“Yes, yes, Monseigneur, you are growing up.”
This response, and especially the manner in which it was said, Charles found infuriating, but it gave him food for thought. Could that be the solution to the mystery? In the winter he would be fifteen years old, the age at which kings were considered to have attained their majority. The fact that his voice sometimes broke or that his limbs would not always obey him — did all this mean he was becoming an adult? There had been a time when he had wanted more than anything else to be a grown man, so that he could buy books freely, read to his heart’s content, journey to distant lands to see with his own eyes the wonders described in the holy stories and the tales of chivalry. Now the future which awaited him as an adult seemed less attractive.
The youth spent his days inside the dark walls of Blois, depressed by these and other thoughts. He loved the castle and principally its setting which unfolded to the horizon in delicate shades of green. In the river he saw reflections of clouds and the light of the sky in summer; it was an infinitely more beautiful picture than those woven into fabrics and tapestries. To his surprise he became aware of a curious desire to put into words what he saw: the sparkle of the sun on the stream, the glow of poppies in the green fields. Secretly he was ashamed of this urge. He had never heard that a man thought about such things.
He heard his mother’s train rustling behind him over the leaf-strewn floor. He turned and went to her; silently she allowed herself to be led to the bench under a tapestried canopy. For a few minutes mother and son sat next to each other without speaking; Valentine stared into space. Sunshine lay in broad rectangles on the floor; in its strong light the colors of the fabric hanging along the walls were dimmed by dust and grime. The afternoon was filled with sounds: a cuckoo calling in the thicket by the river, the creak of a water wheel in the village, the stamping of hooves and confused clamor of voices and tools in the inner court… Charles glanced sideways at his mother’s face; her skin was yellowish, wrinkled around the eyes — he thought she looked suddenly old and tired.
‘There are things which I must discuss with you, son,” said Valentine. Her soft voice sounded slightly cracked.
“Yes, Madame ma mere,” replied Charles; he tried to keep an attitude of courteous attention as he had been taught to do toward grown-ups, but a vague feeling of foreboding was creeping over him.
“You are now almost fifteen. At that age your father and your uncle the King were considered to be mature and responsible. Maitre Garbet tells me you have a good sense; he praises the progress you have made. After consulting with him, I have decided to terminate your lessons.”
Charles felt a lump in his throat; he made an abrupt gesture of protest.
“Your education has been much too narrow,” said Valentine, unmoved. She fixed her dark lusterless eyes upon him. “You are not predestined to be a scholar, son. You are Duke of Orléans, the head of a House, a leader of a party. It is time that we begin to develop those qualities which you must have for a task like that. You are a good horseman, but you have no skill with any weapon.”
Charles sighed; his lack of enthusiasm did not escape Valentine’s notice.
“You can sit and read later when old age or illness allows you no other diversion.” Her tone brooked no contradiction. “I fear, child, that you may already have spoiled your eyes by peering at your letters. Now you must develop your physical strength, exercise your muscles. You will need all that when you ride off to war.”
“War?” Charles raised his head; his look was just guileless enough to give his mother pain. But Valentine repressed this sympathetic impulse — she thought she must be pitiless herself if she were to help her son become the man of steel he had to be.
“Why do you think I have called up all these soldiers?” she asked wearily. “It costs a fortune every day to maintain them. If Burgundy will not bend, he must be broken. I shall force him to give me satisfaction, through force of arms if there is no other way. But any army of Orléans’ must stand under our personal command — that is to say, under your command, son. You owe that duty to your father, who was so ignominiously murdered. Listen …” She turned toward him and took his face almost roughly between her two hands. “Listen, boy. From now on you must be inspired by only one thought, only one desire must impel you — revenge, revenge, nothing but revenge, until the humiliation they visited upon your father and upon us has been expunged in blood. I have never been cruel and vindictive, God knows that. But now I have learnt all too well what fate awaits the meek. Strike before you are struck. That is the only law, son, I can’t teach you a wiser maxim. Remember that: revenge, satisfaction. Repeat those words by day and by night. Be aware that you must ignore yourself and everything you love must be set aside until you have achieved your purpose, until your father’s death has been avenged, his memory cleansed, your inheritance restored intact to you and your brothers. That work must be pleasing to God, because your father was a noble man who served the interests of the King and the realm.”
“Mother,” Charles said with sudden vehemence — he slid onto his knees before her. “Mother, they say that my father robbed the King — that he was impious and frivolous.”
Valentine raised her hand and struck the young man across the mouth.
“That you should dare to say those words within these walls is worse than treason,” she said harshly. “Never speak like that again. Do not question for one moment the truth of what I say to you. I knew your father better than anyone else knew him. He caused me much suffering, many bitter tears, but now it seems to me that the sorrow I had to endure was far less important than the joy he brought to me. Yes, that joy was so deep that now the world has lost its light for me. Nothing has meaning anymore,” she concluded, slowly repeating the words which were written in silver against the black walls of her apartments; tears began to fall from her dull eyes — she held a handkerchief before her face.
“I ask your forgiveness, Madame ma mere,” said Charles, embarrassed and upset. “But I don’t know if I am suited to be the leader of an army. I will learn to fight with weapons if you wish me to. But it is not fitting that I should be in charge of men like Messires de Braquemont and de Villars, who are great warriors.”
“You must let me judge what is fitting for a Duke of Orléans.” Valentine’s face had regained its severity. “You cannot become a leader through talk. You will have the best possible tutors. I don’t want any more objections, son. You are still under my guardianship; I am responsible for your education. Sit up straight — throw your shoulders back — you have sat bent over books for too many years. It has not been good for you.”
Charles obeyed, but he had to bite his lips to avoid bursting into tears of rage and disappointment. Valentine sighed; she folded her thin hands stiffly in her lap and went on.
‘There are still a few important matters I want to discuss with you. Your father contracted huge debts. He had to maintain his court and contribute to the support of his vassals here and abroad. He was forced to borrow a great deal of money at times to pay for his new territories. I want to pay off that debt before we undertake anything else, son, and that cannot be done without sacrifice. We must sell valuables and jewels. I have already made my choices — see if you agree with me, because there are many things among them which belong to you. I believe that if we want to have a large sum of money at our disposal all at once, we shall have to sell a house. I have heard that the Queen wishes to give the Dauphin his own dwelling in Paris. I have recently told her that I am ready to relinquish the Hotel de Behaigne to her for ten thousand gold francs. I take it you agree with me?”