The She Wolf of France (21 page)

King Charles the Fair seemed quite indifferent and journeyed from Orleans to Saint-Maixent and to Chateauneuf-sur-Loire, still waiting for his third wife to announce the happy news that she was pregnant.

Queen Isabella had become, so to speak, mistress of the palace in Paris, and held a sort of second English Court there.

The date of the homage had been fixed for August 30th. Edward therefore waited for the last week in the month to set out on his journey and pretend to fall ill at Sandown Abbey, near Dover. The Bishop of Winchester was then. sent to Paris to certify under oath, if need be, though he was not
asked to do
so, the truth of the excuse, and to suggest the substitution of the son for the father, it being understood that Prince Edward, who had been made Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Ponthieu, would bring the promised sixty thousand livres.

On September 16th the young Prince arrived, but accompanied by the Bishop of Oxford and above all by Walter
Stapledon,
Bishop of Exeter and Lord Treasurer. In selecting Stapledon, who was one of the most active and violent partisans of the Despenser party, and also the cleverest, most cunning and among the most hated of his entourage, King Edward emphasized n
ot only the fact that he had no intention
of changing his policy but that he mistrusted everything that was going forward in Paris. The Bishop of Exeter's mission was not solely that of
an escort.

The very day of their arrival, and almost at the
very moment Queen Isabella was
clasping her son in her arms, it was learned that Monseigneur of Valois had had a relapse and that it was to be expected God would take him to Himself at any moment. Everyone, the family, the great dignitaries, the barons who were in Paris, the English envoys, immediately hurried to Perray, except the indifferent Charles the Fair, who was
superintending a few interior
alterations at Vincennes which he had ordered Pain
-
fetiz, his architect, to undertake.

And the people of France continued to enjoy the happy year
o
f
1325.

7. Each prince who dies

TO
THOSE
who had not seen him during these last weeks Monseigneur of Valois seemed to have changed terribly. In the first place, everyone was used to seeing hi
m always with some form of head
dress, whether it was a large crown glittering with precious
stones on days of State, or an embroidered velvet cap whose long scalloped crest fell to his shoulder, or again one of those caps of maintenance with a gold coronet about it which he wore within doors. For the first time he appeared bareheaded, and his hair was fair, mingled with white and faded with age, while illness had taken the twist out
o
f his long curls, which now hung lifelessly down his cheeks and over the pillows. That he should have grown so thin was startling enough, when one considered how stout and ruddy he had been, but it was less so than the contorted immobility of one side of his face and the twisted mouth from which a servant was continually wiping away the saliva, or than the dull fixity of his eyes. The gold-embroidered sheets, the blue hangings sewn with lilies which hung draped like a baldachin over the bed-head, merely served to emphasize the dying man's physical decay.

And before receiving the crowd of people who were now pressing into the room, he had asked for a looking-glass and for a moment had studied that face which, only two months ago, had dominated kings and nations. What did prestige and the power of his name matter to him now? Where were all the ambitions he had pursued so long? And what satisfaction was there in always walking with one's head held -high while other people bowed, since within that head, the day before yesterday, there had taken place so shattering a fall into the dark void? And what was the use of the hand whose back and palm servants, grooms and vassals had hurried so assiduously to kiss, now that it lay dead beside him? And the other hand, which he could still control, and which he would use in a little while for the last time to sign the will he was about to dictate - if a left hand would lend itself to writing - did it belong to him any more than the signet ring with which he sealed his orders and which would be slipped from his finger after his death? Had a
nything ever really belonged to
him?

His right leg, which was completely paralysed, seemed already to have been taken from him. And at times he felt a sort of empty chasm in his chest,

M
an is a thinking individual who
acts on other men and transforms the world. And then, suddenly, the individual disintegrates, falls apart, and then what is the world, and what are other men? At this moment, the important thing for Monseigneur of Valois was no longer titles, possessions, crowns, kingdoms, the exercise of power, or the primacy of his own person among the living. The emblems of his lineage, the acquisition of
wealth, even the heirs of his blood whom he saw assembled about him, none of these was of any account in his lustreless eyes. The important things were the September air, the leaves, still green but beginning to turn, which he could see through the open windows, but above all the air, the air he breathed with such difficulty and which was engulfed in that chasm which seemed to lie deep within his chest. As long as he could feel the air entering his throat, the world would continue to exist wi
th himself as its centre, but a
frail centre now, like the last flicker of a candle
-
flame. And then everything would cease to be, or rather everything would continue to be, but in an utter darkness
and a terrifying silence, as a
cathedral still exists when the
last candle has been put out.

