrated before the altar of Saint-Sau-veur in Blois; now at midnight in his tent at Agincourt he entreated once more in a whisper the blessing of God and Saint-Denis on the sword with which he must avenge the dishonor of France and win back his brother.

He heard voices and footsteps outside his tent; the curtain before the entrance was pushed aside and two men in coats of mail and tunics entered: Arthur, Count de Richmont, Brittany’s younger brother, and Marshal Boucicaut. Charles had met Boucicaut, his father’s great friend and confidant, for the first time only a comparatively short time ago; the Marshal had returned a few years earlier from Italy, ousted by the rebellious inhabitants of Genoa and its environs, who had risen up against domination by the French. Boucicaut had aged greatly: his hair was grey, his figure less upright, but his solemn frank eyes and his self-assurance still inspired confidence. Richmont was a young man of Charles’ age, lively, loquacious and restless. He would represent Brittany in the coming conflict.

“Orléans,” said Richmont, “we are ready. I see that you too have been wise enough not to wear armor; one can’t possibly walk with all that steel on one’s back. We just want to see how the land lies with the English. It’s so quiet over there; they seem to have put out all their fires. I wonder what they’re doing.”

Boucicaut shook his head, looked at Charles, and remarked calmly, “They’re probably sleeping. They’ve had an arduous journey — twenty days’ march through hostile territory without enough food and supplies. Tomorrow they face a serious challenge — they know that too.”

Richmont snorted incredulously and began to pull the hood of his hauberk over his head. “Last week during the battie on the Somme my troops captured a couple of Englishmen. It seems that when they talk among themselves about the size of our army, they say, ‘Enough to put to flight, enough to take prisoner, more than enough to kill.’ And Henry insists that he is entirely satisfied with the number of his men. He says that God will help him, because the French are a race of sinners.”

Charles laughed, but Boucicaut interposed hastily, “Nonetheless it does not behoove us to laugh at King Henry. No one can deny that he is a pious and honorable man who lives soberly and sets his soldiers a good example. It must be said to the credit of the English that they have no wine or women with them, and do not waste precious time with curses and dice. Our army is notorious for licentiousness and crime … and righdy. The common soldiers’ behavior is an abomination.”

Richmont, who was helping Charles put on his coat of mail — Charles had silently begun to make himself ready for the nocturnal expedition — shrugged and said impatiently: “Ah, come, Messire Boucicaut. I know Henry. Don’t forget that I lived in England for four years. I have watched the fellow from close by. He can swig liquor with the best of them, and as far as women and dice are concerned, believe me, he needs no instruction there either. Oh yes, he’s now God’s own right hand or at least he acts as if he were — but I myself think he is nothing but a hypocrite.”

“You are probably exaggerating, Richmont,” Charles said, carefully buckling on his shoulder belt. “Alas, I cannot say that King Henry is wrong when he calls us a quarrelsome, disorderly mob. God knows we do not seem able to govern the Kingdom as we should.”

Young Richmont was not listening. He walked back and forth in the tent, examining Charles’ armor spread on the camp bed, testing the point of a dagger on his finger.

‘Whatever else King Henry may be,” Charles went on, “a coward he is not. He could have entrenched himself within a city when he received our challenge two weeks ago. But no — he came forward and said to us quietly, in a wholly dignified manner, that it did not behoove him to appoint a day or place but that he would meet us in the open at any time…”

“Yes, yes, I know all that.” Richmont turned with a nervous, jerky movement. “Are you ready now, Orléans?”

“We are taking two hundred men with us, my lord,” said Boucicaut. During this conversation he had stood silently at the entrance to the tent. He disapproved of Richmont’s familiarity with the King’s nephew; when he was young, vassals of the French crown had had better manners. He watched Charles with some concern. He thought that the young man bore himself with dignity and spoke sensibly, but it seemed to him that Charles d’Orléans was a little too mild, that he lacked the fire to assert authority, to be a leader of men. Louis d’Orléans, when he was twenty years old could, if it came to a crunch, show swift, sharp insight and unflagging persistence. Now it had come to a crunch. Boucicaut was astute enough to know that the size of the French army by no means guaranteed invincibility. The supreme command was shared by too many leaders, the diverse troops were thrown together hastily for the most part and were not dependent upon one another for discipline and order; thus morale was affected by mutual jealousy. In addition, Boucicaut disagreed with the proposed plan of organized attack: horsemen would make up both flanks — that would look pretty, but the terrain was unsuitable for it. They had chosen the valley between Agincourt and the adjacent town of Tramecourt as the battlefield. A brook ran the length of the narrow valley; since it was impossible to deploy the cavalry freely there, the Constable had decided that the battie order would be thirty-two rows deep. Boucicaut could see no advantages in this plan either: it would have to lead immediately to a confused hand-to-hand mêlée. He had made his objections clear, but he had not been able to convince d’Albret to change his mind. The Constable’s plan had been accepted by a majority.

