“Be still now, control yourself.” The Duke of Orléans spoke almost roughly. “I do what I can, but I cannot move mountains. We must help ourselves, brother, the wolves are stealing through the snow; they will not spare us. I shall have to put up with great frustration, but I do not propose to abandon the struggle because of that. I shall be too clever for Burgundy. He thinks he has put me in checkmate by effecting the marriage pact with England; but he is mistaken once again, our lord uncle. I shall seek my strength where he has sought it himself—in friendship with Richard of England. I have already taken steps to that end.”
The King wrinkled his brow; he could hardly grasp the state of affairs, so much had happened since he had last been lucid. He strained to understand. A fierce throbbing behind his eyes warned of the onset of a headache. He put a hand to his forehead and sank back in his seat.
“Am I tiring you, brother?” Louis spoke self-reproachfully. But the King quickly shook his head. “Tell me more,” he whispered. “Do you advise me to continue negotiations then?”
“You don’t have any alternative. The English lords are here and the Queen has let them know they can call upon Madame Isabelle this afternoon. The Dukes are meeting continually to define conditions. Take a piece of advice from me …” He leaned toward the King and laid a hand on his knee. “Insist on the insertion of a clause in the treaty which excludes Madame Isabelle from succession to the throne—even from inheriting French territory. Be royal with a dowry, brother, but demand that clause!”
The King bit the knuckles of his left hand. He gazed into his brother’s face, so close to his own: he saw the healthy glow under Louis’ brown skin, the long, muscular hand raised in warning. The King shuddered with disgust at his own decrepitude.
“You could insist upon it,” he said, groping for words. “You are always there, aren’t you?”
Louis sighed with impatience.
“This is too important,” he said emphatically. “God be praised, you are now able to enforce your views in this matter. They have kept me in the dark about everything, as usual: Burgundy has seen to it that I was kept busy elsewhere. Do you know anything about our difficulties with the Pope?” he asked, after a brief, prudent silence.
The King nervously shook his head. For a few moments Louis stared into space. It was a difficult task to enlighten the King; nonetheless he wanted to tell him as much as he could, for the Regents would no doubt attempt to force their views upon him during his temporary recovery.
“Can you remember,” Louis went on slowly, “that you allowed a poll to be taken among the clergy more than a year ago, on the advice of the University? They favored then making concessions on behalf of re-elections.”
“Yes. True.” Charles still spoke hesitantly. “But—surely—they were correct—these doctors at the Sorbonne, were they not? You have always disagreed with them, brother, haven’t you?”
Louis shrugged. “That is beside the point,” he said testily. “I admit that I could not—and cannot—tolerate their blatant arrogance. ‘Rectify and judge—et doctrinaliter, et indecialiter?” Softly he mimicked Gershon’s hoarse voice. “They act as if they know everything. Besides, they supported Rome, which was to be expected—the learned doctors almost always come here from abroad. They cursed Avignon whenever they spoke. But then last fall Pope Clement died …”
The King nodded a few times; his eyes began to shine.
“Yes, yes.” He talked fast. “I know all about it. I signed letters to the Cardinals at Avignon, asking them not to choose a new pope.”
“The Cardinals left the letters unopened and immediately chose Pedro de Luna.” Louis’ laughter was jeering; he was thinking of his own hopes at the time. “I thought then that this was a positive action, because I knew that Luna supported cession. Well, I soon had reason enough to doubt his good intentions. The University did not leave us in peace; daily it sent doctors and orators to plead the cause of cession. Then this spring Monseigneur de Berry and I went to Avignon with an embassy from the Sorbonne. We talked with de Luna day and night but he is a sly fox who does not let himself be tempted by promises—not even for a moment. And what is the result? A pope sits in Avignon—his name is Benedict—who never for a single moment considers resigning his office in order to have a second ballot. And so farewell to the unity of the Church.”
“My God,” said Charles softly. “How are we to find solace to ease the pain of existence when our comforter, the Church, is torn by discord and dissension?”
