“You see, Saint-Pol, they put the noose around their necks themselves,” said Burgundy. He sat in the room where he received his friends and indmates. Depicted on the heavy Flemish tapestries covering the walls were the birth of Mary, the Annunciation, the sorrowing mother under the cross. Burgundy stood straddle-legged, staring at the splendor of line and color; his hands were clasped behind his back and his underlip, as usual, protruded pensively. He was speaking to the man whom he considered his most valuable collaborator: Waleran, Count of Saint-Pol, descended from the royal family of Luxembourg, Burgundy’s right arm, commander of armies and, recently, a captain of the garrison of the city of Paris. The Count of Saint-Pol was a stocky man with a broad, florid face; despite his weight, he moved with the buoyant elasticity of a man who exercises regularly. Stories circulated about the remarkable strength of his hands. He stood with his hands at his sides, listening to Burgundy, his face impassive.
“You accepted the challenge immediately, Monseigneur?” he asked.
Jean de Burgundy laughed curtly and drew a rolled sheet from his sleeve; silently he offered it to Saint-Pol.
“ ‘We, Jean, Duke of Burgundy, Count of Artois, etc., etc.,’ “ the Luxembourger read half-aloud; he held the parchment at arm’s length and squinted slightly — he was myopic—” ‘to you, Charles, who call yourself Duke of Orléans; to Philippe, etc, etc, who have sent us your challenge, etc., etc., know then that in order to put an end to the crimes, conspiracies, sorcery, etc., of the late Louis, your father, and thereby to protect our Sovereign Lord the King, we caused the said Louis to be killed, etc. Since you and your brothers intend manifestly to tread the same pernicious and ruinous path as your late father, we take upon ourselves the task, pleasing to God, of bringing you to your senses and chastising you duly as the liars, rebels and braggarts which you are. In witness thereof we sign these papers with our own seal, and so forth.’ Precisely.” Saint-Pol rolled up the parchment and returned it to Burgundy. “Precisely. This time you are really in earnest, my lord?”
“This time I am really serious, so help me God,” replied Burgundy.
It was clear to Saint-Pol that the Duke was delighted with the situation; it was to his advantage that Orléans had begun by sending him a challenge.
“I am ready,” Burgundy continued, always with that secret laughter in his voice and that air of enjoying someone else’s discomfiture. “So far as I am concerned, Orléans could not have chosen a better moment. Our troops stand ready. Paris is prepared for a siege. Let them come — I shall receive them warmly.”
“Hm.” Saint-Pol ran his palm over his lips and chin. Burgundy looked at him with a frown. “Don’t you agree with me, Saint-Pol? Out with your objections if you have any.”
“Hm,” repeated the Luxembourger; he sniffed a few times and gazed pensively at the scenes on the tapestries before him. “Are we really so sure of Paris, Monseigneur? Believe me, this matter has been carefully planned. Orléans’ challenge indicates that he feels pretty confident.”
“Do you doubt my influence over the Parisians?” Burgundy demanded irritably. “Wait and see whom they will choose if it comes to that.”
Saint-Pol thrust his hands under his broad girdle and put his head back as though he saw something fascinating on the sculptured beams of the ceiling.
“Things are no longer as they were. In fact I would almost say that you have squandered the most auspicious moment when you could have sent Orléans packing. In the course of the last two years you have made too many enemies. The University too is no longer well disposed toward you. You have become too powerful, and — with that power — a little too careless. It is no use to strike me,” he continued impassively, as Burgundy whirled quickly toward him with upraised hand. “What I say is the truth. You would do better to acknowledge it.”
Burgundy lowered his fist, strode to the other end of the room and sat down. Saint-Pol did not move. He seemed to be studying the tapestries with close attention.
“What are you driving at, Saint-Pol?” Jean spoke brusquely; he tapped the table top angrily with his fingers. “What are you trying to say? Must I bring more troops into Paris, must I imprison or exile Orléans’ people, must I buy the support of certain men — and if I must — who are they? Do not come to me now with vague hints. Facts, Saint-Pol, facts, if you please. But tell me only what I do not know myself.”
“Monseigneur.” Saint-Pol leaned toward Burgundy with both hands on the table. “So far as I can tell, two hostile groups are facing each other in the city: on the one hand the officers, magistrates and merchants — in short, everyone who used to enjoy power and a certain respect; on the other, the people from Saint-Jacques’ quarter — the butchers, flayers and tanners with their partisans and all the adventurers and vagrants on the other bank of the Seine. Now my advice to you is this: you must take advantage of this mutual hostility. If you support the Saint-Jacquards, you don’t have to fear that the officers and merchants will bring the Armagnacs inside. The butchers and tanners and all the idle rabble will preserve you from any possible traitors in their own camp. Enlist the butchers’ guild on your side, my lord, and you have a vigilant army always at your command.”
Burgundy frowned, and thrust forward his lower lip in thought. His father’s words kept darting through his mind: keep the people as your friend, the people can make and break rulers; never underrate the power of the mob; seek your strength in public favor, my son.
“Arm those fellows of Saint-Jacques then, but do it quickly,” he said to Saint-Pol. “Organize the guilds into troops, give them money, ask them their grievances, and make them promises; I don’t doubt that you will be able to find your way through those districts. Give them gifts, greet them with courtesy. Evidently you know what pleases those people most. But see to it that they receive weapons and instructions before Saint-Lawrence’s day.”
“Monseigneur, I think it advisable that you make this request for cooperation yourself,” said Saint-Pol mildly, but with determination. “You can accomplish more by personal sympathy than I can accomplish by promises or gifts. There are people, Monseigneur, who will go through fire and flame for a leader. They need to follow, to cling to something. You can be their leader if you approach them in the right way.”
Burgundy sniffed contemptuously.
“I have never heard that a member of a royal House had to beg for an alliance with butchers,” he cried, leaping to his feet. “A Duke of Burgundy does not beg for a treaty with butchers.”
Saint-Pol shrugged and bowed.
“It shall be as Your Grace desires,” he said formally. “I thought only that a personal appearance would fully restore the confidence in you which had been somewhat dispelled in the course of the year. The people are still well-disposed toward you, Monseigneur, but already there are many who ask themselves why you have not gone forward with the reforms in the Audit Chamber, why you have not revised the taxes, why you have not restored order in municipal affairs during your administration. You know how difficult it is to keep the people as a friend. But perhaps I do not see these things in their proper light, my lord. In that case I beg you to forgive me. A few days ago I heard a couple of small children singing in the street — The Duke of Burgundy! May God keep him happy!’ I hope that will always be the wish of Paris, Monseigneur.”