Charles, Richmont and the Marshal set out to join the men who were to accompany them on the expedition and who were waiting for them behind the farthest row of tents. When the moon, which had been visible through an opening in the clouds, disappeared as gusts of rain began to blow over them, the men hurried into the darkness.

“My God, what mud!” Richmont murmured irritably to Charles, who was behind him. “That promises something for tomorrow. Up to the ankles …”

They moved forward through the soft mass of mud. After a while they noticed that the marsh was becoming more solid; pres-endy they began to ascend and found themselves on the sloping terrain before Maisoncelles, the hamlet where the English army was spending the night. Hedges and a series of thickets separated the expedition from the enemy camp. In the air was the unmistakable smell of horses and damp, smouldering wood. The dull glow of an almost extinguished fire was visible here and there through the branches. Richmont remained at the edge of the trees with most of the men while Boucicaut and Charles set out on their scouting expedition accompanied by half a dozen men; they intended to see as much of the enemy camp as they could without being discovered. Charles was much taken with the idea of being the unseen close watcher of the English; he was more interested in doing that than in coming to blows with them.

The rain abated; the moon broke once more through the clouds. The men ducked hastily into the shadows between the trees. Now the group split up. Charles saw the Marshal move off with a few followers; in a little while he himself chose the road that led straight to the English camp. Two paces from his men, he tripped over a small shrub; he tore his tunic on a branch and banged his foot against a tree trunk. Both times the sound seemed to carry a long way in the silence. But nothing stirred among the sheds and cottages of Maisoncelles; the hamlet seemed completely deserted.

Charles and his men came within about one hundred meters of the camp; they were close enough to see the English sentries in the darkness. A shadow was visible against the vague glow further away between the houses; something jingled there, straw rustled under moving feet.

Charles had undertaken the reconnaissance impelled by the desire for adventure which is innate in every man; but he also wanted to perform bravely so that Bonne would hear of his exploits. While he stood in the misty night before Maisoncelles, the image of Bonne flitted through his head: she must be sleeping now inside the green curtains of her bed, with one hand under her cheek and her black hair spread out like a fan over the pillows. He had often seen her like that by the glimmer of the night light. What did she dream oft The old feeling of loneliness had crept over him at those times; there she was, breathing beside him and yet she was not there at all. He could not bear her to turn away from him, not even in her sleep.

The rain rustled again on the dry leaves under the bushes. Charles heard the English sentry cough. Presently he heard another sound, a muffled chant, a monotonous murmur. He recognized it: thus the murmured prayers of the multitude fill the air in the churches. Charles chose one man from his company, one of his own grooms. Together they crawled through the wet matted grass toward one of the barns. The rain helped them: it poured down heavily and masked the sound of their movements. In the darkness they crept, step by step, past the dank, squalid walls of the hovels of Maisoncelles; abruptly they found themselves in the midst of the enemy camp. A row of sheds and haystacks hid the English, but he who penetrated these barricades could overlook the whole camp.

Most of the soldiers had found shelter in the cottages and barns the owners of which had fled the day before; thanks to some torchlight Charles was able to see about him. It looked as though no one was sleeping, but everyone was silent. Fires burned in the cottages: the men who were huddled together under the shelter of the roofs were busy with their weapons. They sharpened their swords and axes, cut wooden spears and mended leather clothing. Charles and his companion dropped down and burrowed into a pile of straw. Not far from them in a dilapidated stable, archers sat stretching new strings to their bows: crossbows and footbows, man-sized bows which were far from new and which were braced with ends of rope and straps at damaged places. But their owners handled them carefully as though they were trusted companions. Charles had never seen archers like these before: they were larger and more muscular even than the Picards and Flemings and their sandy hair was worn at an odd length. They worked in intense silence. The same deliberate concentration prevailed everywhere in and around the hovels of Maisoncelles.

Further off stood many dark canvas tents; there Charles saw the faint gleam of helmets and armor. The murmur seemed to come from somewhere close by; between the dark mass of trees and barns behind the tents, lights were visible, torches and small lamps smoked and flickered in the rain. Now men came running on all sides from stables, sheds and haystacks. They knelt in the mire with uncovered heads and murmured the words entreating forgiveness for sin: “Miserere mei, Domine, miserere mei_y quoniam in te confidet anima mea”

Lanterns and more torches were brought. Amid the kneeling men, Charles saw priests standing; one was an old man in a soggy bishop’s mantle who turned continually from left to right, his hand raised in blessing. The soldiers were ragged and dirty, in old leather jerkins and dented helmets; knives and axes dangled from their girdles, as was usual with peasants. The archers’ arms were bare: they wore leather bonnets buckled under their chins. Charles looked in vain for knights: shields, banners or coats of mail were nowhere to be seen. The horses, captured by the English at Harfleur, stood together in rows under hastily improvised shelters. They were practically all beasts of burden, but the soldiers had covered them carefully with straw and blankets as though they were thoroughbreds.

The soldiers clustered around the huts moved slightly aside; a rider approached on a small grey horse. He was young and bare-headed; a dark mantle was thrown around his shoulders. He gave a few commands in a cold clear voice and disappeared as quickly as he had come. The priests walked on, accompanied by torchbearers; they intoned the litany afresh as a bell sounded. The soldiers returned to their work and silence reigned as before.

Charles was greatly impressed by the behavior of the soldiers in the English camp; the men here prepared for combat in a much more dignified way than the soldiers in the French camp at Agin-court. But although these men had spent the night working and praying, he could not believe that they had much chance of success. On the contrary, now that he had seen their crude equipment, their extremely one-sided army, composed mostly of lightly-armed foot soldiers and bowmen, a French victory seemed to him to be a certainty. He and his men waited for Boucicaut behind the clump of elms below Maisoncelles. The Marshal returned soon enough; he had crept up on the camp from the east and had come to the same conclusion as Charles. Unlike the young man, however, he believed that present weather conditions favored the English: lightly armed troops had more mobility than armed horsemen and spearmen. Boucicaut regretted deeply the decision of the French commanders to refuse, time and time again, the offers of Paris and other cities to send foot soldiers.

They hurried back through the trees to Richmont and his troop: together they walked back again in the direction of Maisoncelles, this time quite openly. And this time their approach was noticed immediately. The watch blew the alarm and the English rushed forward from all sides, thinking that the camp was being attacked by the enemy. When they realized that it was only a challenge to a skirmish, they wisely chose to save their strength. A few hundred men rode out for a brief and rather aimless scuffle. After a few on each side had fallen, the French, as well as the English, withdrew.

Charles’ neck was scratched; the warm and sticky feeling of blood under his mail gave him no little satisfaction. Now, he thought, he could take part honorably and jusdy in the battle; now he was no longer a callow youth. At Maisoncelles he had just killed a man in hand-to-hand combat for the first time. It had all happened so quickly that he scarcely realized it himself, but now that it was over he remembered with a shudder of peculiar excitement the soldier’s short scream, and then his fall. Back in his tent he looked at his sword; it bore the traces of his deed. Charles’ squire came up immediately to clean the weapon. When he saw the blood-stained cloth, Charles’ pride and satisfaction vanished, to his surprise, as though by magic. He was ashamed of this reaction and knew he must not mention it to anyone. He thought bitterly that this demonstrated once more that he was not meant to be a soldier. Nay, he did not have the makings of a hero.

The dawn broke: St Crispin’s day, October twenty-fifth, 1415. The first faint glimmer of light appeared hesitantly on the horizon, but the sky remained darkly clouded. True, the rain had stopped, but a heavy fog drifted low over the land. In the French camp the confusion prevailed which is usually the result of divided commands and too little discipline. Forty thousand men were arming themselves; heralds rode about shouting in the midst of the turmoil and blowing with all their might on clarions and trumpets. The heavily armed knights who hours before had had themselves hoisted into their saddles, rode slowly out of the camp, an almost endless procession of grotesque iron dolls adorned with sodden colored plumes and drenched cloaks. They had closed the visors of their helmets and held their lances menacingly before them. In the field the legs of the heavily burdened battlehorses sank into the yellow-brown mud; the riders dug in their spurs and a rain of mud spurted up from under the hooves of the desperately struggling horses; it sucked and bubbled in the soft earth. The drooping saddlecloths and handsome armorplate were soon soiled beyond recognition. Organizing the troops became an unexpectedly difficult task: the Constable d’Al-bret had competent commanders, but they could not create order in that mass of swarming, entangled horsemen.

Charles, who felt extremely uncomfortable in his heavy armor — inside the stifling helmet he felt shut off forever from light and air — had, with the greatest effort, assembled his own men. He rode through the dense crowd followed by his heralds and Captain de Braquemont, seeking his vassals and instructing them to go to a chosen place on the field where he had ordered his standard fixed; other captains soon followed his example.

The knights and their picked men grouped themselves around the standards; an oudine of battie order began at long last to emerge. It looked now as though the valley was indeed too narrow; the warriors stood packed together so closely that they could scarcely move. If a horse took a step forward or backward, a whole row was forced to go along with it. When he saw the ridiculously deep vanguard, Boucicaut lost his self-control. Dukes, counts and barons were crowded together there; their only followers were squires, standard-bearers and trumpeters. It looked impressive, but had the fools learned nothing from what had happened at Nicopolis?

“That was twenty years ago,” said d’Albret angrily. “Leave me in peace, Boucicaut, take your place; we have no time to listen to your stories.”

“In God’s name, make the front wider instead of deeper,” the Marshal roared above the noise of the sentries. But d’Albret rode away with a curse, to oversee the progress of the center and rear guard.

Boucicaut pushed his way in beside Charles in the first row. The young man had closed his visor; he was choking from lack of air; his heart throbbed as though it would burst; sweat broke out under the weight of metal.

