Life in Blois flowed on from day to day in peace and benevolence. Charles read or wrote in the quiet library, sought and found fulfilment in his wife’s company — they spoke together about things which interested them or sat side by side in companionable silence, she crocheting with gold thread, he with a book which actually he scarcely read — and diverted himself with his little daughter in the nursery, in the courtyard or the flower garden outside the walls. Little Marie was the apple of his eye; she was nearly three years old, swift of foot and swifter still of comprehension. He could not get enough of her small, clear voice, her dignified little lady manners. He gave her little psalm-books illuminated with miniatures, small paternosters decorated with red and gold beads, a little purse with tiny gold pieces to wear on her girdle.
When he and his wife left Blois to visit neighboring towns and castles, they took their child with them; Mademoiselle’s flushed little face glowed like a rose against the black garments of the older couple. She was allowed to witness the solemn ceremonies in Orléans when, at the King’s command, the Maid’s honor was restored; the people of the region along the Loire, who had never ceased to love Jeanne and to honor her memory, moved in procession with burning candles, green branches and colorful banners to the bridge over which she had ridden in triumph into Orléans thirty years before.
Some time later a feast was given by the city in honor of little Marie d’Orléans: from her father’s arms she watched the people dancing in the open air, and wine and spiced cake being set out for everyone on long tables in the market square. The Duke ordered the release of all prisoners from the city’s dungeons. Among the pale people wrapped in filthy rags, shouting with excitement as they shoved their way out through the prison gates, was François Villon, who had been imprisoned some years before for a misdemeanor. With his usual directness he went immediately to pay his respects to Charles, who with a nod and an ironic smile pressed his hand and invited him to join the celebrations. Villon’s sharp eyes saw at once where the Duke’s affection and interest lay: in order to ensure continued favor for himself, Villon composed a song praising little Marie for her dignified, regal demeanor and comparing the three-year-old to the wise Cassandra, the beautiful Echo, the chaste Lucretia, the noble Dido. Charles was seized by a fit of laughter at this, but he was touched nonetheless, and gave Villon a generous reward and the privilege of coming and going as he pleased in the ducal residence.
About the middle of July in the year 1461 couriers brought to Blois the news that the King was dead. He had spent the last years of his life in the secluded castle of Mehun-sur-Yevre, hidden away in its neglected rooms, suspicious and fearful of everyone who approached him. Finally, afraid that he was about to be poisoned, he refused to take food. He died of starvation and exhaustion.
Since the Dauphin had not yet returned from Flanders, the task of directing funeral arrangements fell to Charles. He traveled with a large retinue to Mehun to carry out this obligation. The King’s body was placed upon a bier, conveyed to Paris with appropriate pomp, and there, after the mass for the dead, buried in the abbey of Saint-Denis.
On the thirty-first of August the new King, Louis, by the Grace of God the eleventh of that name, rode into Paris accompanied by Burgundy, his son and the Duke of Cleves. Charles was not part of the glittering procession which followed the King through the city: he wished to make known by his absence that he no longer wanted a place in court, that he desired to withdraw from public life. From a window of his Hotel des Tournelles he looked down upon the endless file of richly attired lords and their followers. He saw familiar faces: Dunois, Angouléme, Bourbon, Etampes and many others; under a canopy rode King Louis wearing white garments, but with a strange little black bonnet on his head, as though he wanted to mock the coronation ceremony. His face was as pointed, his eyes as malicious, as ever. He looked about sharply at the people along the way who were cheering him half-heartedly.
Charles saw Burgundy riding behind the King in a mantle sparkling with jewels; he bore himself as though it were he who was being led to his coronation. Charles watched him attentively; he asked himself if the whispers he had heard were true: that Louis, now that he had become King, did not appear prepared to grant to his protector Burgundy the place of honor on the Council and in the government which the latter had expected. It seemed that a violent disagreement had arisen between Louis and Burgundy’s son Charolais. Moreover, the new King of France had declared curtly that he frankly found it excessive that Burgundy should escort him to Paris with a veritable army of courtiers and armed men; surely the King of France could count on a good reception without that.
Charles considered himself fortunate that he could now bid farewell to court life; he had no obligation whatever to King Louis, who most probably would have no further need of him. He was, thank God, too old for politics and diplomacy. With philosophical submission he allowed the stream of festivities and ceremonies to pass over him. While others danced and drank and did themselves only too well at the beautifully-decorated buffets heaped with fabulously costly food, Charles sat in a quiet corner, listening to the music. He remained in Paris chiefly to give Marie the opportunity to take part in the courtly amusements. She had, he thought, lived so long in seclusion; she deserved to go dancing adorned like a princess. But after a few weeks Marie announced that she had had enough of all these tournaments, pageants and banquets; she wanted to go home to her child.
Charles’ thoughts too were incessantly with his small daughter, the more so since the King had let it be known in a manner which brooked no contradiction, that it was his intention to request the hand of Mademoiselle d’Orléans for his younger brother. Charles understood all too well where this must lead: if the King had made up his mind, Orléans would fall under his control once again.
In the spring Charles and his wife reached Blois, where they were overjoyed to find everyone well and everything in good condition. A few days after their return Marie, smiling, approached her husband who was standing in the library looking at a new manuscript.
“What is it, ma mie?” Charles asked absently; he did not look up from the richly illustrated page.
“Monseigneur,” said Cailleau, carefully straightening the sleeves of his robe, which he had pushed up above his elbow. “Monseigneur, do you recall that we once — ten, twelve years ago — made a wager?”
Charles and the physician stood in one of the anterooms to Marie’s bedchamber. Charles had announced that he would wait there while his wife was in labor. From time to time Cailleau came to tell him how the labor was going; there was, he repeated emphatically time and again, no reason at all for alarm.
“Wager?” Charles, who was constantly straining to catch sounds from the closed lying-in room — was it really going well with Marie? — could remember nothing about it. Cailleau kept his head bowed low while he fastened the laces of his sleeves.
“Yes indeed, Monseigneur. When I once told you that you could still have an heir, you wagered five hundred livres that that would never happen. My lord,” he looked up, no longer able to suppress his delight, “my lord, I cannot tell you how pleased and thankful I am to be able to come now and tell you that you have lost your wager. Your wife has just given birth to a son.”
The church bells pealed in Blois, Beaugency and Orléans, in all the cities and villages along the Loire. Flags and banners fluttered blue and gold against the summer sky, heralds traveled everywhere across the land to proclaim to the sound of clarions what the people along the roads already knew: that in the castle of Blois a son, an heir, had been born to Orléans. Those who visited Blois in those days saw that Monseigneur behaved as though he were rejuvenated; he still did not know how to express his delight. He distributed rich presents to everyone who came to congratulate him and entreated each one to pray for the child’s well-being; he considered the birth of his son to be a miracle. While the bells of the district rang out, the infant was rocked to sleep to the tune of an old nursery rhyme — just as Charles himself had once been rocked: