The young man nodded; he did not speak. He was overwhelmed by despondency. What could he really say? He did not need to think; everything was being decided for him.
“Furthermore, I have finally received an answer to the letter which I sent to Monseigneur of Brittany in Paris. As you know, I held extensive discussions with him this spring. It is very fortunate for us, son, that he has reason to be dissatisfied with the way Burgundy handled the guardianship and administration of Brittany during Monseigneur’s minority. Now that Monseigneur is an adult and his own master, he will no longer allow Burgundy to order him about. In short, he has declared himself ready to enter into an alliance with us even if it means a rupture with his mother the Queen of England. I have had the agreement put into writing; you will be so good as to sign it soon and also those documents which I am sending to the Margrave of Moravia concerning the need to fortify the fortresses in Luxembourg.”
“Yes, Madame ma mere,” Charles replied in a barely audible voice; he kept his eyes fixed obstinately on the floor. Again they sat side by side in silence, two small black figures against a background embroidered with saints and heroes.
“Charles,” Valentine said suddenly, with a trace of the old tenderness in her voice, “you can keep Maitre Garbet in your service as secretary, of course. I know that you are greatly attached to him, child. You do not have to lose his friendship.”
The young man bowed, but his pale face did not relax. Valentine looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to another, once so loved. She saw in the thin mouth and around the nostrils too, something that reminded her of Louis; but Charles’ eyes were different, milder; she missed the flash of irony which had enlivened Louis’ glance. The youth’s cheeks were beginning to lose their childish roundness. From temple to cheekbone and chin fell the shadow, the oudine of maturity, which gives each face its own character. His thick light brown hair, clipped high around the crown, was as curly as it had been in his childhood, but the colorless down on his upper lip and chin was an unmistakable sign of manhood. The Duchess of Orléans almost smiled, but the impulse was too weak to soften the taut mask that was her face. She stood up slowly, leaning on the chair like an old woman; Charles hastened to help her. Together they walked through the long hall; the leaves rustled under Valentine’s train and under the soles of Charles’ black velvet shoes.
In the last week of August Valentine received a message that she would be received in Paris; she had not been so moved in a long time as when she read the royal letter. With the sealed parchment in her hand, she went to the inner court where, in an area set aside for that purpose, Charles worked with hand- and crossbow under the supervision of the practised archer Archambault de Villars. Valentine, who entered the court accompanied by her daughter-in-law Isabelle, watched her son for a while from the shadow of an arched doorway. The young man stood straight and lean in his leather jacket, at the far end of the shooting range. Slowly he drew back the heavy bow, his eyes squinting. Now the taudy-pulled sinew neared his shoulder; he let go; the arrow whizzed through the air, directly striking the target at the other end of the range. The feathered arrow quivered in the wood. Dunois, who had looked on knowledgeably with tense attention, went up, pulled the arrow from the board and made a chalk mark between the innermost circle and the bull’s eye.
“What a beautiful shot,” said Isabelle.
The sound of her daughter-in-law’s voice struck Valentine; she glanced quickly at her. In the girl’s eye she saw something which made her look equally quickly at the spot where Charles stood. After two months of almost uninterrupted physical exertion, he had become more robust. His slenderness had disappeared; he was now lean, but muscular and supple. Horseback riding, swimming, exercises with sword, bow and spear had removed every trace of awkwardness from him; he moved with some of the same ease which had characterized Louis. For the first time Valentine saw that her son was no longer a child but a young man; with amazement she realized that Isabelle already knew this. She drew her own conclusions. The eighteen-year-old Madame d’Orléans went about — it could no longer remain a secret from those around her — bent under her burden of forced virginity. Most women of her age already had one or two children, but although she was married now for the second time she was still a maiden. Her haughty bearing, her cutting coolness concealed her deep sense of shame and inferiority. Valentine had often asked herself, not without concern, what would happen in the future; when must she assign Charles and Isabelle a joint apartment? Isabelle seemed irritated with the quiet, childlike youth. The only feeling Charles evinced toward his wife was a certain embarrassed timidity.
But now Valentine saw in her daughter-in-law’s eyes an undisguised interest; more noteworthy still, Isabelle lowered her eyes when Charles, who had seen his mother, handed his bow to de Villars and approached to greet both women. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand; the flush of exertion which had colored his cheeks during the archery had disappeared — exhaustion lurked in the shadows under his eyes. The Duchess of Orléans sighed involuntarily; the young man was not strong; he did his best, but he was hardly equal to the effort which a soldier’s education required. Silently she handed him the Queen’s letter.
Later — Charles and she had consulted with advisors and lawyers in her apartments — mother and son discussed once again at length the measures to be taken. Valentine believed she must seize the opportunity without delay; she wanted to go to Paris with the evidence she had collected — letters, orders and other documents connected with Louis’ affairs — and there choose a qualified spokesman. Her intention was to refute Maitre Petit’s accusations point by point in the presence of the court, the government and representatives of the Church and the people. She increased her demands. Accompanied by Isabelle, she would go to Paris to gauge the atmosphere in the city and the court. If she found this to be favorable, Charles could follow with a suitable entourage.
The young man agreed to everything; he stood before the table piled high with documents and absently drew diagrams on the wood with his thumbnail. This made Valentine impatient; she was annoyed and disappointed diat she saw in him no trace of her own passionate zeal, her vengeful perseverance.
“I trust that you are well aware of your obligations, son,” she said at last, standing up to signal that the discussion was over. “What we do now is no whim for me nor child’s play for you. We must remain vigilant, even if Burgundy should come on his knees to beg our forgiveness. Do not believe for one moment in the good faith of the hypocrite who had the insolence to hold the edge of the pall covering your father’s bier the day after the crime; who went with his victim to communion a few hours before his murder! I want him to be humbled before us, that’s obvious — but after that I shall also be prepared for war. There will come a day, Charles, when we will be asked to move swiftly and boldly, you can be sure of that. Take care that you will be ready then in every way; in order to achieve that day you must not relax for a moment, not now, not ever! Is that clear, son? You may go now. I think that your exercise down in the square should be resumed.”