“Don’t you know her?” Louis the Dauphin whispered in his ear. “Her name is Agnes, Agnes Sorel, my royal father’s mistress, and not only mistress but council and parlement as well. There goes the real ruler of France, Monseigneur; don’t forget it.”
Charles complies with the King’s wishes. He returns to Blois for a longer stay than he has yet enjoyed. Now for the first time he has the opportunity to choose his apartments and make them really comfortable. He selects a series of chambers in the west wing of the main building with a view of the river. There his many books are arranged in specially constructed cases; there is the large table at which he likes to sit reading or writing; there the curtained chair can be pushed near the hearthfire or one of the windows, as Monseigneur wishes.
From the city of Orléans come new tapestries depicting the course of the Loire from its source to the point near Saint-Nazaire where it plunges into the sea. So within his own walls Charles can follow the beloved river, past castles and cities, between sandbanks and rows of poplars, between hills or high mountains, between vineyards and broad plains. And when these images seem somewhat lifeless to him, he has only to ascend two steps to one of the window niches. At the foot of the precipice on which Blois stands, he sees the water sparkling, he sees the leaves of the poplar trees gleam alternately bright green and silver grey in the sunlight, he sees the windmills turning on the bridge, ships gliding over the waterway.
Also in the multitude which surrounds him, individuals begin to appear. He appoints officials and functionaries, sets their salaries, assigns them duties. Many of them are Burgundians and Picards who joined him when he left Burgundy’s court for Paris, but from day to day the number of servants who hail from Orléans and Blois increases. The Governor of the domain of Orléans is Messire Jean des Saveuses who succeeded the faithful, vigilant Pierre de Mornay; while Charles was a prisoner des Saveuses repeatedly crossed the Straits of Calais to deliver money to the banker Vittori. In return for these services Charles has heaped favors upon him. Des Saveuses is his right hand and his friend.
Then there are the court chamberlains, the gentlemen from Charles’ Audit Chamber who enter income and expenditures on the books, and the tax collectors, the almoner, the clerks, the priests, the choirboys, the chamberservants with their staffs of tailors, cobblers, and furriers, the librarian, the armorer, the draper, the bookbinder, the goldsmith, the kitchen chefs and wine stewards, the cooks and scullery lads, the table servants and cup bearers, the gardeners, the stablemaster and his men, the horsemen and squires, the pages, the musicians, jesters, mountebanks and, finally, the man who enjoys the boundless confidence of the Duke and his household — Jean Cailleau, the court physician.
The Duchess has her own retinue, with maids and pages, harpists and fools, tailors and chamberwomen.
Living in the castle of Blois is like living in a small city; all day the stairs, corridors and galleries between the adjacent buildings teem with busy people who do their more or less important work with good cheer. All of them are partial to the Duke, who behaves like a lenient father, with a good word, a friendly greeting, a small gift at the proper time for everyone. He knows the names of all the children who play in the square and the inner court; he is always up to date on baptism and wedding celebrations, of those matters which bring sorrow and happiness into everyone’s life. When anyone is sick he comes to see him; he sends Messire Cailleau with medicines and salves; he gives money so that necessities can be taken care of.
In his books and trifling occupations, in his interest in the people around him, Charles finds the diversion which he needs. In Blois, that hive of diligent bees, he forgets his worries, his bad luck. His brief political activity has left a bitter aftertaste, a feeling of disappointment, of failure, of futile effort. He has told Burgundy in careful phrases that he wishes to abstain from further participation in the assemblies of the princes; however he is always ready to ask the King to grant an audience to Burgundy or any of the lords who should eventually wish to speak personally with the monarch.
At the same time he makes it clear that he will always be an advocate of peace with England, and that he will take advantage of any opportunity to work toward that end. He writes in this spirit, too, to the Earl of Suffolk, who belongs to the English peace party. But when will the long-awaited opportunity arise? When will the King find the auspicious moment to put forward proposals, when will the war party in England come to its senses? Thinking about his brother of Angoulême, Charles is filled by despondency bordering on despair. How much longer now?
But there is more. Charles is worried about his son-in-law Alençon, of whom it is said that he is ready to serve anyone who will provide him with money for gambling and debauchery. He is considered to be a drunkard and a rake, untrustworthy and dishonorable. It is whispered that he has already, in exchange for money and favors, bartered away into English hands a series of forts in Normandy and Brittany. Again and again Charles attempts to approach his son-in-law through letters and messages, to tempt him to visit Blois. Charles would like to break the alliance, but he is held back by the thought of his grandchildren. He must now seriously entertain the possibility that his daughter’s children may be his only heirs. The chance to have his own offspring seems dead; Marie, Duchess of Orléans, has a weak constitution; she has already been ill many times since her arrival in Blois.
In a confidential discussion, the physician Cailleau, shaking his head, has informed Charles of his conclusions: Madame is as fragile as glass: she is moreover anemic and suffers attacks of vague melancholy and listlessness.
The young ladies could tell him something about it: for days on end the Duchess stays in bed, weeping continually and refusing all food; then suddenly she wishes to bedeck herself as though for a fete. She orders her horse saddled or her boat prepared. Despite the admonitions and pleas of those concerned for her welfare, she goes out, in rain or sunshine. She laughs incessantly, appears untiring, gallops her horse through the meadows or stays all day on the water. She is as unpredictable as the weather in March; but her constitution suffers from this waywardness.
Charles nods and sighs, but does not reply. He knows that Cailleau, his old friend, is as aware of the source of Marie’s moods as he is. He remembers Isabelle’s tears, her fits of convulsive laughter; he had been too young then to be a good husband and now he feels he is too old to please his wife. He is well-disposed toward Marie; in his eyes she is a child with little in her head except concern for clothes, jewels, pleasure trips and similar things; she has birds and dogs, fools and musicians in abundance, a good horse and a whole retinue of young people around her. For his part, she may amuse herself to her heart’s content; what could she want with the company of a man whose years of worry and affliction have lasted longer than her life? He doesn’t want to trouble her; what would be the point? He is courteous and friendly to her and does his best to fulfil her wishes, but no one could expect him to behave like an ardent youth when he is one no longer. Never is it brought home to him more clearly how sluggish, fat and unattractive he is than when he walks beside Marie at receptions or on the way to church — a rather stout, grey-haired man trudging wearily beside a slim young woman who is taller than he.