Valois thought of the great deaths in his family. He could hear again the words of Philip the Fair: `See what the world is worth. Here lies the King of France!' He remembered those of his nephew, Philippe the Long: `Look on your Sovereign Lord; there is none among you, however poor he may be, with whom I would not exchange my lot!' At the time, he had heard these words without understanding them; but now he knew what the princes of his family had felt at the moment f passing into the tomb. There were no other words in which to express it, and those who still had time to live could not understand it. Each man who dies is the poorest man in the world.

And when all was dissolved, destroyed and extinguished, when the cathedral was filled with shadows, what wou
ld that poorest of men discover
o
n the other side? Would he find
what he had been taught by religion? Yet what were those teachings but immense and alarming uncertainties? Would he be brought before a Judgement Seat; and what was the face of the Judge like? And in what scales would all the actions of his life be weighed? What punishment could be inflicted on a being who no longer existed? Punishment ... What punishment? Perhaps the punishment consisted in being conscious at the moment of crossing the dark wall.

Charles of Valois could not put aside the thought that Enguerrand de Marigny had also been conscious, indeed even more completely conscious, for he was a man in good health and at the height of his powers, who was not dying of the rupture
o
f some secret cog in the human mechanism, but by another's will. For him it had not been the last flicker of a single candle, but all the flames blown out at once.

The very same marshals, dignitaries and great officers who had
accompanied Marigny to the scaffold were here now; standing round his bed, filling the whole room, overflowing into the next room beyond the door, and they had that very same look f men who were leading one of their number to his last heartbeat, strangers to the death they were watching, participants in a future from which the condemned man was eliminated;

Oh, he would have given all the crowns of Byzantium, all the thrones of Germany, all the sceptres and all the gold from ransoms for one look, just one, in which he did not feel himself eliminated. Sorrow, compassion, regret, horror, and the sadness of memories: all these might be seen in the circle of multicoloured eyes surrounding the bed of a dying prince. But every one of these emotions was simply a proof of his elimination.

Valois looked at his eldest son, Philippe, the tall fellow with the big nose, standing beside him under the baldachin, who tomorrow, or one day soon, or perhaps even in a minute's time, would be the only, the real Count of Valois; the living Valois; tall. Philippe was sad, as was proper, and was holding the hand of his wife, Jeanne of Burgundy, the Lame; but he wa
s also being careful to adopt
the right attitude because of the future before him, and he seemed to be saying to those present: `Look, it's my father who's dying!' And from those features, of which he was the source and the progenitor, Valois was wiped out.

And the other sons: Charles of Alencon who avoided catching the dying man's eye, and turned slowly away when their glances met; and young Louis, who was frightened, seemed indeed almost ill with fear because this was the first deathbed he had ever attended. And his daughters, several of whom were present: the Countess of Hainaut, who from time to time made a sign to the servant whose duty it was to wipe his mouth, and her younger sister, the Countess of Blois, and a little farther away the Countess of Beaumont beside her giant husband Robert of Artois, both standing in a group with Queen Isabella of England and the young Duke of Aquitaine, the boy with the long eyelashes, behaving as well as if he was in church, who would have but this one memory of his Great-Uncle Valois.

It seemed to Valois as it they were plotting together over there, preparing a future from which he would also be eliminated.

If he turned his head to the other side of the bed, it was to see standing there, upright, competent, like
-
a woman who has seen many people die and is already a widow, Mahaut de Chatillon
Saint-Pol, his third wife. Gaucher de Chatillon, the old Constable, with his saurian head and his seventy-seven years, was in
process of winning another victory; he was watching a man twenty years his junior die before him.