“God be with us, I can’t get my horse out of the mire,” said Boucicaut, extremely irritated. “We cannot conduct a charge like this. Why doesn’t d’Albret listen? This is sheer folly. Look how those horsemen stand on top of each other! I knew perfectly well there would be no room here for the flanks. Spread out, that is the only way, move the battle to a higher terrain and put only foot soldiers to work here. Is it right that a man who has had thirty years of experience fighting at home and abroad should be shoved aside like a peasant when he comes here with advice?”

Charles moved uneasily. He saw that his horse was sinking ever deeper into the mud; the beast could raise each leg only with great effort. It was light enough now so that the hills could be discerned; among the hedges and groves of Maisoncelles the enemy was visible. Many of them were descending the slopes together in great groups: archers with archers, spearmen with spearmen.

“There is the man,” Charles said suddenly, “whom I saw giving orders last night. He there — on that small grey horse, not much larger than a colt.”

Boucicaut shaded his eyes with his hand.

“That’s the King himself,” he replied. “Didn’t you know, Monseigneur? I’ve heard that the English are exceedingly fond of such small horses. They’re strong and swift.”

Charles leaned forward in the saddle with a cry of amazement. King Henry wore a bright cuirass and was accompanied by a standard-bearer, but nothing else distinguished him from the horsemen around him. The English took their positions with surprising speed; the mud did not seem to incommode them much. But they had chosen high ground for their last stand, less swampy than the rest of the valley. The archers made up the larger part of the army ranks, which now stood lined up in a very broad front four rows deep. The bowmen in the first row thrust sharply pointed wooden lances into the ground, to give themselves the slight protection of a sort of palisade.

The armies faced each other in order of battle. On the one side a forest of banners and pennants, plumes and lances, a packed multitude of knights arrayed in jingling gold and silver metal like participants in a tourney. On the other side of the field a dark row without pomp or splendor: men in leather and coarse wool with flat storm caps on their heads, many barefoot, the majority armed with bows, axes, spears and cudgels.

“By God, they’re nothing but common people and workers,” cried d’Albret, standing up in his stirrups. “We fight against common villagers today, my lords. Does King Henry think his knights are too noble to be led against us in battle?”

King Henry readied himself for the battle. Someone placed a crowned helmet upon his head; even at a great distance the jewels gleamed on the crown. Alencon swore loudly that he would not rest until he had plucked the gold flowers one by one. Now King Henry rode swiftly along the front of his army; here and there he stopped a moment to speak to the men. Then he dismounted and joined the captains who stood waiting a few paces from the first row of bowmen.

“It is going to begin, Monseigneur,” said Boucicaut. He turned to Charles and uttered a request for forgiveness, according to the old rules of chivalry. “Before we march into battle, Monseigneur, I beg you to forgive me for whatever crimes I may have committed against you, even as I forgive you.” Charles remembered that this had once been the custom. He bowed to Boucicaut, and in his turn made the same request of the knight on his other side. Everywhere in the vanguard the lords were granting forgiveness to one another. Some even went so far as to embrace each other, insofar as that was possible with mail-covered arms. The English stood astounded by the spectacle.

It was now about ten o’clock in the morning. The rain had stopped, but the sky was overcast with thick grey clouds. A pene trating chill rose from the marshy ground. King Henry stood for a while staring at the French lines, his hands on his hips. Then he spoke briefly to the knight beside him, who ran down the line, whirled around and threw a staff high in the air, shouting, “Now strike!” The men obeyed the command with a chorus of shouts. To the ears of the French chivalry these sounded barbarous and frightening, as though they issued from the throats of beasts of prey. D’Albret signalled for the charge. Charles closed his visor quickly, gripped his lance more firmly in his fist and prepared to do what the men to the right and left of him were doing: rush down at full gallop upon the enemy. He pressed the spurs into his horse’s flanks, but it could not move forward. It struggled in vain to free itself from the thick mud.

“Attack! Attack! Saint-Denis for France!” bawled the Constable, hoarse with exertion and excitement. Cursing, the knights tortured their steeds, but it was no use. Even those who had been able to move a few meters sank irrevocably back into the mud which had been churned since early morning by horses’ hooves.

While he tugged at the reins, mumbling desperate sounds of encouragement to the horse, a morbid fear crept over Charles for the first time in his life. Through the small eye slits in his visor he saw the English approaching, deliberately, without haste. The archers were feeling for their full quivers. Charles sat on his horse in his black armor covered with scaly ironplate, as though immured in a wall of black-armored bodies; he could neither go forward to fight nor retreat backward. For him and his companions there was nothing to do but wait.

