But his mother’s first walk to church was also an event; as her nearest male relative, Charles was permitted to lead her by the hand, a task which he discharged with gravity and discretion. The Duchess of Orléans offered the customary taper and gold piece; but her pale lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes were full of tears.
Not long afterward she called her eldest son to her where she stood in the armory, a long, narrow low-ceilinged room where bows, bucklers and other equipment hung, greased and polished, on the walls. The Duchess had ordered her gold and silver plate to be laid out on a table in the middle of the room; it was such a dazzling display of treasure that Charles had to close his eyes when he entered the chamber. Giles Malet, the librarian, and a clerk held writing tools. Valentine explained to the boy that she intended to make her will and therefore she wanted her valuables to be described and counted.
“But I wish to make you a gift today, Charles,” she said, leading her son to the table, “because you took your father’s place so nobly on my first walk to church since the birth of your brother Jean. I have set two things aside for you, a silver goblet and this …”
She took a gold box from the table and raised it for a moment in her narrow pale hand. “Open it, child.”
Charles obeyed. In the box were a large golden cross and a bright enameled crucifix with a chain. Somewhat disappointed, the child thanked her. He would have preferred a ring or shiny buckle to wear on his hat, but he understood that this was a more important gift — indeed, a grown-up gift — and that pleased him.
“This is the only comfort the world offers, Charles,” his mother said slowly; she closed the box. “Do not forget that when grief overwhelms you, and remember then what I say to you now: life is a long awaiting of God’s peace.”
“Yes, Madame ma mere,” replied Charles, somewhat distracted by the activities of Maitre Malet and the clerk. The librarian was dictating while the clerk wrote: “To our dearly beloved son Charles, Count of Angoulême, a silver drinking bowl…”
In the afternoon of this memorable day, a messenger arrived from Paris with letters and gifts from Charles’ father; the Duke inquired after the health of his wife and children and sent his minstrel, Herbelin, to amuse the Duchess.
Thoughtfully Valentine read the letters; she looked over the bales of velvet and woolens and after the meal received Herbelin. The minstrel, who was a still-young man with black curling hair and an animated expression, was universally loved for his liveliness and his skill at the harp. The Duchess had great respect for him; he had often taught her new songs.
Herbelin played and sang now till late in the evening. Valentine’s retinue sat listening as though they were entranced; the Duchess herself sat in quiet enjoyment with her hand shielding her eyes. The dogs were sleeping, stretched out before the fire. Charles, huddled on a small bench beside the hearth, was careful to make no noise for fear he would be sent to bed; he did not want to miss a note, not a sound of the music, clear as raindrops, cool and shimmering like the green river, filled with fragrance and the color of unknown things. He watched Herbelin’s long fingers grasp the chords quickly and surely; but more beautiful still was Herbelin’s voice, in which could be heard the wind and the peal of church bells, as well as the murmur of water and the clash of weapons.
“One more song, my Herbelin,” said the Duchess at last. “It is late and you must surely be tired. Send us to bed with something pretty.”
“Madame, if it please Your Grace, I shall play my own composition,” said the minstrel, “set to a poem which Monseigneur Orléans wrote a short while ago.”
“Monseigneur still writes poetry?” Valentine asked, with an odd smile. But the harp player had already begun. Charles listened breathlessly; he had never heard that his father could write poetry; he was amazed. The song which Herbelin sang was about a knight who roams through a wood, a forest of long awaiting. Charles did not understand it; he remembered vaguely that his mother had spoken that afternoon about awaiting — but what sort of forest was that? Thorns and thisdes and poisonous plants grow there in profusion, sang Herbelin; on all sides danger threatens and there is no escape. But in a still clearing in the forest a tree stands, heavily laden with golden apples. The shining, living fruit tempts the knight, who is weary of his wanderings and suffers from hunger and thirst. He knows that he is forbidden to pluck the apples, for the tree belongs to another. But he snatches an apple and bites into it.
Charles saw his mother’s hand close convulsively over the arm of her chair; she sat rigid as though in violent pain. The child moved; he expected her to silence Herbelin. But the Duchess of Orléans said nothing and the minstrel sang further of the knight in the forest of awaiting.
“Who once has tasted of the golden fruit is prepared to risk death and damnation for another morsel. Let no one pity the sinner; he will not give up his place under the magic tree, not even for Heaven itself.”
So ended the poem that Monseigneur d’Orléans had written and for which the minstrel Herbelin had composed a melody. Valentine ordered her retinue to bed. As a token of her appreciation, she gave Herbelin a small gold cup which he could wear on a chain around his neck. Absently she kissed Charles good-night; she did not say anything about his staying up so late. She quit the room walking between Marie d’Harcourt and the Dame de Maucouvent, but it was not from fatigue that she stumbled on the threshold.
Charles did not see his father again until the end of the year, when his arrival in no way resembled the stately, festive earlier visits which the child remembered. The Duke did not send couriers abroad as usual; he rode in the evening into Valentine’s temporary home, the castle Villers-Cotterets, with only a small following. Servants and court were too stunned to give warning to the Duchess. She sat with Charles and Philippe in her bedchamber; the boys, who were romping on the great bed, noticed that something unusual had happened only when they heard the book which their mother was reading aloud fall to the floor with a thud. They looked up.
Their father stood in the center of the room spurred and booted, with a dark cloak over his leather jacket; his hose and the hem of his cloak were splashed with mud; he looked tired and worried.
The Duchess leaned with one hand on the arm of her chair; she did not rise to greet her husband.
“Children,” Valentine said. Her sons had slipped quickly and quietly off the bed. “Greet your father and then go to the Dame de Maucouvent.”
That night Charles lay awake for a long time in the darkness, his head throbbing; he asked himself fearfully why his father had looked so strange, why he had arrived unexpectedly, out of breath and exhausted, his clothes splattered and filthy — as though he were in disguise. Charles slept fitfully. Once he was awakened by the sound of voices and footsteps in the adjoining nursery and he saw a light burning under the door.
“Is it day already?” whispered the child. He sat up, but no one came. His little brother Philippe slept soundly and peacefully in the other bed. Presently an infant began to whimper in the nursery. Charles knew instantly that it was not Jean. The child that cries there is a new child that was just born, he thought, amazed. His first feeling was anger and chagrin because his mother had not confided in him this time. Surely his father had come to lead her to church. Charles huddled back into bed and pulled the blankets over his head so that he would hear no more howling.