Louis made an irritable gesture. “The Church, the Church … Sometimes I think that we ought to seek our solace, as you call it, anywhere where there are no priests and prelates. Who can enlighten us in our dark ignorance? For we are in the darkness, brother, we hardly dare to feel our way …”
The King was becoming restless. He felt tired and hot. “What are you babbling about now?” he muttered. “What you have just told me is bad enough, but what can I do about it? What do you expect of me? Where is Madame d’Orléans?” he asked suddenly, sitting up straight. “Why hasn’t she come to visit me yet? I would like to see her. It is a long time since she was last here—is she ill? Why don’t you answer me?” He looked at Louis with suspicion. Orléans sat with bowed head.
“My wife is no longer in Saint-Pol,” he said finally, without looking at the King. “She lives in the Hotel de Behaigne—she has been there since January, since she went to church after the birth of our son Charles.”
The Hôtel de Behaigne was one of the many houses which Louis d’Orléans owned in Paris. It was comfortably furnished and set amid beautiful gardens.
Two red spots appeared on the King’s cheekbones. He too lowered his eyes. “Why?” he whispered, inexplicably choked by feelings of guilt and shame.
“Your friendship for Madame d’Orléans has aroused suspicion and mistrust,” said Louis formally. “I thought it advisable that she should leave Saint-Pol.”
“My God,” said the King, “this is a gross insult. Is Burgundy behind it?”
Louis shrugged. “It can’t be tracked down. You might as well try to surprise a viper in his hole as try to trace the origin of an ugly rumor; you know that as well as I, brother.”
The King, already restless and overwrought, could not restrain his emotion. He hung over the arm of the bench, racked by sobs. In vain Louis attempted to quiet him with soothing words, rebukes, promises.
The physician, Freron, who had not taken his eyes from the royal tent even for an instant, approached in haste, followed by the King’s old valet. Despite the physician’s mild manner and his courteous, even submissive demeanor toward the Duke of Orléans, he retained an aura of cold determination, verging on brutality. Freron was considered to be a skillful doctor; only Isabeau knew that he put his own interests before the welfare of his royal patient. It required no effort for him to do what his predecessor, de Harselly, would never have done; at Isabeau’s request he administered to the King potions and powders prepared by the exorcist Guillaume; sometimes he brought the ascetic into the King’s bedroom at midnight to perform spells in secret.
As Louis d’Orléans emerged from under the canopy, the physician cast a venomous glance at him; he intensely disliked the King’s brother, who always argued against him as well as against Arnaud Guillaume. Orléans bit his lip; he blamed himself for his impulsiveness. But he knew from experience that he must take quick advantage of the King’s lucid moments before Isabeau or the Regents could stop him from speaking privately to his brother by taking up his time with trifles. Isabeau and the Dukes were preoccupied at the moment with the important visit of the English nobles, but they would notice the King’s recovery soon enough.
“Rest now, Sire my King,” Louis said gently to the sick man who, supported by his valet, had taken a draught of some medicine; the physician stood nearby, watching coldly. “I shall come back later; there is still a lot to talk about.”
The King nodded and waved his hand. He had recovered himself somewhat, but his lip
s still trembled and his eyes were bloodshot.
A stir ran through the group of nobles standing at the other end of the gallery. The Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, preceded by sentries and pages from the royal retinue, and accompanied by a secretary and a few clerks, appeared at the gate which joined this section of Saint-Pol with the state rooms. Orléans acknowledged the magistrate’s grave salutations and took formal leave of his brother. “The birds should be brought inside; it is too hot,” he said to one of the pages as he left the gallery. Fréron, who had given the order to bring the birds outside, blinked several times.
The King invited de Tignonville to sit opposite him under the canopy. “Don’t talk about my health, Messire. I want to use these few hours which God has granted me to put my affairs in order.”
De Tignonville, an older man with a tranquil, sober demeanor, closed his eyes in a gesture of understanding. He nodded to the secretary who stepped forward with some rolls of vellum: accounts, surveys, petitions. While de Tignonville was busy with these papers, the King hurriedly removed the pile of playing cards from the table.
“How goes it in Paris?” he asked, staring uneasily at the many closely written pages which the Provost was carefully smoothing out before offering them to him.
“The city is sorely concerned for Your Majesty,” replied de Tig-nonville slowly, “and also about the schism in the Holy Church. The populace is disquieted and fearful; the winter was severe. There is much suffering in the city and around it and now the land is stricken by drought. I have often noticed,” he continued after a pause, “that in times of stress, men behave in different ways: some seek penance and a sober life; others fall into crime and licentiousness. So it is in Paris, Sire: there are processions and gatherings in the churchyard of the Innocents—but the taverns and bordellos are as full as the churches and the Chatelet, the pillory and Gallows Hill are overcrowded. I do not believe that such a rabble has ever roamed through the city streets as in recent years. The houses are falling down, the streets are filthy. I do not bring you good news, Sire, but I bring you the truth.”
The King sat huddled together for a few minutes, without touching the papers spread before him. In the green reflection of the tapestries his was the face of a drowned man—flabby and translucent, drained of blood.
“How can the body be healthy when the mind is ravaged by disease?” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “Surely savagery and disorder must prevail in the cities of France, de Tignonville; for when the King was well, he had neither the inclination nor the insight—and now that he wishes to do his duty like a good prince—God knows—he has lost his senses.” He turned his head from side to side as though he were in pain.
The Provost sighed and said nothing.
Louis d’Orléans walked slowly through the reception halls in the old part of the palace, followed at a distance by Jacques van Hersen and two gentlemen of his suite. The halls were crowded; the arrival of the English envoys had drawn nobles and dignitaries to Saint-Pol from far beyond the confines of Paris. Orléans acknowledged their formal greetings with brief replies; he had no desire to chat or even to exchange civilities. He knew this behavior was unwise; he was making his displeasure clear to all these people. But at the moment he was not capable of masking his real feelings. He set out for his own apartments; although his official residence was the Hôtel de Béhaigne, he spent six days a week in Saint-Pol.
He dismissed his followers and withdrew to the dusky coolness of the armory. Here he was seized by the same feelings of despondency which had overwhelmed him during the winter and spring; in his uncertainty and anguish at his own helplessness, he paced back and forth between the wall hangings with their autumnal colors and the racks of swords and knives. He thought bitterly how unrewarding the task was which he had taken upon himself; the only thing he was striving after was to undo Burgundy’s work, to weaken the Regent’s every move by a counter-move. He could not see yet where his actions were leading; he could not himself take control of the situation by pushing Burgundy off the stage. He thought of himself as one of those water insects called whirlygigs which are in constant motion but never make any headway. He moved incessantly between Isabeau, the Duke, the King, almost always a little behind events. If he should ever move a little ahead, his uncle of Burgundy was hot on his heels. Valentine’s removal to the Hotel de Béhaigne, the abortive negotiations with the Pope at Avignon, the plans for the royal marriage—these were all personal defeats for him.
He knew that he had to act again to thwart Burgundy, that he had to change his plans and do what Burgundy least expected him to do, and he knew that this behavior smacked of desperation; he hated this constant maneuvering, these abrupt changes of direction. His attention had been diverted from the Italian situation: Gian Galeazzo had been made Duke of Milan by the Holy Roman Emperor, Wenceslaus; this expanded the tyrant’s power. Louis guessed that in the future his father-in-law would want to settle his own affairs without any outside help. And it was doubtful that Pope Benedict of Avignon would abdicate of his own free will, especially after what had happened in the spring. The advocates of cession found a staunch supporter in the Duke of Burgundy; for that reason Louis considered throwing his own support to the Avignon Pope, however much he distrusted him, but first it was his duty to revise his attitude toward the English question. The only thing he could find no solution for was Valentine’s exile; he watched helplessly as the enmity against her grew day by day in the royal circle at court—although they sent her letters and gifts—and among the people of Paris.