The English stood and drew their bows; ten thousand arrows rained down, almost all at once, on the French vanguard. The Constable dashed away at full speed, hoping to bring the flanks of the army together at once; both squadrons began, with great effort, to move. The horses stumbled and trampled their way through the deep mud in the lowest part of the valley, tightly pressed against each other. But now more bowmen, who had lain in ambush for that purpose, rushed out of the woods in the slopes before Maisoncelles. The cavalry, struck on the flank by a storm of arrows, suffered heavy casualties: of the more than a thousand horsemen, only a few hundred had reached the small stretch of ground between both armies. The wounded, terrified horses no longer obeyed their riders. They reared sideways, snorting, onto the lines of armed knights and did more damage there than the English had done. Men and beasts tumbled over one another; bodies were smashed between steel and steel. Confusion spread through the packed lines; lances were shattered from the violent impact of the first row pressing backward.

The English took quick advantage of the turmoil in the French vanguard; flinging their bows away and arming themselves with pikes and clubs, they fell upon and grappled with the knights who were half-sunk in the mud. Charles, in the heart of the French front lines, saw a chance to remain in the saddle. He had dropped his lance; now he wrenched his sword from its sheath. Boucicaut had leaped from his horse. Charles wanted to follow his example; he knew he should, but he could not draw his feet in their pointed iron shoes out of the stirrups; he saw it was too late. The English were approaching in a virtual mud-storm, shouting at the tops of their lungs. Javelins flew before them.

The horse of the knight next to Charles was stricken mortally; it sagged sideways. The rider fell against Charles and almost knocked him out of the saddle. Charles’ warhorse sprang forward, wild with fright; the young man had only enough time to raise his shield, which he had taken from his page when the signal for attack was given. Blows and slashing strikes were already raining from all sides. “Bonne!” said Charles aloud. The blood buzzed in his head, he felt his steed stagger. Around him raged the tumult of battle: the shouts of fighters, the death shrieks of men and horses, the clatter of weapons against armor, and the dull thud of thousands of trampling feet. The English foot soldiers moved through the ranks like reapers through a field of grain; with both hands they swung their spiked clubs and their short axes. The knights and their followers, driven together into groups, defended themselves as well as they could, but they could hardly move. The fallen lay in heaps; they formed barricades, hills of corpses of men and horses, shields and weapons.

Charles fought like one possessed. There was room in his brain for only one thought: he did not want to die, he wanted to live, live and return to Bonne, to Bonne, to Bonne. Without knowing what he did, he muttered the name incessantly. To the rhythm of that beloved name, he hacked at the men who pressed him from all sides like a swarm of hornets. Mortal terror lent him a strength which he had never realized that he possessed. He beat off the attack until his horse sank under him, struck by a javelin. Nevertheless Charles managed to stay on his feet, up to his ankles in a mash of mud and blood. He continued to fight with undiminished energy; he killed three or four Englishmen, but he began to lose ground against his attackers. While he tried to parry the blows, he glanced about for help. But everywhere around him he saw the same thing: desperate defense ending in defeat. He fancied he saw Alençon still on horseback, with his banner in rags around his neck; he bent forward, his axe struck home, the dead piled up all around him; his horse’s saddle-cloth was soaked with blood. Charles saw more. He saw a corpse lying in front of him; he recognized it by its armor. It was Philippe de Nevers, Burgundy’s youngest brother, who, despite the Duke of Burgundy’s injunctions and threats, had joined the French because he thought it was shameful to stand aside. He lay on his back with his arms spread wide, on top of his squire and a number of knights of his retinue; his visor was open. Charles turned icy cold with fear and horror. He redoubled his efforts to free himself from his attackers. He wanted to escape to the center or the rear, where there was as yet no fighting. I want to throw off my armor, he thought, dizzy and confused. At that instant he received a heavy blow to the head. A burning pain shot through his neck and back. He thought only that this was the end. Then he fell in the mud beside his dead horse.

At first he did not know where he was. Something very heavy lay over his legs; something lighter, soft and limp, over his shoulder and breast. He tried to move but his body felt stiff and painful; a hard band squeezed his loins, arms and wrists. It seemed as though he were floating in a tepid, viscous liquid. Suddenly the truth shot through him: I am alive, he wanted to say, but his tongue would not obey him. He opened his eyes with an effort; his eyelids seemed glued together with the same lukewarm liquid. He knew now that it was blood. He still wore his visor; and since he could not move his arms, he saw no chance of opening it. I must fight on, he thought, more sharply conscious now. At the same moment he realized that he heard no sounds. There were of course the usual noises, but not the cries, the roar of the battlefield. Strangely enough, he heard the wind, and men’s voices at some distance from him. Something which jingled and ratded was being dragged across the ground. He thought he heard the same sound further away now — not in one place but everywhere. However, despite the voices and the dragging and clanking, a silence prevailed, which could only mean one thing: the battle was over, the contest decided.

