Charles could not control himself that well; the hoarse sound of his mother’s weeping filled him with bottomless horror and compassion. He was tormented also by shame because he could not share her grief — it was true that his father’s death had frightened him dreadfully, but he was upset for completely different reasons from his mother. Who had planned this outrageous murder? What was behind all this — was it possible that his father was once more somehow to blame? Charles no longer saw the Duke as a fearless hero without blemish, as he had done in his childhood. No, not since Compiegne. But with the knowledge of his father’s faults had come a certain sobriety; he had lost his childish ways forever. He was in a difficult transitional period — he was no longer a boy and not yet a young man. He felt everything passionately, but at the same time he was constricted by the armor of his own clumsiness. He looked with trepidation toward the new, weighty duties which were about to descend upon him.
At the moment when, for the first time, members of his family and servants, bowing deeply, called him Duke of Orléans, a chill seized his heart. He was the head of the family, lord of great and important domains; the dignity of his House rested wholly upon his shoulders.
While his mother, beside herself with misery, lay on the cold flagstones of the chapel, there was chaos and alarm in the castle of Chateau-Thierry; no one knew what to do, no one issued orders. Charles realized that it was up to him to act — but what did they expect of him? Often during the long, mournful vigil he looked timidly at Isabelle. How could she pray so calmly and with such dignity? This strangely mature maiden was his wife — they shared happiness and sorrow; he wished she could give him some helpful advice. But when he dared to open his mouth, she gave him such a look of warning reproach that he stopped, shamefaced.
After three days Valentine rose from the ground; she sat stony-faced and dressed in black in the great hall and issued commands: messengers were sent to summon Orléans’ friends and vassals, while two groups of horsemen and servants were ordered to prepare immediately for a journey — one group to escort the Duchess to Paris, the other to bring Monseigneur Charles and his brothers Philippe and Dunois to the fortified castle of Blois where, during their mother’s absence, they would be safe from Orléans’ enemies.
Silent, Valentine sat in the carriage during the long journey through the wintry countryside; silent she rode into Paris without a glance at the city which she had left with so much regret eleven years before. Isabelle did look about her: she saw the faces of the people along the way. With curiosity tinged with grim satisfaction, the people of Paris watched Orléans’ widow ride slowly through the streets to Saint-Pol.
The Provost de Tignonville and Jean Juvenal des Ursins, the Advocate-Fiscal, waited in the King’s anterooms, surrounded by clerks and lawyers; they would tell the Duchess what they had discovered about the murder before she put her affairs in the King’s hands. Valentine sat down without a word. Her chancellor and spokesman remained standing behind her. The Dukes of Berry and Bourbon exchanged concerned, even alarmed, glances. At last Berry ended the oppressive silence by asking de Tignonville to speak.
“Madame,” began the Provost in a voice that betrayed his emotion, but he swallowed his expressions of sympathy before this woman petrified with grief. He began slowly and precisely to relate the results of the inquiry.
“We have thoroughly interrogated, Madame, the two eye-witnesses: the wife of a ropemaker and a servant from a manor house. Both testified that the assailant seemed to have come from the place called the House of the Effigy of Our Lady — in fact a fire broke out there directly after the crime, but it was quickly extinguished. We know that the premises in question had been unoccupied for many years; a few months ago, however, the owner rented them to a person who said he was a student at the University. He was described as an extremely thin man with long hair, who wore a brown tabard. And the eye-witness, Jacquette Griffart, has told us that the assault was led by a thin, long-haired man in a dark cloak. We have learned that a stranger in a red bonnet gave the command to flee. This same man was subsequently seen in the neighborhood of the Hotel d’Ar-tois.”
At these words Valentine raised her head; the Duke of Berry coughed nervously. The Provost calmly met the Duchess’s penetrating gaze, and continued.
“Now it is my opinion, Madame, that we can suspend the investigation in the city itself. It would be better, it seems to me, to question the servants and officials of the royal palaces. The King has already granted me full authorization to enter with my officers wherever I see fit. I have just received similar permission from Mes-seigneurs Berry and Bourbon.”
Valentine nodded; she had not spoken a single word since her departure from Chateau-Thierry. Escorted by the Dukes and followed by her chancellor and the lords and ladies of her retinue, she walked to the hall where the King would receive her; she held Jean and Isabelle by the hand. At the end of the hall, under a blue and gold canopy, sat a small, wizened man, his nearly toothless mouth half open. His face was covered by a rash, his raised hands trembled, but around his shoulders lay the ermine of royalty. The sight of him affected Valentine as nothing else had — not Isabelle’s thoughtfulness, the Dukes’ kindly welcome nor the words of de Tignonville. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She took a few steps toward him, and sank upon her knees. Jean and Isabelle followed her example.
“Justice, Sire,” said Valentine in a choked voice. “In God’s name, justice!”
In response to Valentine’s return, the Council assembled the following Saturday in the Hotel de Nesle, the Duke of Berry’s house. Most members were already present in the designated hall; the hour of meeting drew near and expired — it could not begin because the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy and young Anjou, who had returned from Italy as King of Sicily, were talking together in a side room.
“Well, nephew, what do you have to tell me that is so important that it cannot possibly be put off?” Berry asked, annoyed at the unexpected delay. “Make haste, the Council sits waiting for you next door.”
Jean of Burgundy seemed extremely restless; he could hardly stand still; he struck his thigh repeatedly with one of his gloves. “What does it mean, Monseigneur,” he burst out suddenly with passion, “that Messire de Tignonville and his officials request permission to search my home and subject my household to interrogation? How is it possible that you and Monseigneur de Bourbon could have lent your approval to such a senseless and insolent undertaking?”
Young Anjou, who stood at the window, quickly raised his narrow, dark face. “Now that we have given de Tignonville permission to search our residences, you cannot refuse without endangering your good name,” he said quietly.
Jean of Burgundy cursed and threw his glove on the floor. He stood motionless for a few seconds, staring straight before him; then he fixed his dark eyes on Berry. “Now then,” he said harshly, “why postpone the execution? I did it. You can’t have expected anything else; God knows I never tried to hide my hatred of Orléans. I had him killed by a couple of fellows in my service.”
“Holy Mother of God!” Berry lifted his hands to his head in horror; he gave a low moan.