Now he had agreed to hear Burgundy’s apologies and be satisfied by them. He must play his role, even though he was beginning to question the wisdom of the course; even though he was plagued by feelings of guilt and regret. With thoughts like these he entered the cathedral of Chartres, followed by Philippe.
The light of hundreds of candles could not expel the dusk which hung under the old vaulted roof; the windows glowed dully: smouldering red, autumnal yellow, somber blue. The altar laden with gold, the royal cortege around the throne, the prelates in their ceremonial robes gleamed like treasure which lay sunken at the bottom of a deep shaft. A cold draught swept over the tombstones and made Charles shiver; he felt both insignificant and unimportant in this place. He was ashamed that the House of Orléans was represented so shabbily in the persons of two youths. He sought refuge, as always when he was insecure, in silence and reticence. Precisely because of this, although he was unaware of it, he gave an impression of dignity, of being equal to the situation. In the midst of so much pomp and ceremony, the rather thin figure of the youth, his stiff bearing and quiet face, could not help but arouse sympathy. Thus by his restrained entrance he gained considerably more favor than Burgundy, who came into the cathedral a short time later, attended by twice the number of men which had been stipulated. Jean was accompanied by his advocate, the Sire de Lohaing; they did not waste time upon compliments and ceremonial greetings, but proceeded directly to the purpose for which they had come.
Burgundy, attired in deep blood red, knelt before the King; the advocate followed suit, but remained at some distance behind his lord.
Jean coldly and insolendy inspected the royal group and especially the King who looked vacantly before him, and the two sons of Orléans — de Lohaing spoke in a voice which reverberated in the farthest corners of the cathedral.
“Sire, here is Monseigneur, the Duke of Burgundy, your true and humble servant, your nephew of royal blood, who applies to you in connection with the outrage committed by him upon the person of Monseigneur of Orléans, your brother. Monseigneur of Burgundy acknowledges that this outrage was perpetrated with his knowledge and on his authority for your welfare and the welfare of your Kingdom; he stands ready to acknowledge that here again, if Your Majesty wishes. He has heard that his deed has aroused your displeasure, and that causes him great suffering. Therefore, Sire, he beseeches you humbly to receive him once more in your grace and friendship.”
De Lohaing stopped, but the rising sound of the last syllables he uttered resounded in the silence; even before the echo died away, Burgundy completed the supplication: “That is my veritable wish, Sire; give ear to it.”
The King, who did not understand anything that had been said, remained sitting motionless; his long hair hung over his face, he seemed half asleep. Berry and Bourbon approached and spoke to him in a whisper; the King grumbled a little, but finally cried loudly, “Yes.” With this proof of royal favor, Burgundy had to be content. He turned now with a smile to Charles d’Orléans and his brother, Philippe. The advocate inquired, in the same tones he had employed toward the King on Burgundy’s behalf, whether the sons of Monseigneur d’Orléans were ready to renounce all thoughts of vengeance. Philippe could not restrain his tears, but Charles listened apparently unmoved; neither by look nor by gesture did he betray what it cost him to hear this purely formal expression of humility; to look into the face of his father’s enemy. He felt like shouting loudly that he refused to accept these apologies because he could not believe in their sincerity; that he rejected reconciliation with the murderer, that he would rather choose to continue the feud with fire and sword, even though he himself were to be ruined.
The blood mounted to his head, he took a step forward; but now he saw nearby, on the throne, the sick man’s grey face, which looked as though it were covered with cobwebs, and his trembling hands; he was overcome suddenly by a new strong desire: to help this poor madman to wear the crown and carry the sceptre. Was that not also what his father had striven for; could he himself wish for a nobler task? He readied himself to give the cheerful answer which was expected of him; the advocate de Lohaing had just concluded his speech, and Burgundy said, half under his breath, with a look of secret derision, “That I beg of you in sincere friendship, Messeigneurs d’Orléans.”
At that moment Charles became acutely aware that the entire reconciliation was essentially a senseless, ridiculous spectacle, undertaken to throw sand in the eyes of the simpletons — among whom, no doubt, they counted him as well. The King knew nothing, the Queen and the Dukes allowed themselves, like weathervanes, to take direction from the strongest wind. Burgundy wanted to be that wind. He expects us to fly away before him like withered leaves, thought Charles, with a new-found grimness. In later years he was to remember this moment in the sparkling twilight of the cathedral as decisive. He understood that in the eyes of many he was the personification of justice which had been trampled underfoot by a merciless ambition. So it went in the world always; the strong prevailed: those who allowed themselves to be oppressed deserved only contempt or pity. Shall it then always be so? thought the youth, embittered and rebellious. Must I bow before Burgundy; my steward before me; one of my farmers before him; a serf before the farmer, and can the serf finally kick his dog if he wants to? Must a man suffer injustice because he is weak — isn’t there any defense? I must oppose him, he said to himself, I must move against Burgundy, not from hatred, not from self-interest, but for the sake of a higher justice. How can we live peacefully when the arbitrary acts of a man with a hard fist and an insolent mouth set the law for us? I shall not be weaker than Burgundy — one must assert oneself when injustice seems invincible.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said aloud, in response to Burgundy’s direct question. “I bear no malice against you, and I am ready to make peace with you.”
He smiled and looked straight at Jean of Burgundy. It cost him no effort to utter meaningless and nonsensical phrases. Lie for lie, trick for trick, thought Charles, that is the purpose of this whole charade which will be forgotten in a few weeks.
At a nod from the Duke of Berry, he descended from the dais and approached Burgundy to exchange the kiss of peace with him. This symbolic act took place in a deathly silence. Jean of Burgundy watched the young man’s tense face draw near; in his eyes he thought he saw something which made him doubt that Charles was indeed so guileless as he had been painted.
At the conclusion of the ceremonies the royal kinsmen and their courtiers assembled in a building opposite the cathedral, where a banquet was to be held. Burgundy and Orléans were to sit on either side of Isabeau. His new insights had brought about a remarkable transformation in Charles: he felt reckless, even elated, able for the first time in his life to exchange jests with his grown-up neighbors at table. Isabeau looked at him, startled and at the same time amused — would her son-in-law now turn out to be a worthy son of his famous, quick-witted father? Burgundy, on the other hand, was not amused by the youth’s lively and often trenchant observations. From time to time he thought he saw sitting beside the Queen the cousin whom he had hated more than anything else in the world. The years seemed to slip away; he seemed to find himself again in the festive halls of Saint-Denis, filled with rage and jealousy, watching his wife Marguerite’s animated dinner partner.
“Why do you not eat, my lord?” asked Isabeau. “Do you find the wine so bad that you will not touch the goblet?”
Abruptly Burgundy stood up; he could bear it no longer. Assassination, war, intrigue, deception — for these he possessed sufficient patience and self-control; but the gradually dawning realization that he had slain his detested adversary only in appearance — that this man and his power had entered his life afresh in the shape of a youth with the same smile, the same quivering of the nostrils — that realization made him almost choke with rage. He quit the banquet hall as though in flight, under the amazed and displeased eyes of those assembled there. His departure was, understandably, considered to be a bad omen.