What day was it? How long had he lain here? He moved, but a fierce pain forced him back to immobility. Before the eye slits of his visor there was only a grey luster. Something opaque was covering his head — a cloth, a flag or a tunic. That weight on his legs — he shuddered. He lay among the dead; he must wait until someone came to look for him. Bonne, he thought, and was filled with anxiety. What if they did not find him, what if they let him die here under a heap of corpses? He opened his mouth again, but no sound came from his lips. He exerted his strength to the utmost. Something seemed to tear inside his breast; excruciating pain like a knife thrust lanced between his ribs. But he managed to roll over halfway. He could not move his legs. It seemed an endless time before he was able to draw his right arm toward him; he had to incline his head toward his arm to open his visor. It was jammed, but he managed to twist it open. He lay in the midst of a jumbled mass of corpses, twisted metal, splintered lances. A horse had fallen across his legs; he was sure it could not be his horse. He did not see his horse; it probably lay somewhere under the corpses behind him. A man lay against his shoulder. He wore a starred tunic. Charles could not identify the other dead; they wore closed helmets or were so maimed or covered with congealed blood that their faces were no longer recognizable.

Slowly Charles raised himself until he could look out over the rampart of corpses. He was still so stunned from his fall, so dazed from pain and loss of blood, that the sight of the field of Agincourt could not fill him with terror or amazement. He saw the dead lying as far as the eye could see, heaps of dead — dead men in armor, dead men in gaily colored tunics. Where the French army had stood on the slope between Agincourt and Tramecourt, there were now only trampled fragments of tents, broken carts, great heaps of war materiel.

Evening was drawing in, rain clouds scudded low over the landscape, for the wind had picked up. It was not yet dark. In this hour between light and darkness, men moved in countless groups over the field. Charles recognized them immediately: they were the English bowmen. Such fellows as these had struck him down. What they were doing now was clear enough. They pulled swords, daggers and shields from the piles of corpses, tore off banners and mantles, and stooped searching for valuables — rings, buckles and shoulder-belts. Swiftly and deftly they stripped the dead of helmets and armor; slowly and thoroughly they searched through the heaps of cadavers on the field. Weapons they flung into high piles; valuables were secreted in the pouches which each man carried with him. The looters had not yet reached the place where Charles lay, but he feared they would reach him before midnight. He had only one chance: if the darkness prevented them from discovering him, perhaps he could try to reach the castle of Agincourt by creeping by night through the forest. The Lord of Agincourt was a vassal of Burgundy, but anything was better than being taken prisoner by the English.

He slid cautiously back in the mud and crept as close as possible to the dead. Perhaps the marauders would not reach him. His head throbbed with unbearable pain, and he was thirsty. He sank feverishly into a state of semi-consciousness. He thought that he lay in bed in Blois between cool sheets; Bonne approached him with a cup in her hand, holding wine or water, he did not know which. “Let me drink,” he whispered and now he really felt moisture between his lips.

It was no dream. Two men supported him under the arms, while a third gave him drink. They had removed his helmet, his head felt wet and cold from blood and perspiration. He was alternately dragged and carried over what seemed to him an endless distance through muddy hollows, up a slope, over rough roots and uneven forest ground. He could not keep his head erect; he lost consciousness again and again. Finally he felt himself set down on the ground near a fire, where men spoke to one another in low voices. The sounds of their strange language melted together in one murmur. He was only vaguely aware that his armor had been removed; after that he knew nothing more for a long time.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a straw litter in a tent. The curtain before the opening had been pushed aside; he could look out over a row of barns and hovels; unmistakably those of Maisoncelles. A sentry stood before the tent. It was bright daylight. There was great activity; the English were getting ready to break camp. Pack animals, heavily laden with war booty, passed slowly by. With a shudder, Charles saw the blue and gold banner of France, defaced, torn, stained with blood and mud, laying amid the arms and shields piled high on top of the wagons. He saw a cuirass on top of a cart; it gleamed white with a gold sun on the breast.

“That is Alencon’s armor,” Charles said aloud.

A man who sat huddled on a heap of straw in the rear of the tent — Charles had not noticed him before — replied.

“Aye, my lord, there go the beautiful toys of France. Gaudy armor and silk flags. Isn’t it finally plain now that a war cannot be won this way?”

Charles turned with an effort. “Boucicaut!” he cried. The Marshal raised his thin face and nodded slowly. He wore only a grimy, torn leather underjacket and a pair of shoes. He was not wounded. Charles noticed that he himself was naked under his hide covering; they had bandaged his legs.

“You are not seriously wounded, thank God,” Boucicaut whispered hoarsely. “You will be able to sit on a horse today.”

“Where are we going?”

Boucicaut sighed. After a moment he answered.

“Wherever it pleases King Henry, Monseigneur. I’ve heard that we will take ship for England at Calais.”

“Exile?” Charles sat straight up, despite the pain in his limbs. “No, no, I don’t want that. It is impossible,” he cried vehemently. “The Dauphin will surely offer ransom for me.”