Etienne de Mornay and Jean de Cherchemont, both former Chancellors f Charles of Valois before becoming in turn Chancellors of France, Mille de Noyers, the lawyer and Master of the Exchequer, Robert Bertrand, the Knight of the Green Lion, and lately appointed a marshal, Brother Thomas de Bourges, his confessor, and Jean de Torpo, his physician, were all there to help him, each in accordance w
ith his function. But who could help a man to die? Hugues
de
Bouville wiped away a
tear. But for what was fat Bouville weeping if it were not for his own lost youth, the imminence of old age and the passing of his own life?

Indeed,
a dying prince was a poorer man than the poorest serf in his kingdom. For the poor serf had not to die in public; his wife and children could deceive him as to the imminence
o
f death; he was surrounded by no pomp foretelling his end; nor was he obliged to draw up, when it; extremis, the affidavit of his
own demise. And
indeed that was what they were all waiting for, all these high personages assembled. For what, after all, was a will but an avowal drawn up by oneself of one's own death? It was a document concerned with other people's futures. The secretary was waiting, his inkpot in place on his writing-board, his parchment and pen ready. So be it. He must begin, or rather finish. It was not so much the effort of mind that was so great but the effort of renouncement. A will should begin: like a prayer.

`In the Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

Charles of Valois had spoken. Everyone thought he was praying.

`Write, friend,' he said to the secretary. `Can't you hear that I'm
dictating? I, Charles -'

He stopped, because it gave him a painful and frightening sensation to hear his own voice uttering his own name for the last time. Was not a name the very symbol of a man's existence and of his individuality? Valois would have liked to stop there, because nothing else interested him any more. But there were all those eyes fixed on him
. For the last time he must act
and for others from whom he already felt himself so profoundly separated.

`I, Charles, son of the King of France, Count of Valois, Alencon, Chartres and Anjou, make known to all concerned that I, being sound in mind, though ill in body...'

Though his utterance was slightly embarrassed and his tongue stumbled over certain words, often the simplest, his mental
machinery, that had always been accustomed to formulate his wishes in words, apparently continued to function normally. But to the dying man it seemed as if he himself was his only audience. He was in the middle of a river; his voice was speaking to the bank he was leaving; he trembled at the thought of what would happen when he reached the farther side.
and asking God's mercy, while in fear and dread of His Judgement, I order by these presents the disposal of myself and my possessions, and make my last will and testament in the manner hereinafter written. In the first place I resign my soul into the keeping of our Lord Jesus Christ and His merciful Mother and all His saints. ..'

On a sign from the Countess of Hainaut the servant wiped away the saliva which was dribbling from the corner of his mouth. All private conversation had ceased and everyone was trying to avoid even the rustling of clothes. Those present seemed utterly astonished that this inert and feeble body, crippled by illness, should still be able to think so clearly and even be fastidious in the choice of language.

Gaucher de Chatillon murmured to his neighbours: `He won't die today.'

Jean de Torpo, one of the physicians, shook his head doubtfully. In his opinion Monseigneur Charles would not see another dawn. But Gaucher went on: `I've seen many of them, I've seen many of them... I tell you there's still life in that body. ..'

The Countess of Hainaut put her finger to her lips and prayed the Constable to be silent; Gaucher was deaf and did not realize how loud he whispered.

Valois continued his dictation: `I wish my body to be buried in the Church of the Minorites in Paris, between th
e tombs of my two first wives..
.'

His eyes sought the face of his third wife, the living one, the future widow Mahaut de Chatillon. Three wives, and a whole life had been lived ... And it was Catherine, the second, whom he had loved the most, perhaps because of her mythical crown of Constantinople. Catherine had been a beauty, well worthy to bear her legendary title. Valois was astonished that this unhappy body, half paralysed and on the very verge of annihilation, should still retain a vague and diffused quivering of the old desires that transmitted life.
And so
he would lie beside her, beside the Empress, and on the other side he would have his first wife, the daughter of the King of Naples, both dust for such a long time now. How strange that the memory of a desire should
remain when the body which was its object no longer exists! And what of the Resurrection? But there was his third wife, the wife he was looking at now, who had been a good companion to him too. He must leave her something.

`Item, I desire my heart to be placed in the town and place which my wife Mahaut de Saint-Pol elects for her burial; and my entrails in the Abbey of Chaalis, the right to divide my body having been granted me by a Bull of our most Holy Father, the Pope. , He hesitated in a vain endeavour t
o remember the date, and added previously.
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