Charles had ceased to be engrossed in the results of the struggle, in the shifting fortunes of war; he turned a deaf ear when his courtiers discussed the tidings which messengers continued to bring to Blois. Yes, he did know something — he knew from his noble guests that de Brezé and Coeur had fallen in turn into disfavor and had been repudiated; that Agnes Sorel had died a terrible death; he knew that the people of Gascony, encouraged by the English, had risen in rebellion just when the King seemed to be shattered by grief and reverses. He knew that the Dauphin, after a fierce quarrel with his father which had lasted for many years, had been banished from court for life; he knew too that Burgundy, plagued by illness, was barely able to remain master in his own domains. The greatest cities of Flanders and Hainault, embittered by the way in which the Duke attempted to impose his authority, made known their opposition sometimes passively, often by force of arms.
All this Charles knew well. But it did not affect him.
He felt himself comfortably hidden, securely stowed away in the silence of Nonchaloir. The only disturbance he had to endure was the restlessness which poetic inspiration brought with it. All the conditions seemed fulfilled for a carefree, peaceful life. That in spite of all this he was not really happy astonished Charles anew each day.
A rustling noise at the door startled him; he raised himself, not without difficulty, and bent sideways so that he could look over the back of his chair. Marie had entered; carefully she pushed aside the tapestry which hung before the door and then moved it back again. She sat down opposite him on the footstool on which his aching leg had been propped.
“I hear you have cancelled today’s contest, Monseigneur,” she said softly. She always addressed Charles with formality. “Am I to blame?”
“It seemed to me that the subjects had aroused your displeasure,” replied Charles. “It would make no sense to compete with one another in poetry when not everyone is in a contented and happy frame of mind. You know that I put a good relationship among my household above everything.”
Marie nodded calmly, but her eyes did not lose their expression of mournful resignation. “I find both themes completely attractive. I considered earnestly the question of why you chose precisely these subjects which, each in different words, express the same feeling of helplessness, discontent. I thought that you were contented, Monseigneur.”
“It is a question whether one ever finds the peace which gratifies the spirit.” Charles removed his spectacles and, for a moment, pressed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand against his eyes.
“We can seek our consolation in God,” Marie said quietly.
“Do you do that, ma mie?”
“I did not know that you were troubled, Monseigneur. I did not know that no fountain exists which can quench your thirst.”
Charles raised his head and looked at his wife with surprise. He had never heard her speak that way before; it seemed to him that she was expressing what he had so often thought in secret bitterness. He leaned forward and took Marie’s hand.
“I know a cool deep well which is pure and translucent and reflects God’s blue heaven. If that clear water cannot slake my thirst, ma mie, it is because no cure exists for the drought which scorches me internally. And if in the forest of long awaiting I do not find the path which at long last opens onto a broad vista, then it is perhaps because I must go on wandering.”
“I want nothing more than to share your thirst and to accompany you on your wanderings,” said Marie, with downcast eyes. “It took me a long time to understand that this is a great privilege. But when I was ready to join you in that forest of which you had once spoken to me, I could not find you any more. Often it seemed to me that you had consciously fled from me, that you preferred loneliness to my company. And I thought that this was so because you had found in solitude what you had always sought: the spring which can slake your thirst, the path which leads out into the open fields. Because I did not wish to disturb your peace, I remained behind you, there where I would not trouble you.
“But I know now that you are not happy, Monseigneur, and I know also why. Forgive me for saying this to you, but whoever is self-centered and accepts love without giving it, feels depressed by day and lies awake at night, tormented by bitter thoughts. You are benevolent and friendly to everyone, but that is not praiseworthy because it costs you no effort. You do not really love the world or people, Monseigneur. You meditate only on yourself and live hidden in your own thoughts. And whoever beats at your door to gain entrance to your heart is not admitted. Forgive me, but it’s the truth.”
For a long time Charles sat in silence, with bowed head. Marie did not move. The light of the setting sun glowed on the walls of the library; in the crimson blaze even the images on the tapestries seemed to fade. A glass standing on the table sparkled with a ruby tint as though it contained the burning drink of the legends: those who moistened their lips with it forgot the world and were dazzled; they remained enchanted by love to the end of their days. But the sun sank below the rim of the window frame, the red light streamed back from the walls, the magical goblet became once more only a tumbler with dregs of wine at the bottom. Charles brought his wife’s cool hand to his forehead and sighed.
“Forgive me, ma mie,” he whispered. “Forgive me for having done you so great a wrong.”
The members of the household who, after the card game, still sat chatting in the twilit hall, rose hastily from their seats when Monseigneur and his wife appeared walking hand in hand from the antechamber which bordered the library. But the ducal couple did not respond to their greetings; affectionately close to each other, they went by, walking slowly and silently. For a considerable time after they had passed through the vaulted door, the sound of Monseigneur’s thoughtful footsteps could be heard on the stairs, along with the soft rustle of Madame’s train.
On a certain day in the early spring of 1457, Jean Cailleau, Charles’ physician and trusted friend, came to his master with a fairly solemn face. Cailleau had not lived at Blois for the last few years; he had become canon of Saint-Martin’s abbey at Tours. If, however, he were needed at the castle, he came immediately as of old to let blood and make up medicines.
Around Easter the Duchess had begun to complain of feeling ill. Charles sent a courier to Tours to fetch Cailleau who set out at once to make the journey, partly by ship, partly by mule. He arrived at Blois much sooner than expected, in his dusty travelling cloak and with his heavy flat case filled with instruments and herbs. While he was with the Duchess, Charles waited anxiously and uneasily in the library. He had known for a long time that Marie did not have a strong constitution, but since the couple had become so loving and intimate, the idea of ever having to do without her seemed intolerable to him.
They had passed an autumn and winter in tender affection; daily they recovered what they had allowed to slip away from them during the sixteen long, empty years of marriage. With steadily increasing gratitude and astonishment, Charles had realized that his wife knew how to give him true friendship and deep understanding. In all the solitary hours she had passed over books and her embroidery frame she had been molding her mind and spirit to suit his needs. He perceived — a bewildering experience for a sixty-year-old man — that he was able to make her really happy. Marie loved him despite the fact that he was old and stout. This late bliss did not resemble in any way the radiant joy, the intoxication of youthful passion which he had known with Bonne. But how comforting, how safe, how peaceful it was to be together with such a gentle, understanding woman as Marie. Her illness alarmed Charles exceedingly; when he saw Cailleau’s serious, calm face he could barely suppress his anxiety.