“Don’t count on that, Monseigneur.” Boucicaut shrugged in dejection. “That will not happen soon. We are a large company; we represent a vast amount of money: you, Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Richmont, the Counts d’Eu and Vendome and about 1,500 nobles. I have seen the Sires de Harcourt and Craon and numerous other people I know. Great names all, for whom King Henry can demand a high price. A good deal of water will flow to the sea before an agreement is reached about us. But we can’t complain: we have our own pride and ignorance to thank for this catastrophe.”

The possibility of death disturbed Charles less than this new prospect of exile in a foreign country. He sat staring straight before him, shivering with cold and weakness, his brow knitted in tense reflection.

“I must send a messenger at once to my wife and brother,” he said uneasily. “We can sell our castles and territories. My father-in-law is in Paris: surely he will be able to exert some influence.”

“You can try, Monseigneur.” Boucicaut shook his head dubiously. “But I fear that you would be the last person King Henry would release. You are the most important of the prisoners; you are being most specially treated. King Henry’s personal physician has attended you and bandaged you himself. It is to the advantage of the English to keep you healthy.”

The guard who stood before the tent stirred. Charles and the Marshal looked toward the entrance and saw three men approaching: an old knight with a stern, pale face, a soldier carrying clothing over his arm, and a servant with a tray holding white bread and wine.

The knight bowed stiffly in Charles’ direction and spoke slowly in French. “My name is Thomas Herpingham, counsellor to King Henry. I understand and speak your language. The King requests that you put on these clothes and eat. Tomorrow at sunrise we leave for Calais. There will be horses for you and the Marshal.”

He paused, but Charles did not reply. Herpingham coughed and continued carefully.

“Among the prisoners is a certain de Nery, who says he is your squire. If you set much store by it, we will send him to you.”

Charles nodded. He was no longer listening to the Englishman; he was devising a plan. Jean de Nery must escape and carry the news to Bonne. The thought of his wife filled Charles with helpless rage. There she sat now in Blois, still ignorant of what had happened to him. When would he see her again? Reckless plots crossed his mind: he would slip out of the tent that night, seize a weapon and a horse, break out of the camp and ride at full gallop across Picardy to Paris …

Herpingham took his leave; now the two men brought forward the food and clothing. With indifference Charles allowed himself to be helped into jacket and overgarment; bread and wine, however, he refused. Later they came to fetch Boucicaut away and Jean de Nery took his place. From his squire Charles learned how the battle had gone. In a relatively short time the English had hacked the vanguard of the French army to pieces; those whom they did not kill were carried off in captivity behind the lines. Afterward, under the personal command of King Henry, the English fell upon the French center which had continued to make a stand. When the troops in the rear guard became aware of the slaughter, they fled to the hills. The center did not hold for long: Alençon, who had boasted that he would pluck the crown from King Henry’s head, was killed almost at once, and this drained the knights of the remnant of their courage. With their surrender the battle was over.

Then while the English were sorting out their prisoners, an alarm sounded from Maisoncelles. A horseman rode at full gallop bringing the message that the Gascons and Bretons from the French rear guard were approaching the field again by a roundabout route, and groups of them seemed intent on pillaging the camp at Maisoncelles. King Henry commanded his men to take battle positions once more; and so that the soldiers could be free to protect themselves from attack from the rear, the prisoners had to be killed on the spot. Two hundred soldiers were assigned to perform the executions. But while the English were preparing to repel the approaching troops, the latter appeared to have abandoned — if they had ever had them — all intentions of mounting an attack. They were seen fleeing over the hills, without so much as a backward glance. The prisoners from the vanguard, held together under guard in another part of the battlefield, were spared.

“Who was killed?” asked Charles, when the squire had finished his report. The youth whispered a long list of names: d’Albret, the Dukes of Alencon and Bar, the Sires de Dampierre, Dammarten, Salm, Roussy and Vaudemont — all those who only two days before had sat together in the Constable’s tent so confident of victory. In addition, the governors of Maon, Caen and Maux had fallen, along with the martial Archbishop of Sens and innumerable princes and nobles, with their squires, heralds, horsemen and grooms.

“They say we lost more than 10,000 men, my lord,” Jean de Nery said, with downcast eyes. “Ten thousand! And the English 1,500, at the most.”

Toward evening King Henry himself entered the tent, attended by Thomas Herpingham, who held a torch in his hand. The King drew the leather curtain behind him and stood beside the prisoner’s straw cot. Henry had steely blue eyes and a narrow oval face with a high forehead and rather full lips. His hair was cropped short on his round head. He was shorter than Charles but his shoulders were broad and his arms and legs strong and sturdy. Over his hauberk he wore a tunic with the red lions of England rampant.

Charles tried to rise from the straw to greet his visitor. King Henry watched his efforts in silence for a few moments before he said curtly, “Remain lying down, fair cousin; you cannot stand.”

His French was almost flawless, but his strong accent made his words sound rough. Charles bent his head and thanked him for the courtesy; he remained lying at Henry’s feet, supported by his elbows.

