“With the help of the Lord of Milan, Orléans attempted to penetrate the French throne. He had — right here in this court, among you, my lords — an accomplice, a certain Philippe de Maizieres, a man of thoughtful demeanor but of evil character. Through the pretense of piety he managed to gain entry to the monastery of the Celestines. Have they tried to fool you about Orléans’ piety too? He went to the Celestines at night and at oudandish hours, but it was not to pray or hear mass. Together with de Maizieres in a quiet cell, he hatched plots to kill the King and bring France to perdition.”
Then the speaker described in great detail how during a palace feast, the King and his friends had been set on fire by Orléans. A murmur of approval went through the hall; the fine points of the affair had, it was true, been forgotten, but everyone remembered that frightful accident.
Maitre Jean Petit knew how to weave truth and fiction together artfully into a tale of human greed and wickedness, which his audience received in deep silence. Petit very cleverly left until the very last the argument aimed directly at the emotions of members of the University and the clergy. He oudined at length the miseries of the schism, the significance of the University’s desire for cession. He informed his audience also that the only reason Orléans obstructed unification and supported the Pope in Avignon was because the latter had promised him the French throne in the future.
“All in all,” concluded Maitre Jean Petit, whose voice showed no sign of hoarseness after nearly four hours of talking, “I think that it follows clearly and irrefutably from the preceding that no blame should be attached to Monseigneur of Burgundy because he had had the aforementioned criminal Orléans put out of the way — on the contrary, we are greatly in his debt because he rendered an invaluable service to King, land and people. He deserves to be rewarded with affection and marks of honor. The tidings of his loyalty and devotion should be proclaimed throughout the Kingdom and made known abroad through messengers and letters. So it may be in God’s name qui est benedictus in secuia seculorum—who is blessed forever and ever. Amen! I thank you for your attention. I have finished.”
After these words, Petit knelt again before the royal personages, and asked Burgundy if he agreed with this argument. Burgundy uncovered his head and said, slowly and loudly:
“I am in complete agreement with the argument.”
Since none among those present seemed inclined to request proof or express doubts, the Duke of Berry declared the session ended, in the King’s name.
The following day Burgundy received a document signed by the King which informed him that he was acquitted of all guilt. At the same time he was solemnly invited to resume his seat upon the Council. The King’s signature ratified still another document with completely different contents: the children of the Duke of Orléans were deprived of the county of Dreux, the castles and grounds of Château-Thierry, Montargis, Crecy-en-Brie and Chatillon-sur-Marne. That the name Charles VI was written in shaky, blotted, ink-spattered letters by a madman who had no idea of what he was doing, was not thought by anyone to be a point worth consideration.
Isabeau left with her children for the castle of Melun, where she was to meet for prolonged discussions with her brother Ludwig.
Charles d’Orléans stood in one of the deep window recesses of the great hall in Blois and gazed out over the luxuriant landscape of the Loire valley. The broad and glistening river wended its way, bend after bend, between leafy thickets and green hills; the fragrance of flowers and newly-mown grass blew over the field. A triple girdle of ramparts circled the outer wall. Two inner courts separated from each other by moats and fortifications led to the citadel itself, which was flanked by strong towers. In the enormous castle yard were the guardrooms, stables, servants’ quarters and dwellings of the officials attached to the ducal household. There also stood the church of Saint-Saveur. The innermost court, situated between the donjon and the chapel, was considerably smaller; it could be reached over a drawbridge. Within these walls Valentine had found a secure refuge for herself and her children.
Charles stood motionless, with his hands behind his back. He was waiting for his mother. The beauty of the summer countryside — the river blinking in the sun, the light clouds — could not dispel the chill from the young man’s heart, nor the oppressive presentiments of disaster. After his joyous reception as the Duke of Orléans, he had found his first few weeks at Blois singularly charming; here, for the first time, he was lord and master in his own house. Despite the stifled laughter and amused glances of Philippe and Dunois, he had given orders and instructions; he was consulted on the daily course of affairs in the castle. Assisted by his chamberlain, Messire Sauvage de Villers, Charles had responded to questions, petitions, complaints and reports; he had acquired a taste for independent action. When his mother returned from Paris, he lost this independence. It was true that she kept him punctiliously informed of everything she planned to do, but she seemed to consider it self-evident — to Charles’ private annoyance — that her oldest son would agree with her on everything. Little survived of the sweet, gentle Valentine who, with embroidery and harp-playing, had attempted to forget how quickly the sand flowed through the hour-glass.
The woman who now sat from early in the morning until long after darkness fell, at a table strewn with papers, surrounded by clerks and lawyers, garrison commanders and stewards, had no time for hobbies or the pleasure of art. Between the folds of the mourning veil, her sunken cheeks seemed unnaturally pale, her eyes hard and lusterless as stones. When she was silent her mouth was compressed into a narrow line. At her command the castle of Blois and the hamlet of the same name which lay in its shadow, were put into a state of defense; she ordered a store of provisions laid in, the garrisons fortified, and the walls and towers repaired.
Philippe and Dunois enjoyed all this immensely; they could have their fill of armor, catapults, hand- and crossbows. Whenever they had a chance they roamed the great inner court among soldiers and horses, amazed that their mother allowed them to do it. Charles took up his lessons with Maitre Garbet once more, although with slightly diminished attention; he was worried about his mother’s plans: how did she intend, without allies, to challenge so powerful an enemy as Burgundy? Charles spent considerable time with her each day in the chamber where she conducted her affairs; she showed him the letters and decrees which she signed in his name. The intimate, loving relationship between mother and son seemed to have come to an end.
She displayed a tireless sharpness and objectivity that contrasted strongly with her earlier gentle, tender patience. She caressed only Marguerite, her youngest child, born shortly before Louis’ death, and Doucet, the small white dog who had attended its master to the last. Occasionally she smiled with absent sadness at Isabelle.
Charles’ wife was eighteen years old; now that Valentine was occupied elsewhere, Isabelle supervised the household and servants, with the same composure and self-possession which she had demonstrated on other occasions. She was very conscientious and seldom overlooked anything. Charles she treated politely, but with a certain irritating impatience. For his part, the young man did not know how to behave toward this tall, pale girl with cold eyes. Sometimes by chance he encountered her tense, penetrating stare; it was as though she looked for something, she expected something from him, but he could not imagine what it could be. He looked away in confusion. Did she perhaps detect the transformation which he was undergoing and which, embarrassed and irritated, he attempted to hide? He was seized alternately by feelings of restlessness and oppression; a sudden, violent urge for action, followed unceremoniously by a longing for quiet and solitude. He did not find peace even in his books any longer; he lay awake at night plagued by restlessness, an inner tension for which no cause seemed to exist. He was confused, queer thoughts came into his head — he did not know where to turn for advice. Once he hesitantly approached Maitre Garbet, his tutor whom he admired and trusted, and attempted to confide his troubles, but the old man only looked at him, smiling, over the rim of his spectacles and said, with good-natured mockery: