“Naturally. May God rest his soul.” With a mocking grimace Armagnac tugged at the crepe which he, like his confederates, wore bound about his right arm. “Now to business. What do you plan to do?”
Charles rose, “Messire Davy,” he said loudly to his Chancellor, “be so good as to read Monseigneur d’Armagnac the letter we received this morning from the King in Paris.”
“From Burgundy,” said Armagnac, also loudly.
“The messenger says the King is somewhat recovered,” remarked the Chancellor. He unrolled the letter and began to read from it slowly and carefully about distress in the city; now that the armies of Orléans and Burgundy occupied the countryside around Paris, the flow of victuals was greatly impeded, yes, made impossible. Food supplies were depleted. Fear of the soldiers prevented the populace from bringing in the harvest — whatever harvest could still be reaped. The King was extremely displeased with the attitudes of both parties. Did the treaty of Chartres mean so little to them? It was the King’s wish that Orléans as well as Burgundy and all their vassals and allies should return to their own domains. A board of impartial councillors would henceforth assist the King. The Provost des Essars was relieved of his office.
“That means our first demand is granted,” said Charles, motioning to Messire Davy to withdraw. “In the manifesto we declared that we wished to free the King from Burgundy. The King has now taken this measure himself. I am positive he will hear with favor my petition for justice.”
“Do you mean to say that I must send my men home without anything to show for their efforts?” Armagnac put his hands on his hips and set one foot on the bench. “They have smelled the odor of roasting meat, and now must they leave the fat drumsticks lying there? What do you think we are, Orléans?”
In November a new treaty was signed in the castle of Bicêtre — a treaty as troublesome and tricky as the preceding one. Berry, invited by the King to resume his seat in the Council, appeared this time also as a peacemaker and chairman of the discussion, much to the indignation of Charles, who could not understand how his great uncle could change his opinion with such rapidity. The Duke of Berry was able to adapt himself to every circumstance with bewildering ease. He pleaded the durability of an armistice and reconciliation between both parties with the same eloquence with which he had advocated war a good half year before. Burgundy himself did not appear; he had sent a number of well-armed envoys with a numerous following. Armagnac had also declined to engage in the discussions. He declared bluntly that the matter was no concern of his. In Bicêtre it was finally decided that the armistice would last until Easter; after that, they would negotiate anew.
In the southerly tower of Blois, Charles wrote a long letter to the King. Respectfully, patiently, driven by the sacred intention to put an end to a situation which one could call neither peace nor war, he set down once more his grievances against Burgundy. He sat in his own room, sober and quiet as a monk’s cell. The bed with the green curtains in which he had slept as a child filled the small room almost completely; between both narrow windows stood a cupboard with shelves where he kept his books, and an iron chest containing a few personal belongings: the golden goblet and the crucifix which his mother had given him, a handsome triptych, buckles and rings, his collar of the Order of the Hedgehog. There was no chimney in the room; Charles had to content himself with the heat from the glowing charcoal brazier at his feet. He sat in a chair at a reading desk such as monks used, and wrote page after page in his own hand; he found great satisfaction in this occupation as well as in the careful composition of the letter.
It was snowing outside: the fields around Blois were white, the roofs of houses and barns and the boughs of the trees heavy laden with frost. For days, thick swarms of flakes had fallen from heaven; all sounds were muffled as though they came from far away. All activity had stopped. In the castle and the city the inhabitants lived on stores of provisions piled up over the years. By now Blois contained almost three times as many soldiers, horses and beasts of burden as before; only scanty portions could be doled out if there was to be any hope of survival through the winter without famine. Maintenance of the troops cost Charles handfuls of money; the previous autumn he had had to order his treasures sold in Paris: crowns, chains of honor, a golden ship which had been used as a table ornament, images of saints, candlesticks and jewels. Now the soldiers of the household had been paid to the last denier: whatever remained of the money had to be used for the customary New Year’s gifts to members of his household. In order to meet his necessary expenses Charles was forced to borrow small sums from his physician, his Chancellor and substantial citizens of Blois. He himself lived with extreme frugality; in the book in which he listed his personal expenses only three items appeared that winter: a hood, a box of writing materials and a pair of mittens.
Bonne d’Armagnac’s dowry seemed finally to amount to nothing more than a drop on a scalding platter. Moreover, there was no guarantee that his father-in-law would keep his word about the payment terms. Charles had seen his new bride only once, during the wedding ceremonies at Riom, one of Berry’s castles; of the child Bonne he remembered nothing except that she had black braids and round red cheeks. After the church service she had been taken back to her mother. No one had had the time or the desire to organize a fete.
Charles was pleased that he was not required to keep the girl with him. In Blois there was hardly room for women’s quarters, and besides, he could not afford a retinue for the new Duchess. Surely Bonne would not have liked to live in the nursery. Charles seldom visited the apartment where Marguerite played with her wooden dolls and his little daughter crawled on a mat. When he stepped inside and saw the clothes hanging by the fire to dry, or heard the Dame de Maucouvent singing nursery songs in her shrill voice, he fancied himself a child again. It seemed to him at those times only a short while since he himself had lived safely hidden inside the four walls of the nursery, surrounded by toys, protected from worry and pain. He lifted his daughter in his arms. Day by day she was becoming more human, he discovered, easier to understand, a creature of flesh and blood like himself; the frail little doll in the cradle had inspired only wonder and deep pity in him.
Although Blois was blanketed in a winter silence, Charles could not recapture the calm life of the past. The forced inactivity weighed heavily upon him. Writing the letter to the King gave him an illusion, at least, of accomplishment. He poured into the words all his botded-up energy, all his anxiety to be finished with the task which was his inheritance.
Once again, aided by his secretary Garbet, Charles went over the documents concerning the murder and everything that had happened after it. Once more he had to relive those dreadful, tragic days. Only now did he seem to feel the violence of the blow which had struck him; he had not been able at the time to grasp the full significance of his father’s death. A feeling of bewilderment and painful impotence had overwhelmed him when, with Isabelle, he had watched beside his mother who was half mad with grief; now on reading the account of the murder and burial, on reviewing Petit’s accusations, going over once more the royal letters informing him of the confiscation of manors and castles, he understood for the first time his mother’s courage. Indignation and sorrow made him express himself in a way which perhaps did not belong in so solemn a document as his letter to the King; if he had asked his advisors’ opinion they would have told him to mitigate the emotional tone of the letter, and the way in which he had underscored each point in its long list of events.
He forgot that he sat in his quiet room between his bed and his bookcase, that the snow fell silently and unceasingly behind the small window panes, that his feet, near the charcoal grate, were warm, but his fingers stiff from cold. He saw himself in the dark alley where his father’s bloody body lay in the mud; later at the funeral mass he saw Burgundy, dressed in mourning, holding the edge of the pall; he saw his mother kneeling in humble entreaty for justice; he relived the empty ceremony in the cathedral of Chartres.