“How goes it, fair cousin?” asked the King, but there was no trace of friendliness in his eyes.

Charles replied dully, “Well, my lord.”

“They tell me you do not wish to eat or drink,” pursued the King. “Is it true?”

“It is true that I am fasting,” said Charles. “It can hardly surprise you that I have no desire for food.”

“Hm.” Henry raised his thin, sandy eyebrows. “I will give you good advice, fair cousin. Eat what is set before you. It is stupid to go hungry because of regret or shame. I believe that God has given me the victory, not because I am so deserving, but because he wanted to chastise the French. For now it is generally known that this kingdom is a true witches’ cauldron of sin and immorality. You probably know better than I what a pack of ruffians the French government is. No one can really be surprised that this situation has aroused God’s wrath. In this case I have been only God’s instrument, fair cousin.”

Henry said all this matter-of-facdy, although he raised his voice slightly. He kept his cold bright eyes fixed steadily upon Charles, who at first looked straight before him. But when the King fell silent, Charles gave him a quick, curious glance. He asked himself if Henry really believed what he had just said: the King spoke so dispassionately. There was no emotion in his words, only a chilly pedantry.

‘There is nothing more to be said,” the King added, thinking that Charles wished to raise some objection. “So it must be from now on, fair cousin. Therefore, he down.”

“Are you taking me back to England with you, Monseigneur?” asked Charles. He could think of nothing else to say. The King’s gaze became brighter and more penetrating.

“It is so,” he said. “But we will not speak of it now,” he continued, when he saw that Charles was about to ask more questions. “We shall give our personal attention to the question of your captivity in due time, in London. I intend to have a serious discussion with you, fair cousin. Perhaps we can reach an understanding.”

“Monseigneur,” Charles began. He wanted, while preserving the respectful attitude which was Henry’s due, to make him understand something of his own anxiety and desires. The King must listen to him. But deep in his heart he knew very well that all attempts to win the Englishman over would be futile. So finally he said only, “Will you release my squire, Monseigneur? Add his ransom to mine, I pray you; it can hardly make a difference to so large an amount. I am eager to send a message to Madame d’Orléans before I take ship for England.”

“That is true, you are married.” Henry raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at Jean de Nery, who stood at respectful attention behind his lord. “Is this your squire? You can let him go as far as I am concerned.”

The young man could not suppress a start of surprise. King Henry frowned and turned away with a half nod from which Charles inferred that the interview was over.

Charles was awake all night. He ordered de Nery to repeat over and over all the messages meant for Bonne. On reflection, however, he asked his shieldbearer to accompany him to Calais, where it would be easier for him to find a horse, and where Charles could get pen and paper; he wanted to write a letter himself.

Along with his companions in distress — a dreary group — Charles made the long journey to Calais on horseback. From the hills above Maisoncelles, they surveyed the battlefield once more: the peasants of the district had flocked to Agincourt in great numbers to search for serviceable pieces of clothing and weapons among the half-naked corpses.

In front marched the archers, the red cross of England upon their breasts; they went bowed under the weight of their booty. Henry led the procession, surrounded by flagbearers and heralds. In the rear at the very last the rows of prisoners walked with dragging footsteps and bowed heads, guarded by horsemen. Calais, long in the hands of the English, waited, arrayed in festive finery.

On All Saints Day King Henry entered the city. The noble captives were lodged in a castle close to the harbor. From the narrow grated window of his room, Charles saw, for the first time in his life, the sea, a turbulent grey-green and white stretch of water, a marbled wasteland. A fierce wind was blowing, foggy clouds floated swiftly through the colorless sky. In the harbor Henry’s ships lay at anchor, a forest of masts.

Now Jean de Nery prepared for his journey. At Charles’ request he was given some money and a horse by King Henry. Charles gave the young man a letter for Bonne and letters for his brother Philippe, for de Mornay, the Dauphin and Bernard d’Armagnac. When de Nery was on the point of departure, Charles took from his own finger a ring intended for his wife: a ring of gold and blue enamel, on which was engraved the words, Dieu le scet — God knows. His father and mother had both worn the ring; day and night it had reminded them of their grievances against Burgundy. Now for the first time the motto acquired another meaning for Charles. He no longer thought about Burgundy; he thought only of Bonne with all the desperate yearning of his twenty-odd years. Dieu le scet. God knows. God knows how much I love her. God knows what I suffer. Only God knows what will happen to me.

On the fifteenth of November, King Henry’s sailors hoisted the sails of the ships, which were heavily laden with soldiers, prisoners and booty. Even before they had left the harbor of Calais, an uncommonly strong wind sprang up. Suddenly storm clouds appeared in the northeast; the waves, crowned with foam, rose high. Despite the sailors’ warnings, Charles remained on deck. He saw the black-green water swell and fall, he heard the hissing of the spray as it swept past him, the wind whisding through the ropes. The coast of France sank away behind the horizon and with it, forever, Bonne and his youth.