The young Duchess of Orléans looked forward to the visit with secret trepidation: she feared her mother’s hard, probing stare and inevitable questions. But anything seemed preferable to staying in Blois. Now that most of the troops had left, life in the castle was monotonous and quiet. After the unrest and mourning of recent years, both young people longed for the carefree happiness which nature seemed to promise anew each spring. As they rode forth amid a great entourage, surrounded by the green hills, forests and vineyards of the domain of Orléans, they felt in their blood for the first time something of the joy of life which belongs to youth itself.
With flushed cheeks, Isabelle looked over the fields from the window of her palanquin, enjoying the clatter of horses’ hooves, the gleaming armor of the riders and the bright colors of the banners. She saw the flocks of birds wheeling in the bright sky, the shrubs along the road sparkling golden-green in the sunshine; on the wind the odor came to her of newly-ploughed earth, of heavy damp soil.
Charles rode at the head of a small group of noble friends. At the village of Olivet they were greeted by the people and offered, following the custom of the country, flat baskets filled with silvery glistening fish, and vats of wine. Charles, increasingly intoxicated by the spring air, not only accepted the gifts but decided to partake of them there as a token of his appreciation. Everyone dismounted outside Olivet in a meadow strewn with flowers; while the fish sizzled in hot oil over hastily-built fires, Isabelle’s maidens danced in a circle, the gentlemen galloped their horses across the field and held a tourney, tilting at the ring. Charles flew about at mad speed, pursued in jest by his equally elated companions. He stood in the stirrups, his black cloak streaming behind him like a flag in the wind. Never before had he amused himself that much. Suddenly life seemed a great adventure, crammed with unsuspected possibilities. Had he spent his life dozing over books? Had he passed his days in a grave, melancholy dream-world? Mourning and struggle — yes, that would go on, but wasn’t a man free to choose his own company? Nothing could be better than a life so sunny and carefree as this mealtime under a spring sky filled with blue and golden light; as he gave his horse full rein and dashed over the meadow, he vowed to effect friendships and keep peace with those he knew and those he was yet to know, to the end of his days. Why not also with Burgundy? Who would benefit from a quarrel between the two of them? True, the obligation to avenge his father’s death weighed heavily upon him, but he could not take that obligation seriously here amidst the flower-strewn fields outside Olivet.
It seemed to him that until this moment he had lived under the influence of other peoples’ lives. He had learned to see the world through the eyes of his mother: a menacing, dangerous place where slander and cunning reigned, where enemies crouched to spring on the innocent. Grief and mourning were every man’s inheritance — Valentine had often said — happiness could not endure, it was as fine as a mist, as intangible as a shadow. As a child, as a young boy, he had accepted these pronouncements, but now his heart rebelled against this gloomy view of life. Standing in the stirrups, he looked out over the undulating fields, tinted bright green and brown in the spring light; he saw the women dancing in the meadow with wreaths in their hair. Isabelle sat on the grass and sang the refrain of the dance-song. The horses stood farther off, guarded by riders and grooms; the men had thrust lances into the ground adorned with bright banners — a veritable thicket of pennants. The shouts of the tilting and riding nobles filled the air; in the background among the waiting carriages, fires shimmered rosily. Against the hills lay the houses of Olivet arranged about a grey church tower; the Loire gleamed through the leafy boughs. Over all arched the blue-white sky tinted with light like a transparent dome strewn with golden dust. Charles inhaled deeply — this was bliss, he wanted to live like this. When he saw the long rows of servants and pages approaching laden with platters of baked fish and flagons of wine, he rode back to the company laughing and waving his glove.
Later, he lay in the grass beside Isabelle: he watched his wife wind wild flowers into a wreath. The sun stood high now in the heavens; it had grown warmer in the meadow. The courtiers were still occupied with their games and races; the sounds of lute and harp and singing rang in the quiet noon. The horses grazed, the tiny bells on their reins and saddles tinkled softly, the gaily colored saddlecloths of the ambling steeds flapped in the wind. The young ducal couple sat a short distance from their retinue, their faces turned toward the hills; they could almost believe themselves alone. Isabelle still hummed the melody of the dance; Charles, glancing at her from time to time, thought that she had never looked so healthy and contented. Her cheeks were pink, and she had gained some weight, which suited her.
Charles had mixed emotions about the coming of the child; he was more embarrassed and confounded than happy and proud — primarily because he still could not think of the new relationship between Isabelle and himself without constraint. So many things remained unexplained in his own behavior and the way in which Isabelle behaved whenever they came together. To be sure, the aversion he had felt for his older, haughty bride had gone, but a certain element of uneasiness remained. Charles was continually aware that he fell short of the mark, but he did not know how. He understood that love was a more complicated matter than he had once supposed, relying as he had on the words of others. He did not dare to speak with Isabelle about the things which bothered him; she was the last one he would turn to. He had never guessed that it would be so difficult to approach someone; under all circumstances — whether he encountered her now in the great hall amid retinue and guests or found her waiting in the green-curtained bed — she remained equally strange: shy, quickly offended, taciturn and surly. Only once had she shown spontaneous tenderness — on the night of his mother’s death. But since then she had seemed to be waiting for something. What did she really want from him? He did his best to treat her with patience and affection; he wished honesdy to be a good husband, a devoted friend. He believed staunchly that he loved his wife; it never entered his head that he could do anything else — they had been given to each other, now they must cherish and respect each other. To Charles this was a given. If Isabelle turned away, sighing, began to weep in the darkness or walked past him by day with a smile full of sad resignation, he felt obscurely guilty and depressed. In Blois a really close understanding had never existed between them.
Now in the fragrant grass near Olivet, they experienced something new: the ability to speak with each other comfortably, with gentle joking, in contented pleasure. Charles chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass: he sampled the tart, fresh taste of the plant sap. He saw a small transparent green insect climbing the deep folds of Isabelle’s dress. He caught it and blew it away. Isabelle set her wreath on his head, and laughed. Leaning toward each other, they chatted about things which up to now they had scrupulously avoided — they deliberated about what names they would give their child if it was a son and what names if it should be a daughter; they discussed the invitations to the christening feast and the baptismal service, the appropriate festivities and gifts. Isabelle wanted to order a state bed from Paris; she knew in exact detail how it must look — the figures of the apostles in gold thread on a green background for the canopy, and green velvet for the curtains. While she spoke, Charles gazed at her right hand with which she gestured to describe the bed. He saw the blue veins in her thin wrists; he had often thought that her hands were delicate and weak like an invalid’s. With amazement, he listened to her stream of words; he did not know that for years fantasies over this and similar subjects had been Isabelle’s only comfort.