They saw each other continually because they were both part of a group who attended upon Margaret of Scotland, the young wife of the Dauphin. Around the crown princess, vivacious, restless and capricious, the celebrations never stopped; there were so many hunting parties, banquets, dances, strolls in the meadows, poetry contests and games of skill that Charles scarcely saw his wife. He was wholeheartedly delighted that she was enjoying herself in this carefree way, but not many days went by before he realized that it was not only the diversions and the sunny open air that brought the flush to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. Preparations for the tournament were in full swing: an arena had been laid out, a stand built for the spectators and the masters of ceremony had their hands full determining the order of the single combats and mock battles. Charles’ attention was drawn to de Lalaing, who was expected to be the victor.
Charles saw that the young man was skilled at sport and play; he was strong and handsome and knew how to comport himself with courtesy. It was also apparent that he was fairly taken with himself and was interested only in arms and competitions. He reminded Charles of a young cock strutting proudly and pugnaciously around a strange barnyard. The desire to joke about him faded, however, when Charles noticed Marie among the women who were taking pains to induce de Lalaing to wear their colors or their veils and ornaments as good luck charms during the tournaments. Soon it was no secret that two young noblewomen of the court, Madame d’Orléans and King René’s daughter-in-law, were openly bestowing marks of favor on de Lalaing; he was at the side of one or the other at table, at dances, out riding and at the hunt.
Displeased, Charles followed the merry group with his eyes when they were all together in the banquet hall or the gardens. But he did not consider that this was the proper time to point out to Marie the folly of her behavior. Besides, he did not want to make himself ridiculous; there were already enough people who hesitated to congratulate him on the possession of so young a wife.
The day of the great tournament approached; expectations in Châlons rose even higher when it was announced that the King intended to take part in the tourney.
By chance Charles witnessed an encounter between his wife and Jacques de Lalaing that increased his worry and uneasiness. A beautiful house in the city of Châlons had been put at the disposal of the ducal couple; the members of their retinue were housed there too. Usually Charles returned late in the evening with his cortege; Marie not infrequently arrived from the castle after him. On the eve of the tournament the Duchess and her retinue had halted before the gate while Charles, attended only by a page, had just entered the obscurity of the arched doorway. Servants had dashed out holding aloft torches; by this light Charles saw his wife dismount, assisted by de Lalaing, who had accompanied her. Marie did not release the young man’s hand.
“Jacques, dear friend,” she said in a tone which Charles had never heard her use before, “when I was a child I saw you with my brothers. I have known you for so long that I believe I am not making an illegal request if I ask you to wear my colors in the tournament.”
De Lalaing looked at her, smiling. “Madame, he who cares with all his heart for the brothers must also serve the sister.”
“Jacques, you’ve been so busy the last few days preparing for the tournament that we’ve seen each other only to say goodbye in the evenings.”
“Better late than never, Madame,” de Lalaing replied in a subdued voice while he stepped back bowing. Marie’s women had also dismounted and now approached to lead the Duchess into the house. Marie was visibly disappointed and uncertain; she seemed to be torn for a moment by an inner conflict. Finally she drew a ring from her finger and thrust it toward de Lalaing with a brusque, almost desperate gesture that brooked no refusal. Without waiting for a response she dashed through the arched doorway, brushing past Charles who had withdrawn into the shadows. She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she did not see him.
Stands had been set up around the arena and hung with banners and tapestries; since Charles was condemned to spend the greater part of the following day there, he had ample opportunity to observe from close by that Marie was scarcely able to control herself. She showed no interest in the opening skirmishes between knights on foot in heavy armor. But her listlessness vanished when de Lalaing rode into the arena on a charger hung with gold and silver decorations. Charles saw that many eyes were fixed upon her; but his annoyance changed to pity when he became aware of the cause of her confusion.
On his helmet and his arm de Lalaing wore not only Marie’s colors, but also those of the Duchess of Calabria, King René’s daughter-in-law; he had taken care to protect himself from suspicion with a prudence that Charles found less than commendable. For both women the only recourse was to treat the affair as a joke. Madame de Calabria laughed and applauded in apparent unconcern, but Marie d’Orléans sat pale and motionless beside her husband behind the railing hung with tapestries, and did not speak a word. Charles, who was afraid that she was going to burst into tears, took her hand and pressed it hard. She gave him a terrified look, but took the hint to heart.
The next day when Charles returned from the solemn church service which marked the closing of the tournament, the King’s heralds came to inform him that Jean d’Angoulême was expected to arrive in Châlons toward evening. Charles spent the succeeding hours in mounting restlessness; the meeting with his brother signified for him not only the fulfillment of a long-cherished wish, but also the end of all his political and diplomatic worries.
He was now fifty years old; his physical stamina, never put to the test during his years of captivity, was obviously not equal to a life of travel, often under difficult circumstances. He tired easily; dizzy spells and a pain near his heart dictated a quiet life. Besides, his eyesight was not good; he had already had a half-dozen pairs of spectacles made with succeedingly stronger lenses and he had a recurring fear that his eyes might fail him when he had most need of them. He wanted to go back to Blois, to spend a few quiet years on the banks of that sparkling river, at long last to fill his days with thoughts and occupations that were not vain or fleeting. Looking back on his life, he could find only a haphazard tangled cocoon of deeds and thoughts of which, after all, nothing remained except torn webs like those which hang in the hedges after an autumnal evening shower. He was sometimes troubled by the fear that when his time came, he would leave this life dissatisfied, embittered, disappointed, believing that he had missed every opportunity to gain peace of mind and real happiness.
Jean d’Angoulême arrived at the castle before the evening meal. Charles was in the King’s retinue; pale and upset, he looked on as his brother was led into the hall. He scarcely recognized the man who approached, bowing and paying his respects. An ample robe of state hung in loose folds around his thin body; he was somewhat stoop-shouldered and coughed from time to time. He had a large head, a lined, wrinkled face and mournful dark brown eyes. His hand, which he raised when the King greeted him, was so thin that the knuckles protruded. He spoke formally to the King in a soft, toneless voice, but his eyes were seeking Charles’. When at last the brothers embraced, they were overcome by bitterness rather than joy. Silently, each put his arm about the other’s shoulders; each ran his eyes sadly over the face of the other.