Louis d’Orléans stood motionless before one of the arms racks, his hands behind his back. He had once heard a tale of a knight whose evil fate hung around his neck day and night in the shape of a demon. Now he himself felt the constant weight of a leaden, oppressive presence. Even at the hunt, or at games, or during the brief amorous adventures which he pursued from a craving for oblivion, he was never free from the burden of melancholy. He thought of his brother the King, huddled apprehensive and distraught under the green tapestries of his pavilion, afraid of the physician, of new attacks of madness.
Over the course of a few years the good-natured, pleasure-loving young man had become a wreck, a hopeless invalid, who tried vainly in moments of lucidity to make up for what he had frittered away during the ten years of his reign. This man, tormented by feverish bewilderment, wore the Crown of France. His hand, which could not hold a glass of wine without spilling it, all too quickly took up the pen to sign decrees and edicts, the significance of which he could not possibly grasp. He alternated rapidly between suspicion and unquestioning trust: if in the morning he allowed himself to be convinced of something by Louis, at noon he let himself be equally persuaded of an opposing view by Burgundy. Louis knew that this was true, from his own experience; not infrequently after a talk with Burgundy the King had revoked a decision which he had made earlier at Louis’ insistence.
He sighed and resumed his walk through the armory. The Holy Virgins who were leading Mary to her Coronation in Paradise smiled down from the walls, the stiff folds of their garments spread around their feet over the celestial fields. Among roses and lilies, Saint Catherine, Saint Barbara, Ursula, Veronica, walked in procession wearing crowns and veils like worldly princesses. Louis gazed at their sweet, mysterious, laughing faces, at their hands, folded demurely on their breasts. Mariette d’Enghien had looked like that as she stood among the women of Valentine’s entourage. Neither his considerable powers of persuasion nor the magic ring which the astrologer Salvia had brought him seemed able to shatter her resistance. She spurned gifts, thrusting them shyly but firmly away; whenever, in the seclusion of house or court, he endeavored to approach her, she stood motionless, with lowered eyes, in anguished apprehension. Had it been any other woman, Louis would undoubtedly have abandoned his hopeless courtship earlier; he did not usually go to such pains for the sake of beauty alone. Besides, he never needed to, for women as a rule offered themselves before he was even ready to approach
them. He did not know himself why he desired the Demoiselle d’Enghien more desperately from day to day; in the couplets which he sent her he compared her to a meadow buried under snow, to a frozen crystalline mountain brook or an icy spring wind. She seldom answered him when he spoke to her; sometimes she only looked at him and her glance was green and sparkling—something smouldered there, which he did not understand. He tried to forget his chagrin and annoyance in the arms of other women; fleeting adventures with strangers encountered in streets or taverns; a few days’ fling with a court lady of the Queen’s, the frivolous wife of a nobleman who lived in Saint-Pol. Valentine he treated with the greatest delicacy; since her confinement she had not yet regained her strength, and although she hid it well, she suffered from the calumny which threatened to make her life in Paris impossible.
Louis smiled sardonically, gazing at the placid saints on the wall hanging. “Has she a talisman which protects her from love?” he said in a low voice. “But why is she uncertain then? She flees, but she herself does not know why.” An enticing image rose before him: Maret, her auburn hair loose upon her shoulders, her chaste garment about to slip away … He covered his eyes with his hand and turned hastily from the tapestry.
Valentine, Duchess of Orléans, sat in a small bower in the ornamental garden of the Hotel de Behaigne. Trees shaded the grass; within the border of wallflowers and lilies, a fountain leaped from a marble basin. Surrounding the garden was a hedge of clipped shrubs; it was like a fragrant green chamber. Shadows and droplets from the fountain cooled the air; the dry, stifling heat which burned down on stone and sand outside the garden did not reach the women in the arbor. Valentine was bareheaded and wore a light undergarment; on her lap she held a harp, a beautifully painted instrument which she had brought with her from Lombardy. Around her in the grass lay rolls of music. She played the harp with great dexterity; writers eagerly offered her their compositions.
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