She did not play now, but brushed her fingertips along the strings of the harp, absorbed in thought. She had sent all the women who had kept her company during the course of the morning back into the house, except for Mariette d’Enghien. The girl had requested an audience with her. Valentine knew very well where it would lead; she dreaded a conversation but at the same time she yearned to hear the truth. Intuition told her that Mariette d’Enghien abhorred lies and secrecy. The girl could not flatter; she lacked the taste for intrigue.
The Duchess of Orléans, who watched her constantly, had had the opportunity to compare Maret with the young ladies of her retinue who were adept at court ceremony. At first she was somewhat surprised at Mademoiselle d’Enghien’s modest self-possession, her brusque speech, her look of inward reserve. Her companions made fun of her for what they called her country manners; it was known that she came from an isolated province, having spent her childhood in an uncomfortable, remote castle among kinsmen who did not concern themselves with courtly ceremony. However much Valentine might loathe the fact that Mariette seemed to captivate Louis as no woman before her had ever done, she could not help admitting that the girl’s honesty and cool simplicity were artless and disarming. She did not believe that a love affair was going on between her husband and this quiet, shy young woman. On the contrary, she knew instinctively that there could be greater danger in the relationship evolving from Louis’ uncontrollable passion and Mariette’s cool resistance than from one of mutual ardor. Confused by anguished grief, Valentine surveyed the situation: she had been given no reason to demand an explanation, to utter a reprimand or even a warning.
The Duchess of Orléans thought sadly of the day—four or five years ago—when she heard for the first time that her husband had sought the favors of a pretty bourgeoise. She had summoned the woman and threatened to punish her if she ever yielded to Louis again. Many hours of exasperation and disillusionment had followed that first painful interview, but never again had she called any of Orléans’ paramours to account. She could not hold Mariette d’En-ghien to account; she had no proof, not even justifiable suspicions. But Maret sought an audience.
The two young women sat facing each other in the shadow of the shrubbery. Spots of sunlight quivered on their clothes, on the scrolls of music, and on the thick short grass. Even the birds were silent in the heat. No single sound rose from the nearby streets.
“Madame,” said Mariette d’Enghien quietly, fixing her large bright eyes on Valentine, “I implore you to dismiss me from your service.”
The Duchess made an involuntary gesture of surprise; she had not expected this.
“Do you wish to return to your family, Mademoiselle?” she asked gently. “The dismissal of a maid of honor from the royal suite is a serious matter—it could create a mistaken impression; I would like to spare you that. I am not dissatisfied with you,” she added quickly; she regretted her familiarity immediately, for Maret turned pale with shame and annoyance.
“I do not have to go home,” she replied slowly, with her eyes down.
Unconsciously, Valentine continued to stroke her harpstrings; soft, vague sounds issued from under her fingertips.
“Where can you go then, Mademoiselle?” she asked, not looking at the girl.
Mariette folded her hands stiffly in her lap.
“As it happens, Madame, I have consented to become the wife of Sire Aubert de Cany, who serves in the King’s retinue.”
Now Valentine raised her head quickly; between the braided tresses her small narrow face seemed paler than usual.
“I had not heard that a promise of marriage existed between you and the Sire de Cany,” she said.
“My kinsmen arranged the matter. Messire de Cany will ask for the King’s consent. But that is a mere formality, if I understand properly. No one can hinder the marriage.”
Valentine’s heart throbbed so loudly she felt it must be audible in the deep silence. She attempted to ask in a light, jesting tone the question which tormented her.
“Your heart was not then at the Court of Orléans during the time that you served me, Mademoiselle?”
Mariette stood up; the folds of her dress rustled over the grass.
The Duchess saw that the girl’s green eyes were filled with tears; her mouth, however, remained firm and her expression austere.
“My heart was with you, Madame,” said Maret, almost roughly. “That is why I am leaving. I beg you to excuse me now.”
Valentine released the harp and took Mademoiselle d’Enghien’s hand in her own.
“Can we not speak honestly with each other?” she whispered. Mariette stood motionless; the Duchess felt something in the girl tighten with resistance; the hand which she held firmly was cold despite the heat.
“Madame,” said Maret d’Enghien with an effort, “it is my wish to become the wife of Messire de Cany. He is a noble man, Madame … too good to be deceived. Where I was raised they had little sympathy for adultery, and no pretty words for it. So I was taught; I cannot think otherwise. It is a great honor for me to marry a man like Messire de Cany, whose views are no less strict.”
“Maret, Maret.” The Duchess of Orléans was moved by an emotion which she could not name. “Is this an escape?”
A spark of impatience flickered in Mariette d’Enghien’s eyes.
“You doubt my courage and the firmness of my will, Madame,” she said. Valentine sighed and released the girl’s cold, damp hand. The damsel stooped to pick up the rolls of music.
“May I go now, Madame?” she asked at last. Valentine nodded.
