“Yes, yes, that’s fine.” Berry waved his glove impatiently. “Don’t force him if he doesn’t feel like talking. He doesn’t recognize us.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure he recognizes you. And he is pleased that you have come to visit him,” said Odette de Champdivers, fixing her dark eyes upon Charles. She laughed reassuringly. Never had Charles seen anyone who radiated so much warmth, who inspired such deep confidence. It seemed to him that in spite of her youth she was older and wiser than the oldest and most intelligent people he had ever met; only looking at her gave him a feeling of comfort.
“How is it with the King now?” he asked. Odette de Champ-divers shook her head, still smiling.
“He is very ill,” she replied, in her tranquil, modest way, “and he suffers a great deal. But he endures his pain with great patience and humility.”
Berry snorted with impatience and walked to the door, making it obvious that he wished to leave.
“If sometimes he does not do so,” continued Odette de Champ-divers to Charles, “he cannot help it. He does not always know what he is doing. But he is such a good and friendly man that one must love him.”
“Yes,” said Charles hesitantly. It was impossible for him to imagine how this young woman could perform her revolting task with so much patience; with so much affection, too. He saw how the King put his hand in hers, for support; how he followed her uneasily with his eyes when she moved away from him. Neither by day nor by night did Odette de Champdivers quit the room where he lived; she was always there to assist him, to comfort him, to clean him when he soiled himself, to admonish him gently when he would not eat or was ill-tempered with visitors. Even in times of deepest mental darkness, the madman had to be assured in one way or another that he was surrounded by a completely unselfish love. Anew each day he got the greatest gift any man could be given: compassion which sees all and forgives all.
“Come along now, nephew,” said Berry, who had already opened the door. Charles bowed before the King and, then, no less deeply, before Odette de Champdivers.
“God be with you, Monseigneur.” She followed him and showed him out. Standing in the anteroom, Charles and Berry heard the bolt shoved gently back into place on the door.
Not until Charles was outside the gate of Saint-Pol did his depression lift slightly. They rode to the Louvre where Isabeau and the Dauphin had taken up temporary residence; this castle lay at the other end of the city. The procession followed the rue Saint-Antoine, but was soon forced to take the narrower, more tortuous streets striking through the heart of Paris. The populace, long accustomed to the presence in the city of great lords with armed troops from all regions of the realm, paid little attention to the horsemen passing by. Those who recognized the Duke of Berry looked closely at his company, but no one suspected that the young man, stiffly clad in black like a clerk, was the son of Orléans.
So these people are Burgundy’s friends, thought Charles, as he rode on, looking down on the turmoil around him; he noticed that a great many of the people carried weapons; that in numerous houses the ground floor windows were nailed up leaving only a small peephole; that an alarming number of soldiers roamed in aimless bands through the streets, throwing a curious eye in passing at the horsemen of Berry and Orléans.
In the Louvre Charles was received by the Queen and the Dauphin. Isabeau looked thoughtfully at her son-in-law; he had grown much taller — who would now say that this youth was still unable to perform his duty as a husband? She did not have much to say to him; she repeated to him only what she had already said to Valentine: she hoped with all her heart that Charles and his mother would be able to refute Maitre Petit’s argument. Afterward she moved off to a side room with Berry, leaving the two youths alone. The Dauphin, Duke of Aquitaine, was twelve years old, rather thin and pale like all Isabeau’s children, but with a large head and protuberant eyes. He wore elegant garments, decorated with golden lacings; he flattered himself that he looked magnificent.
“Fair cousin,” said the young Duke of Aquitaine in a sour voice, “they say you have a whole army there in Blois. Is that true?”
“Indeed it is true,” replied Charles. He could not bring himself to speak in flowery terms to his perfume-sprinkled royal cousin.
“Then you intend to fight?” asked the Dauphin eagerly. “Because Monseigneur of Burgundy will not yield. I am certain of that.”
Charles looked down at the enamelled mosaic of the floor. “That we shall see,” he said stiffly.
The Dauphin began to laugh, the forced affected laughter of a badly spoiled child. “Don’t think it matters to me one way or the other.” He opened a gilded leather pouch which he wore on his girdle, and took out a pair of dice. “Here, throw,” he said to Charles, pointing to a table. “The stakes are two golden livres. Do you have any money with you?”
Charles felt little affection for his cousin; when he saw him a few days later in the great hall of the Louvre where Orléans’ coun-terplea was to be read, he found him decidedly ludicrous. The Dauphin was arrayed for the occasion in royal purple, with ermine around his shoulders and a crowned hat on his head; this was to make it plain that he was acting for his father. He sat with Isabeau under the canopy; the places beside them were awarded to the great of the Kingdom and the royal members of the Council. Knights, members of the Council and of Parlement, representatives of the University and many prominent citizens sat as they had sat to hear Maitre Petit’s speech in Saint-Pol, on platforms erected for that purpose. Great numbers of the populace also had been admitted to the assembly. Only Burgundy was absent; he was laying siege to Liege.
Valentine entered accompanied by Charles, and her Chancellor and by the advocate, Maitre Cousinot. The text of the defense, prepared beforehand in Blois and bound as a book, was now solemnly handed over to the Abbe de Serizy of Saint-Fiacre, whom Valentine had chosen as spokesman. The Abbe proceeded in a clear, calm voice, to read aloud the long speech, which he introduced with the following words: “Justitia et indicium pmeparatio sedis tuae”
Patiently and minutely the Abbe de Serizy refuted all the charges of attempted poisonings, attempted murder, conjuration. He succeeded in holding the attention of his audience through his choice of words, weaving suitable quotations from Aristotle, Augustine and Cicero into his argument. In contrast to Petit, he did not attempt to make an impression by shouting, using glib phrases, fiercely taking advantage of the reaction of the people in the audience. For this last, he would have had little opportunity anyway because the multitude behind the wooden railings were not at one with him, and attempted again and again to interrupt him through angry muttering and restless shuffling.
“With respect to the King and the royal family, Monseigneur d’Orléans was anything but hostile. Her Majesty the Queen can testify to that if she chooses.”
De Serizy paused and looked toward the royal seats. Displeased. Isabeau raised her brows; coughing and shifting broke out on the platform. Only Madame d’Orléans and her son sat unmoving — she with raised, he with lowered, head.
“Now I come to the final accusation levied by the opposition: that Monseigneur d’Orléans robbed the King and extorted money from the people by the imposition of heavy taxes. My lords, it is truly wonderftd that the opposition should reproach Monseigneur d’Orléans in this way. It is a well-known fact that that is a means to which all royal persons have recourse when they need money. May I remind you of the manner in which in the year 1396 the expenses of the expedition against the Turks were defrayed, and how the ransom for Monseigneur of Burgundy was finally collected? Actually, the expedition caused irreparable damage to France.