He wished that he knew what lay concealed behind the fierce yellow-brown eyes, behind that boisterous façade, what thoughts were in that head. He thanked Armagnac for the gift; while the horse was being led away, the Gascon proposed a toast to Orléans’ health. In accordance with an old custom he flung the beaker over his shoulder against the wall and then strode to embrace Charles. The grooms had delivered the horse to the stableboys outside the door to the hall and now stood expectantly, staring at the royal table. Charles knew what they were waiting for; he had to reward them. It became quiet in the hall; everyone was looking at him. At his own table he saw expressions of indifference, amusement, impatience. A prince did not forget things like that; he had to know how to dispense money smoothly, but not too openhandedly or carelessly — if the knowledge was not innate, it had to be taught by careful education. One could tell a great deal about the character and savoir-faire of a man by the way in which he discharged this honorable duty.
Charles fumbled for the purse which hung from his belt, annoyed at his own negligence. As he loosened the cord, he calculated rapidly to himself. He knew that only some loose silver and a few valuable gold pieces remained in the purse. That was virtually all he possessed; he had been forced to sell books and tableware in order to pay the travel and entertainment expenses of his allies. He could not give the boys the silver coins — that was too little. And he could not give them one gold coin; custom demanded a gift for each of them. He had no choice. He took the two heavy gold coins from his purse and tossed them into the caps which the grooms hurriedly held out to him. This act was received with murmurs and shouts of approval. Armagnac’s followers were especially pleased; they saw in the royal gesture a conscious mark of homage to their master. The latter, however, laughed to himself; he suspected that the young Duke of Orléans had nearly ruined himself by his generosity to the grooms.
Charles sat alone in the tower chamber of Gien where he and his advisors had met almost daily for a week. Before him on the table lay the unrolled parchment of the manifesto addressed to the King, written in large, beautiful, even letters. Maitre Garbet had labored over it for two days; he was a skilled calligrapher. Charles nodded approvingly and bit his thumb while he pored over the lines. He read the end of the statement softly aloud: “And so we humbly beseech you, most powerful and sovereign Lord, to consider our petitions and take account of the goals for which we strive, to wit: the rightful restoration of Your Sovereign Majesty to the state of honor which is your due. And we beg you further to give us leave to fight in your name for the preservation of liberty and justice in your Kingdom, first for the greater glory of God, secondly for your honor and lastly for the well-being and welfare of your subjects. That this struggle may unite all your truly loyal and devoted subjects, all those genuinely friendly toward you, is the sincere wish of …” And here would be appended the signatures of Orléans, Berry, Bourbon, Clermont, Alençon and Brittany.
While Charles stood bending over the document, the leather curtain before the door parted behind him. Even without turning the young man knew who had entered: a musky smell met his nostrils; he heard the clank of mail and the tap of a riding whip against boots.
“Will you not sit down, Messeigneurs?” Charles shoved the parchment to one side. Berry and Armagnac greeted him and seated themselves on a bench under a green canopy. Armagnac had just come from the hunt; he had spent the day in the fields with a number of nobles, killing ducks and rabbits to chase away boredom.
“The document is ready, my lords,” said Charles with satisfaction; he found the manifesto nicely worded and beautifully executed. He was content with his work; not for nothing had he lain awake nights reflecting on the precise meaning of a word, choosing a specific turn of phrase. “I trust we can sign it tonight.”
“Nephew,” said Berry abruptly, “my son-in-law Armagnac and I consider it our duty to warn you. We have learned from a very reliable source that Monseigneur of Brittany will probably refuse to sign the manifesto.”
Charles had been walking to his chair; he stopped and stood near the window.
“Why not?” he asked, with quick suspicion. He looked at both faces in the shadow of the canopy. “What do you mean?”
Armagnac began to speak, but Berry swiftly cut him off.
“Burgundy has reportedly offered Monseigneur of Brittany 20,000 gold écus, supposedly at the King’s request, if he declared himself ready to go over with all his men to the enemy.”
Charles began to object passionately, but Berry raised both hands in a soothing gesture, and went on. “Listen to me — of course it’s always possible that he won’t sell himself for that amount. But Brittany has huge debts and his quarrel with his mother has not helped him any; he’ll get nothing from that quarter. He can’t pay his men their wages.”
“In short,” said Armagnac, “whoever can pay his debts and his soldiers will possess him.”
Berry gestured at him vehemently and turned back to Charles. “For two days Brittany has been negotiating with Burgundy’s messengers a few miles from Gien. I tell you this to help you: a similar offer in time on your part could prevent you from losing an important ally.”
Charles turned and gazed out the grey-green convex window panes. Through the turbid glass he saw vague spots like shapes seen under water. Now he knew the meaning of Brittany’s silences and evasive glances.
“I can offer him nothing,” he replied. “For I have nothing myself. I am probably poorer than Brittany.”
Bernard d’Armagnac rose and approached him slowly with bent head, but his gaze was searching and he smiled with satisfaction, like a patient angler who has finally hooked a fish. He came close to Charles. The warm vapor, d’Armagnac’s constant odor of stables, wine and sweat, Charles found suddenly revolting. He found Ar-magnac’s habit of intruding himself intolerable.
“Look here, Orléans,” said the Gascon; he attempted for the moment to subdue his raucous voice. “My offer comes to you just in time. If you take my daughter Bonne to wife, you will receive 100,000 gold francs from me—30,000 on the marriage day and the rest in annual payments of 10,000 francs. I shall feed her and clothe her until she is old enough to live with you. Come now, you can’t call that a bad offer. Believe me, you can’t do anything without money. Your pockets are empty, Orléans — how can you accomplish what you set out to do?”
“We respect your grief, nephew,” whispered Berry, who stood now on the other side of Charles, “but think, we princes seldom enjoy the privilege of long mourning. We have other obligations. It seems to me that you ought to accept Armagnac’s proposal. The bride is still only a child. And you are over the worst of your sorrow, nephew.”
With a heavy heart Charles thought of his empty purse, of the far from encouraging conversation which he had had a few days earlier with his treasurer and the captains of his troops. A feeling of disgust and boundless weariness crept over him. Must he then always allow himself to be ruled by others, was it his fate to be goaded along just those paths which he did not want to take? They were right — without money there were no allies; without allies, no power; without power, no justice; without justice — for him at any rate — no honor, and what man can live without honor? With downcast eyes he pressed the hand which Armagnac held out to him.