“How is my wife?” he asked, forcing himself to speak without emotion.
“Monseigneur,” replied Cailleau with a searching look at Charles, “Monseigneur, my findings are these: Madame your wife is in blessed circumstances. Within half a year if God wills it she will be confined.”
Charles sank into a chair and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was too surprised to speak. When he became aware that Cailleau was still watching him with grave solicitude, as though he doubted the good reception of his news, he began to laugh loudly, almost boyishly.
“By God, Cailleau, I have never received more joyful news in my entire life!”
Later he stayed for a considerable time in the gallery on the southwestern side of Blois, looking out over the land bathed in clear spring sunshine. The poplars along the river wore light green foliage; the hills were covered with young vines. The world seemed as wholly new and fresh as on the first day after creation.
Charles thought that he had never seen anything lovelier than his little daughter Marie. He had to laugh condescendingly when he heard people insist that all babies were terrifyingly ugly. He sat for hours lost in contemplation beside the cradle of the sleeping child. If he was not near her, he was thinking about her: did she have everything she needed, was she being looked after as carefully as possible? He competed with Marie in expressing his affection for the little girl. How profoundly interesting everything was which concerned her, in comparison with the things which caused turmoil in the world. The breaking through of a little tooth, the first step, the first word, provided Charles the opportunity to make his child the center of domestic festivities, to distribute souvenirs in her name. When the child appeared in her nurse’s arms for the first time in the courtyard at Blois, Charles had three golden écus divided among the stableboys and kitchen servants who had not seen Marie d’Orléans before, with the request that they drink to her health.
In the summer, Dunois appeared in Blois with a great following. The brothers had not seen each other for a long time; Charles never left Blois and Dunois had had his hands full, year in and year out, leading the King’s armies in Normandy and Brittany. That the English were defeated, time after time, that they had gradually been compelled to yield up all their conquests again, was thanks above all to Dunois’ strong and skillful actions. The King, who had blind faith in him, showered him with favors: titles, gifts of land and sums of money. He had Dunois’ birth declared legitimate, granted him and his descendants the right to bear the names of Orléans and Valois, and removed the bar sinister from his escutcheon. Dunois, who had meanwhile married, had accepted that prerogative for his children; he himself continued to cling firmly under all circumstances to the name which his father had given him and, as before, he signed all letters and documents with the words which he had heard added to that name since his youth: Bastard of Orléans.
Charles greeted his half-brother joyfully. Dunois had hardly changed over the course of nearly ten years; there were no wrinkles yet in his weatherbeaten, sunburnt face; no grey in his sandy hair; his green eyes were still as bright as they had been in his childhood. He was dressed in leather and mail; his escort was strongly armed. When Charles jokingly asked about the reason for this martial parade, Dunois frowned and said seriously, “I am travelling through, brother. I have just conveyed a prisoner from Paris to the King’s residence, Nonette in Bourbon. I have to speak to you about it.”
The news which Dunois gave him alarmed Charles, but did not surprise him. It concerned his son-in-law Alençon, whose behavior Charles had observed for so long with suspicion and anxiety.
The King, worn out by defeats and disappointments, had lapsed anew into seclusion, timidity and doubt, and had ordered the ecclesiastic authorities and the Parlement to initiate an inquiry in Rouen and Paris into the manner in which the late Jeanne, Maid of Orléans, had been condemned and executed. In the silence of his apartments the King, afflicted with illness and worry, was prey to morbid fears: he remembered that Agnes Sorel had once reproached him for his indifference to the fate of the Maid whom, in a sense, he had to thank for his crown. At that time he had brusquely rejected her advice that Jeanne’s good name should be restored. But now he felt that his omission was wrong, that it was a sin which weighed heavily upon his conscience. He dared not die before he had discharged his obligation.
Among the many who came to Paris as witnesses in this matter was Alençon, who had spoken repeatedly with Jeanne. While he was making his statement, pleased at the opportunity to place the King’s actions in an unfavorable light, certain letters were discovered on an English spy in Brittany. In these letters which had been written and signed by Alençon, the Duke expressed his desire to conclude an alliance with Henry VI, put himself and the inhabitants of his domain in the service of England, and supplied the names of coastal towns where an invading army could land.
The King did not hesitate; he immediately sent Dunois to Paris to take Alençon prisoner on a charge of high treason. In the castle of Nonette, Alençon confessed his guilt; he had acted, he said, because he felt he had been neglected and given short shrift by the King.
Charles listened in silence. He could not get over this news: the disgrace of Alençon, whose children were Charles’ grandchildren, cast a slur on the honor of Orléans.
“This will end nastily for Alençon,” Dunois remarked gruffly; he had distrusted Charles’ son-in-law practically from the beginning. “It is pretty certain that all his possessions will be declared forfeit and the domain will revert again to the Crown. But I would be surprised if he got off with his life; the King seems firmly resolved to condemn Alençon to the scaffold.”
“Will there be no trial?” Charles asked slowly.
Dunois nodded. “That is why I am here, brother. The trial begins in Vendome on the fifteenth of December. The King summons you there to give your opinion of this business. Do not refuse,” he added hastily, when he saw Charles make a movement of protest. “Our friends of Brittany and Burgundy have defaulted and it goes without saying that we will not see the Dauphin. If you are interested in salvaging whatever can be saved for your grandchildren, you must seize this chance to act as spokesman.”
Charles went on sitting for a few minutes, his head turned away. “It goes against my grain to become involved once again in a questionable matter,” he said at last. “Surely you realize that in order to accomplish anything, I shall have to plead extenuating circumstances for Alençon. But still, you are right. I shall prepare myself for the hearing.”
The trial was held in the great hall of the castle of Vendome. Stands hung with tapestries stood opposite and on both sides of the royal throne; on these platforms sat the great lords of the Kingdom, four rows deep: first, the vassals of the Crown and the princes of the Church; then the representatives of the nobility and the clergy, and finally those who would speak for the burghers. Armed sentries guarded the approaches to the stands and the open spaces between them. A great crowd of spectators filled the hall, overflowing outside onto the steps and into the corridors. At the King’s right hand sat his youngest son and his blood relative, Charles d’Orléans.