He attended the protest meetings convened by Brittany; that Burgundy’s envoys appeared there at every turn did not please Charles. Their complaints and accusations far exceeded all the others in intensity: the King had occupied the cities along the Somme and, through men whom he had met in Flanders years ago, maintained relations with the rebellious commercial cities. Finally, the participants in the meetings decided to unite openly in a coalition “for the interests of the common welfare.” They would gather together to show that the King’s behavior was damaging to the landed interests and the honor of the Kingdom. But before they could proceed, the King summoned them — in a document which demonstrated how well-informed he was — to a meeting in Tours. The vassals of the Crown set out in a less than hopeful mood; they knew they could expect nothing good from a man who, for political reasons, had feigned friendship and familiarity with them for twenty years.
Charles came to Tours accompanied by Dunois; he was present at conferences presided over by the King himself. Coldly and sharply Louis put his case to them once more, arguing that the measures he had taken were necessary because of the confusion into which affairs of state had fallen during the last years of his father’s reign. In connection with the princes’ demands, he made a long speech full of generalities about obligations, about obedience and loyalty. Finally he said, looking at the rows of faces with a somewhat sour smile, that he would be sorry if the maintenance of his authority forced him to victimize anybody.
The lords heard these words in silence. They recognized his iron will and his implacable antipathy. They had no doubt that the sole purpose of this meeting was to impress upon them anew, before they pursued their reckless path, the threat of the King’s power. However, they remained resolute. Brittany, Bourbon, Anjou and, especially, Burgundy wanted nothing more than to take up arms openly against the man who had forthrighdy said that he intended once and for all to crush the political power of the nobility.
Charles d’Orléans sat huddled in his fur-lined mantle — these December days were bitter cold — among the peers of France. He felt extremely tired, and shivered now and then as though with fever. Cailleau had advised in the strongest terms against this journey to Tours; in such damp raw weather Monseigneur was usually half-crippled with gout. Moreover, his heart had been troubling him again for some time. But Charles refused to consider staying at home; he did not want to give the impression that he would shirk his obligations to his kinsmen and allies out of fear of the King.
In the meeting hall in Tours, he regretted his obstinacy; his heart throbbed so irregularly that he could scarcely breathe; his feet were ice cold; it cost him a great effort to sit upright and pay attention to the words of the speakers. Once he nearly dozed off; Dunois nudged him gently. He came to himself in time to hear the King express his lack of confidence in the good faith of François of Brittany who was on such a friendly footing with the envoys of England and Burgundy. Charles’ still-young nephew pressed his lips together in rage, but made no attempt to refute these accusations. When the meeting ended, he withdrew without saying a word. Charles, knowing that his sister’s son was deeply wounded, determined to see the King and attempt to cleanse his name of all suspicion. It was of great importance to Charles to bind the young man to him: Franc
is of Brittany could be a valuable friend for his son in the future. The King granted Charles a private audience.
When Charles was announced, a few gentlemen were just leaving the King’s apartments; to his deep amazement, Charles saw that one of them was Dammartin, who had been a trusted advisor of Charles VII.
“That surprises you, worthy uncle?” asked the King suddenly. He stood, Charles noticed, leaning his arms on the high back of a chair. “Go sit down — you look as though your legs will barely hold you. Great old age may be worthy of respect but its attendant symptoms are troublesome: tottery legs, trembling fingers, loss of hair and teeth — isn’t that right, uncle?”
Charles sat down, startled by these caustic, derisive words. Passion and pride stirred equally within him, but he controlled himself; for the sake of his son’s security he could afford to put up with a little abuse. “I remembered that Dammartin once aroused your boundless displeasure, Sire, because he served your father so faithfully,” he said calmly.
The King began to laugh softly; he rested his chin on his fists. His body remained invisible behind the chair. That moving head, with its black eyes gleaming with malice and contempt, made a grotesque, almost terrifying impression. “Dammartin is one of those men who always remains loyal to the king — whoever the king might be — the born devoted servant — a possession not to be squandered. What didn’t please me when I was Dauphin, I find excellent now that I am King, my worthy uncle.”
“Yes, I have noticed that, Sire,” replied Charles with a sigh. “Therefore I too have come to you to request your forebearance for my nephew, my Lord of Brittany.”
“Not necessary! Waste no words on that, my lord uncle of Orléans. Spare me your meddling and your pretty speeches. I am not pleasant and courtly enough to hear your platitudes to the end.”
Charles remained in his chair; he asked himself whether he had heard the King correctly. That Louis disliked him he knew very well, but surely his age and rank gave him the right to courteous treatment, at the least.
“You need not stare at me in such surprise,” the King went on, in a tone of cold amusement. “I will readily admit to you that I have always found you an extremely stupid old fellow. If you had only half the brains which you think you have, you would undoubtedly be the wisest man in France.”
“God knows that I have never held an exceptionally high opinion of myself. I willingly admit that I am old and stupid — but I have enough sense to know that such words are not worthy of one who wears the crown of France. And I am your blood relative, Sire.”
The King sniggered again; he raised his hand and pointed a long, tapering finger at his guest. “You are my uncle, my father’s half-brother,” he said, visibly enjoying Charles’ incredulous consternation at hearing these words. “I at least have never doubted that Isabeau, that slut, spoke the truth when she called my father — may God rest his soul — Orléans’ bastard. Don’t think that it disturbs me. On the contrary, better this than to stem from a lunatic.”
Charles rose slowly. He had an answer on his lips. The King’s malicious, grimacing face, his forefinger raised in an almost grotesque gesture, roused irresistible memories of the man who had once been held captive like a wild beast — the man who had had to be hidden from the court and the people because of his bizarre grimaces.
“I do not wish to tire you any longer with my presence, Sire,” Charles said formally. For a moment the room sank into a grey mist; a strange buzzing filled his ears. I am ill, he thought, surprised, I must return to Blois. He heard his own voice as though it came from a distance; the words came slow, dull, with silence between them. “I deeply regret that you doubt the nature of my intentions — that you consider my actions to be meddlesome. All my life I have sincerely endeavored — sincerely endeavored — to serve my king — to fulfil my obligations to friends and kinsmen. I have — been — a—man — of peace …”