Charles was slightly stunned at the readiness of his allies to accept his proposal; he had not expected it. He tried to ascertain what motives were playing a role here; during the last months he had become mistrustful enough to attempt to find out what lay behind an all-too-willing agreement. However, he had no time for reflection. Berry had already risen from his seat and said that he and all the others were completely in accord with the solution which Monseigneur d’Orléans, like a second Solomon, had put forward. Armagnac laughed loudly and shouted Berry down.
“Worthy father-in-law, let me get a word in now. I am your man, Orléans, even though I venture to predict to you that it will turn into war sooner or later. Get to work on that manifesto — that is a task for the two bishops which Monseigneur de Berry has brought with him. And tell them at the same time to keep their pens and ink ready to draw up still another document. Look here, why don’t I speak frankly, we are all together now.”
Shifting his chair so that he faced Charles, he leaned his elbows on his spread knees and tapped the arm of Charles’ seat softly with the butt of his whip. “We have a saying in Armagnac: a really true agreement should be sealed with a wedding. Now I am one of those who hold that a bride or a bridegroom form a stronger link between two parties than a couple of signatures or a seal. You are a widower, Orléans, but surely it cannot be your intention to remain one permanently.”
Annoyed, Berry gave a warning cough. But the Gascon refused to be driven from the field.
“We can still talk in a business-like way about these things,” he continued. “We are among men. Look, Orléans, I have a daughter. I will give her to you with a handsome dowry besides. Monseigneur de Berry, her grandfather, will see to the dispensation. He has already promised me that. I don’t doubt that everything will turn out all right.”
Berry nearly choked from coughing; he held his sleeve before his mouth. He was crimson with rage and shame. Never had he seen so tactless a braggart as his son-in-law. No one would doubt that he had suggested the marriage proposal to Armagnac. Charles looked up; his eyes betrayed astonishment and antipathy. He was at the point of retorting that he had no intention of contracting a new marriage at this time, but Armagnac, who sensed young Orléans’ reaction, resumed hastily and still more loudly.
“My daughter Bonne is only eleven years old. You do not need to see her for the time being if you don’t wish it. They tell me that she’s a comely lass, healthy and cheerful. What more do you want? And I repeat: the dowry is royal with favorable terms — only a few instalments and a great sum all at once!”
“Forgive me, Monseigneur,” said Charles, arising. “I cannot go into your proposal now. I should like to adjourn the session for today, at any rate. With my chancellor and the bishops of Bourges and Nantes I shall draw up the text of the statement tomorrow and send it to the King with all our signatures.”
He bowed and left the chamber.
“You are an idiot,” said Berry in an undertone to Bernard d’Armagnac.
The Gascon grinned and stretched himself.
“I have caught him all right,” he remarked. “I won’t let go of him. Come, where is the dining hall now? Let’s go there, my lords.”
“I still do not see how you will set this matter right,” Berry muttered to his son-in-law. While he passed through the door he slipped his fur-lined hood over his head. The shutters behind the airholes were for the most part rotten and full of cracks; cold draughts of wind blew down the corridor. Armagnac, who walked ahead with great strides, looked over his shoulder at his father-in-law. In the light of the torches held by servants who had come running to light the gentlemen on their way to the dining hall, Berry looked like a malignant gnome; with his crooked fingers, sparkling with gems, he wrapped his mantle more closely about him; his eyes gleamed in the shadow of his hood.
“Orléans is as poor as a church mouse,” said Armagnac with an eloquent gesture. “That boy is so hard up for money that he cannot refuse my offer. Let him think about it for a moment: he will have to see that he can only gain by this. You said yourself that Orléans is as pliable as wax — if that’s so, we shall have no trouble shaping him as we wish, father-in-law.”
The meal was boisterous; since no women were present no one had to watch his words. Although tables had been pushed together, Charles’ stewards still found there was not enough room for all the members of the lords’ retinues. Men sat, or even stood, eating in the adjoining chambers and in the corridors. After the wine had been passed around a few times, no one bothered with table manners; Bernard d’Armagnac sat with one leg thrown over the arm of the bench and tossed bones to six or seven mastiffs who roamed through the hall. The Gascons and the Provencals set the tone: there was shouting and loud singing and knives were slammed against the table. Armagnac’s followers were accustomed to scantier fare in their poor fatherland than they were offered here. They did not let the opportunity escape to enjoy the good things of the earth.
Charles, who had never seen anything like it, made an effort to show no surprise or displeasure; he remembered how the soldiers in Blois, ruled by the captains with an iron hand under his mother’s watchful eye, had always conducted themselves in an orderly way, like monks. But this was what happened under the leadership of men who knew no life outside war and adventure, who greedily seized what the day brought, who were free of bonds and obligations. Their eyes and teeth shone; they dominated the tables, drowning out the men who had come with Bourbon, Berry, Alençon and Charles and who attempted to rise to the occasion.
For an instant, Charles felt an impulse to abandon all self-control; he wished he could for once be drunk, shout hoarsely, rest his leg on the table, forget that his name was Orléans, that he wore mourning and had to carry a heavy responsibility. He wanted to be exuberant and unabashed, to curse and mock in a drunken fit, to express his long pent-up bitterness, to give himself up to the wildest, most reckless diversions. The blood mounted to his head; he looked at the goblet which stood on the table before him.
But it flashed suddenly through his mind that he wanted to speak with his Chancellor, with both bishops and with the Sire de Mornay, the governor of Orléans, in his own apartments after the meal. He had already summoned them; it would surely be undignified to discuss, in a drunken condition, so important a subject as the manifesto to the King. He tried therefore to keep his distance from what he saw happening around him. He leaned toward his great-uncle of Bourbon who sat, drowsy and sullen, munching a piece of pastry, and began a conversation with him. Bernard d’Armagnac still had a surprise up his sleeve. When at the conclusion of the meal, the customary dessert — spiced wine — was brought in, the Gascon bawled an order to the men standing by the door. Amid applause, two stableboys led a coal-black stallion into the hall, a vigorous, handsome beast.
“Orléans,” said Armagnac, rising, “will you be so good as to accept this horse from me — a warhorse, foaled in my own stables? Perhaps you will find it a more suitable gift to seal our alliance.”
Charles went up to the stallion and looked at him; he had not seen such a beautiful animal in a long time. The horse’s skin shone like silk, he stood free and erect on powerful muscular legs. The grooms had difficulty restraining him; he reared back wildly and kicked; the straw covering the floor of the hall flew in all directions. He shook his head, snorting, and clouds of vapor streamed from his nostrils. He opened his mouth wide, showing his sound teeth. Charles patted the stallion’s flanks and fed him sugar from his hand. He really wanted to own this horse, but he could not dismiss the thought that Armagnac was trying somehow to trick him.