Charles kept his promise; he did what he could. Instead of returning to Blois, he travelled with a retinue of trusted friends to see anyone who might be able to give some help in this affair. Although the roads in northern and central France were barely passable because of rain and snow, Charles crossed the country without allowing himself any rest. While he visited his friends and kinsmen and applied for help to the King and Burgundy, his secretary Antonio wrote letter after letter to his fellow countrymen in Asti, urging them in the name of his lord to be patient and have courage. Charles’ efforts were futile: Burgundy made promises but did not keep them, and the King, wholly absorbed by a fresh dispute with the Dauphin, had no interest or inclination to attend to his cousin’s problems. When, after a final interview with the King, Charles returned to his temporary quarters in the city of Tours, he had an attack of dizziness. Cailleau, who was nearby as usual, considered that he had the right this time to be seriously annoyed; Monseigneur made too many demands upon himself and refused to heed the warnings of his physicians. Nature was not to be trifled with; Monseigneur would now learn this for himself.
Charles, lying in bed with his left hand on his painful, irregularly beating heart, agreed silently with everything his physician said. He did not protest when Cailleau gave instructions to prepare for a return journey which would be covered in small stages. So Charles finally made his entry into Blois, to remain there at least for the time being. He who had ridden forth at the head of an army had to be brought back home in a litter, an object of curiosity and pity to the people along the road.
For the secretary Antonio, surnamed Astesano, the years of service to the Duke of Orléans slip by with the careless lightning-speed of the leaping, singing waters which flow through the city of Blois. Antonio is almost as fond of Blois as he is of his native city in the Italian Alps; in one respect, he thinks, Blois wins the laureclass="underline" in the little old houses in its narrow streets dwell more beautiful maidens than the easily inflammable clerk has seen anywhere else. The longer he lives there, the more impressive the castle seems to him; he cannot praise the broad shining Loire enough, and not only to please his lord, who can sit hour after hour lost in thought, gazing at that silver-blue or green-black shining water which hurries, hurries to the sea.
As far as life in Blois goes, Antonio is of the opinion that he could not have been able to strike it luckier. In Blois the atmosphere is one of a perpetual holiday. People are lighthearted, always ready to laugh and joke and (a fortunate discovery for one who, like Antonio Astesano, wishes to gather literary laurels!) everyone is interested in poetry. More wonderful still, everyone writes poetry, although often with the aid of a rhyming dictionary. For poetry contests are the order of the day in the castle of Blois; they are, it is said with amusement, the Duke’s only weakness. Nothing pleases him more than to gather guests, officials and servants around him after the evening meal when work is done, and propose a theme to them which they must then work into the form of a ballad or a rondel. After that, silence prevails for hours: there are knit brows everywhere, lips moving without sound, eyes staring vacantly into space.
When at last wine and refreshments are brought in, the competition begins: those who have successfully composed a verse step before the Duke and the judges — who change every week — and recite their work loudly. The Duke is all ears, he sits at ease on his bench, his black mantle thrown comfortably around him, tapping his forefinger softly against his lips, or toying with his spectacles. Beneath his snow-white hair, his dark eyes seem exceptionally large and lively in his faded, wrinkled face as he glances from one to the other. They look, to everyone who sees him thus, like the eyes of a young man.
Usually these poetry contests in Blois are extremely informaclass="underline" the physician competes with the chancellor, the chief auditor with a chamberlain; the Duchess rhymes hard against a page or clerk, and the Duke has more than once extended the laurel wreath to his valet or to the chaplain of the castle chapel. But occasionally the great hall becomes more solemn, when Monseigneur receives high-born guests, or when a famous scholar or poet visits Blois; then the decorations and the preparation of refreshments receive more than ordinary care. Life in Blois is frugal, although the costs of maintenance are not insignificant, but when guests arrive no effort is spared. The finest fish, the best fruit, the noblest wine are brought and passed around and the Duchess orders her few really valuable pieces of tableware to be polished and displayed on the sideboards.
Antonio is enthralled by what the professional poets come up with; they are obliged by their calling to contrive ingenious rhymes, to employ exceptionally beautiful images, to sustain symbolism in the most precise way once they have chosen it. But all may be said to have acquitted themselves worthily of their tasks, to compose with almost offhand ease verse which is at the same time significant, clever and melodious, or so it seems at any rate to the listener who is nearly blinded by such a dazzling display of ballads, virelays, songs and rondelets. But the Duke has a sharp ear, a keen eye; he can instantly detect a false note, a bit of tinsel. If he nods his head thoughtfully, the poet can sit down satisfied. But when he allows a versemaker to come into his study and pushes a certain book with loosely folded pages toward him, requesting that he inscribe his ballad or song therein, then the poet may be certain that he has won the greatest praise Monseigneur can bestow — a place in the Thought Book. Many have seen it in Monseigneur’s hands or on his writing table, but only a very few have had the privilege of reading it.
Monseigneur’s verses are heard only when he takes his turn during a poetry competition; gazing pensively at a point on the wall or outside the window, he recites, in a soft monotone, what he has just composed. When he finishes, he comes to himself; he smiles rather self-consciously and gives a friendly wave to the next speaker.
Antonio Astesano has begun to write a great chronicle, in which he will record the history of the House of Orléans and demonstrate from documents on hand the legality of the Duke’s claims to Asti and Milan. Monseigneur is interested in his work and has furnished him with much material. But as he writes, Antonio is troubled by feelings of sorrow. He will have to conclude the chronicle with the life of the Duke himself, for the House has no heirs. No son of Orléans will ever turn the leaves of Antonio’s book; it will be no invaluable guide, but only a survey of forgotten things. Antonio is fully conscious that the prospect fills the Duke too with regret and bitterness; from the way in which, in the court or outside on the road, Monseigneur greets the numerous children who have been named for him — whom, at their parents’ requests, he has presented for baptism — it seems obvious enough that he, more than any man, would have rejoiced in the possession of a family of his own.
Insofar as the Duchess is concerned, she behaves with more restraint toward the children who continually cross her path, but the impressionable Antonio finds her coldness more disturbing than Monseigneur’s somewhat melancholy openness and good nature. The Duchess of Orléans has become, over the course of ten years, a pale, taciturn woman who — and this is noteworthy — takes great pains to support her husband in the management of the household at Blois, in the entertainment of guests and in the practice of good works. Madame still likes to hunt, preferably with falcons, but the time of boating on the river, of ecstatic horseback rides or round dances in the meadow, is over for good.