“Ah—.” The King made a protracted sound to show his impatience and distaste. “Once more — spare me all the fine talk. What have you done, uncle? What have you accomplished in that long life of yours? How have you used the opportunity which was granted to you — more I know than to others — to maintain order in the realm, to preserve peace and support the royal authority? What have you, with all your good will and so-called wisdom, understood of the evolution we have undergone — of the real significance of the struggle which has been going on since my great-grandfather’s day — between the Crown and the powerful forces who want to smash it to pieces? — For me you are already a dead man, uncle, a residue of something which has died without knowing it. In my eyes you are a ridiculous, foolish old man — you trot along good-naturedly with your peers who stretch out their claws in a last desperate attempt to grasp power.
“But it is over, lord uncle, it is over. Your time, the time when great lords were kings, is over. Henceforth there will be one King in France, one single King, by God’s grace and by your leave, and that King will rule from the Pyrenees to the farthest border of the lowlands. He who dares to nibble at the cake will be sent from the table. Believe me, uncle, if any crumbs are to be picked up it will not be by the flashy, ambitious ne’er-do-wells with their gilt escutcheons and fine-sounding names, but by those who have made the cities great and prosperous, by the men behind the anvil and in the shipyards, by the weavers and smiths, by the merchants, soldiers — by each one with diligence and keen intelligence, even if he comes crawling up from the slime of the sewer. These I shall amply reward for their service — not a high-born weakling like you, uncle, who lets every chance slip through his fingers, who willingly lets himself be led by anyone who puts himself to the trouble of taking him in tow. Distinction, dignity, an affable manner — all at your service — but for all that, you did nothing worth mentioning for either king or country.
“Go back to Blois, putter about with rhymes and rock the cradle. God knows you could have been king, you could have spared the Kingdom a half-century of misery if you had had a drop of true ruler’s blood in your veins. You could have stood where I stand now, instead of whining with humiliation and groping for the way to the door on trembling legs …”
Charles, who was feeling at the wall for support — he could not see; it was growing dark before his eyes — stood still.
“I never imagined that I possessed great gifts. When I was young, I often asked myself bitterly why so heavy a burden had been laid precisely on my shoulders, why I had to carry out a task which was too much for my strength. But now I know that each man over the course of his life receives an assignment which enables him to learn the lesson which he must learn here on earth …”
“And what have you learned, uncle?” asked the King, laughing softly.
Charles shook his head. Now all at once he felt thin and light, then again a leaden weight seemed to press him down to earth.
“I have been a slothful scholar — often wilful and easily distracted — but each day I learn to understand better — that in life people are not charitable enough to one another — and that he who is humble at heart — and sincere — can find and keep God’s gifts, beauty and happiness—”
“Is that all?”
“Green grass in the sunlight — a child’s laughter — and the beauty — the beauty of language—”
“Yes, yes.” The King sighed with impatience; he no longer found the conversation amusing.
“That is only a small portion of the truth,” Charles said with an effort, “but enough to make me realize that I know nothing. Since I realized that, I have had a deep desire to become truly wise. I am aware that what up to now I have considered reality is not reality at all. The world in which one wishes to be great and powerful and feared, your world, Sire, is an illusion.” He coughed and gasped for breath. “I have not lived my life in vain. If I once … may have a glimpse of the real world …”
The King replied sarcastically, but Charles did not understand what he said. He lost all sense of time and place. It seemed to him as though he moaned, warding off a blow; as though he sought support from a friend whom he could not recognize in the darkness.
A long time later he opened his eyes; the darkness had lifted; he lay in deep silence. Against a background of green shadows, he saw the trusted face of his friend, the physician Cailleau. Charles tried to smile; he moved his lips but could utter no sound. Cailleau was looking at him so gravely, so attentively. It suddenly seemed inexpressibly soothing: that large, wrinkled face, drawn by anxiety and tension, hovering above his own. It made him think of something: once he had experienced a similar sensation — long ago.
He knew now what it was — his nurse had looked upon him like this when he was a little child lying in bed. He had tried then to lift his hand and touch the veils of her white headdress. He really could not help laughing at the memory: for a whole lifetime he had forgotten how it felt to be a small, helpless child.
In the greenery above his head, patches of light and shadow seemed to stir, as when the leaves in the treetops quiver above the forest path. The smell of damp earth and ferns, cool and fresh, greeted him; now here and there he could hear the rippling of a little nearby brook, hidden from view by leaves and underbrush. Charles sighed deeply in surprise and pleasure. After the heat and the dazzling brightness of feverish visions, the coolness of the wood moved him with inexpressible emotion. He began to move forward, hesitantly at first, as though he doubted his ability to do it. Slowly he walked beneath the trees, through long, silky, rustling grass. Birds and small creatures fled at his approach with a light whisper of wings and a rustling in the undergrowth. The sun shone through the foliage above his head; he saw the network of dark nerves oudined against the green-gold shading of the leaf. He had wandered alone, but at a turning in the path he saw a figure awaiting him. He recognized him at once: it was Nonchaloir, beckoning with a smile. But oddly enough, for the first time he had no desire to seek his company; he turned instead into the shrubbery.
While he struggled through the tall bushes, defending himself against the boughs which struck back with a rush after he had bent them to one side, he heard familiar voices all around him behind the dense forest growth: his small son cried, his little daughter, laughing, called his name, Marie spoke to him calmly and persuasively — and now it seemed to him that they were all talking together in a kind of chorus; his servants and friends in Blois, his kinsmen and allies: he could distinguish Dunois’ loud, strong voice, Jean d’Angoulême’s thoughtful murmur. He wanted to escape from them, he wanted to be left in peace now so that he could make his way, alone and unhindered, through the quiet cool forest.
He quickened his step; he pushed through the tender rustling greenness of the young saplings as a swimmer cleaves the waves — the acrid fresh odor of new leaves blew toward him and the splashing of the brook seemed closer now. He did not know what he would find at the end of the journey; he was seized by so overwhelming a feeling of anticipation that to return or even to look back seemed to him to be out of the question. It did not matter to him that the ground began to slope upward to a range of hills, that pebbles and roots hampered his progress, that thorny shrubs, stinging nettles and prickly foliage wounded his face and hands. He stumbled and fell but got up again and, head down, plowed into the intertwined growth around him. At times it seemed as though there could be no way out; the birds sang sweedy and enticingly in the cool leafy dome above his head, but he went on, warm and gasping, possessed by the longing to penetrate further, still further, to push on though imprisoned inextricably by twigs and branches. Who was holding him back, who was trying to keep him from finishing his journey?