That idea was strengthened on the few occasions when he saw his father. Surrounded by horsemen in armor, he came riding over the bridge and courtyard on a magnificent steed; when, with spurs jingling, he entered the great hall, he knelt to salute Charles’ mother, who waited for him in the seat of honor. When his father stayed with them, the castie overflowed with people, and each evening there was a feast; long tables were added to accommodate all the guests. After the meal the minstrels Colinet and Herbelin, who were always with his father, sang songs and Gilot the Fool somersaulted along the tables. Later, gifts, brought from Paris on donkeys, were brought in: mantles of silk and gold for Charles’ mother, household linen, fur and leather, silver dishes, books; for Charles and Philippe, mantles like the ones grown-ups wear, in green or black, embroidered with emblems: thisdes, vines, heraldic wolves. Once Charles was given a leather case which held three combs and a little mirror; he wore it proudly on his girdle.
Then during his father’s visits, there was hunting; that was quite a spectacle. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, a sleepy nursemaid held Charles, wrapped in a blanket, up to a window so that he could look down on the inner courtyard where torches burned, servants kept dozens of restless dogs together on long leashes, horses stood stamping and snorting. All day long the child could hear the blaring of the hunting horns in the forest, and the furious baying of the dogs. Later he found the deferred booty less attractive: he was filled with pity and revulsion when he saw the stiffly outstretched legs of the does, their great glazed eyes, the wild boar black with congealed blood, the limp bodies of the hares, and the dead birds, a heap of feathers stuck together.
Charles most admired his father when he blew on his hunting horn — no one made a prettier sound than he did. Sometimes, to please his little son, Louis, outdoors in the gallery or somewhere in the castle gardens, blew for him all the signals he knew, along with little melodies which he made up on the spot. These sounds remained linked in Charles’ memory with the image of a castle looming dark against the light of a pink evening sky, the twilight fragrance of herbs, flowers and earth. Always early in the morning his father was suddenly gone; each time these departures took Charles completely by surprise; he was angry then because no one had warned him.
Once — it was the middle of winter, when the trees stood frosty-white in the fields — there was a great feast. They were living then in a castle called Epernay: Charles remembered that because the journey there had required unusually long and full preparations. The castle was filled with so many tapestries and candlesticks, cushions and valuables, that Charles asked himself if it were Christmas, but no one seemed to have time to tell him anything. The Dame de Maucouvent kept her eye on the chamberwomen who folded and spread the linen; Charles’ mother supervised the polishing and display of the gold dishes and tankards; servants hammered in the stables; the court ladies embroidered crowned initials on a set of new bedcurtains. At last Charles was fetched to be fitted with a small cloak that glittered with gold and precious stones. Now he heard something about what was going on. The Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, Wenceslaus, was coming to see Charles’ parents; the Dame de Maucouvent told him this while she knelt before Charles to see if his state robes sat upon him properly.
“Emperor Wenceslaus, Wen … ces … laus,” she repeated. “Say that once, Monseigneur.”
“Wen … ces … laus,” said Charles hesitantly. The Dame de Maucouvent seemed to be very excited; her headdress was all on one side, which was not her usual custom, and her dress was rumpled. Later that evening his mother came to sit on the side of his bed; she laid her narrow, cool hand against his cheek.
“Tomorrow the Emperor is coming here, child,” she said.
“Wen … ces … laus,” whispered Charles quickly, to show that he remembered this remarkable name. His mother smiled. “Your father is bringing the Emperor to Epernay,” she went on. “The Emperor is coming to see you. Don’t forget that; be brave and carry yourself like a true knight. You are growing so big, my little son. Kneel before the Emperor when you are brought before him and say, Welcome, Sire.’”
“Welcome, Sire, welcome, Sire,” repeated Charles; he no longer knew whether he was dreaming or awake.
The day dawned with great hubbub and activity; from the kitchens where work had gone on all night, rose the odor of venison and fresh bread; servants in festive livery lit fires in all the halls. When clarion calls and the sound of trampling hooves were heard, Charles was not able to go and look out the window; he stood waiting in a corner of the great hall with the Dame de Maucouvent and his nurse Jeanne la Brune, both of whom wore new, fur-trimmed mantles in honor of this occasion. His father entered, followed by a train of knights and pages; he was leading a fat man with a red, smiling face to the seat of honor. For the first time in his life Charles saw his mother curtsey three times, very deeply; he held his breath. On the lake of the castle of Montils lived a black swan; in her rustling black dress, his mother curtsied the way the swan alighted with outspread wings on the surface of the water. After that he had to come himself. He did his best, kneeling before the fat man who chuckled looking down at him, and saying, “Welcome, Sire.” It was over in a moment. The Dame de Maucouvent brought him back to the nursery.
After the meal he was sent for again. The Emperor’s face was still redder than it had been in the morning; he hung back in the seat of honor and roared with incessant laughter. Even when Charles’ father rose to speak, he went on sniggering and chortling.
“Charles, my son,” said the Duke of Orléans, “it has pleased our lord, the Emperor, to promise you as your wife, his niece Elisabeth, the heiress of Bohemia.”
“Ja, ja, ja!” cried Wenceslaus in a hoarse voice, throwing himself back and forth in his chair, “Bravo, bravo!”
“Thank the Emperor,” Charles’ father went on calmly, but the child could see from the fixed look in his eye that he was displeased.
“A fine lad, a beautiful child!” Wenceslaus screamed with laughter. “He must drink; wine, wine!” He flourished his goblet so that wine spattered over the table. Charles took a few hasty swallows from the beaker which his father held before him. He knew now that the Emperor Wenceslaus was dead drunk and he was afraid of drunkards. His mother signalled to him with a reassuring nod of the head that he could leave.
“Come, come, she is getting a handsome dowry!” roared the Emperor, pounding the pommel of his dagger on the edge of the table. “A hundred thousand livres — squeeze that in your fingers!” He spoke French like a street vagrant, with coarse sounds and words, richly interspersed with incomprehensible Polish exclamations and expletives.
“And you,” Wenceslaus went on, pointing at the Duke, “as for you, Orléans, I will do what I promised — that is why I came here. Pm really no braggart!” He lunged forward. “Pll call my bishops together — and I’ll say to them, by thunder, this is the way it must be! Use your influence in favor of the unity of the Church — the unity of the Church. Keep your eyes on France, I shall say. And I shall not neglect to stress what you have requested of me, Orléans!”