“I wish to remain out here a little longer,” she said, attempting to regain her usual airy, benevolent manner. “Send my women—but not too quickly.”
Mariette curtsied and left the enclosed garden. The Duchess of Orléans sat motionless, gazing after her. That this resilient young body, this firm mouth and deep green eyes had aroused Louis’ lust disturbed and alarmed her, but she could understand it. Her sorrow deepened as she realized that within Maret lay the power of enchantment—a power which, precisely because it was so deeply concealed, was more irresistible than any beauty and grace of form.
Was it perhaps the strength to resist, once she had made up her mind to it? Valentine stood within the hedges of her garden like a prisoner; the fountain murmured in the silence. Coolness seemed to have vanished from the arbor with Maret’s departure; despite the shade, hot air rose from grass and shrub. The water dropped into the brimming basin of the fountain like a rain of tears. The odor of the wallflowers reminded her suddenly of the sweet but poisonous perfume which her father in Milan gave freely to those who had lost his favor. She thought of her youth, spent in the gardens and palaces of Pavia, amid greater opulence and greater cruelty than she had known since then; she thought of her girlhood, her deep sadness over the misery of the world, her yearning for warmth and happiness, all the vague forebodings of future sorrow which had already disturbed her under the radiant skies of her native land. She knew while she sat motionless amid the greenery of the arbor that storm clouds were gathering on the horizon of her life. She was condemned to wait as though she were the victim of some evil spell until the tempest burst loose above her—until wind and hail blighted and tore the delicate blossoms of her ornamental garden.
Queen Isabeau received the English legation in the palace of Saint-Pol. The English lords had insisted on seeing the bride as soon as they reached Paris. Although the eight-year-old Madame Isabelle had not yet reached the marriageable age, it was still possible to conjecture what sort of flower would develop from such a bud. The King’s eldest daughter, deeply impressed at being the main object of interest at the ceremony, stood behind Isabeau, hand-in-hand with her brother the Dauphin. The royal delegation stood in the reception hall of the Queen’s apartments. Isabeau had ordered the walls hung with new, beautiful tapestries, patterned with crowned doves of peace, golden against a dark red background. Except for the Queen and her two eldest children, only the Duke an
d Duchess of Burgundy, the mistress of ceremonies, Madame d’Eu, and Marguerite de Nevers were present; in the rear of the hall were a number of members of the King’s Council, among them the Chancellor, Arnault de Corbie, who had spoken at the assembly in favor of accepting the marriage proposal. The King was not there; they had decided to present the English lords to him when Isabeau’s reception ended. Louis d’Orléans led the envoys to the dais where the Queen stood beside her children. Isabelle freed her hand with some difficulty from the Dauphin who was, as usual, confused by so many strange faces.
“My daughter,” the Queen said, smiling; she put her hand on the child’s shoulder. But Isabelle needed no encouragement. She knew what was expected of her; maternal counsel had not been wasted on the precocious, haughty little princess. Folding her hands on the front of her stiffly embroidered dress, the child walked to the edge of the dais; she wore a crown and veil like an adult and held her fingers tightly together to avoid losing her rings. The Earls of Rudand and Nottingham knelt in homage.
“My lady,” said Rudand in slow, careful French, looking up at the controlled, smooth childish face. “God willing, you shall be our mistress and Queen of England.”
A silence ensued. Nervously, Isabeau clenched her fists; she stood too far away from the child to help her. She smiled at the envoys, but her eyes were uneasy. The royal kinsmen, the retinue, the members of the council, looked on; the English lords knelt with bowed heads. Outside the arched windows the sunlight was blinding; flies buzzed in the silence. Isabeau breathed quickly; she wanted to help her daughter. If Isabelle was anxious, she did not show it. She stood impassive in her state dress, which cast a gold reflection on the tiled floor, and kept her fingers pressed carefully together. With the interested respectful smile required by etiquette on her face, she stared straight before her over the heads of the envoys, trying to remember what words she was supposed to say. She was not frightened but annoyed at having stupidly forgotten the phrases she had studied so diligently. Behind her she heard her mother’s nervous cough; a feeling of apprehension crept over her. Behind the English lords stood her uncle of Orléans. Playfully he put his hand over his heart. The child realized that he was trying to attract her attention; he closed his eyes in reassurance, and bowed his head. The blood rushed to Isabelle’s cheeks—now she remembered what she must say. The high-pitched, childish voice did not quaver; it seemed as though she had deliberately paused for effect, to heighten the impression she made.
“Messires,” said Isabelle, “if it shall please God and my father that I become Queen of England, then am I well content, for I have always heard it said that I shall then be a mighty sovereign.”
Carefully she put out her five tightly closed fingers and requested the Lord Marshal to rise. The envoy took in his own the childish hand bedecked with heavy rings and allowed himself to be led to Isabeau by his future Queen. Isabeau was deeply moved, but more from relief than from maternal pride. The child had made an excellent impression; the English declared that their fondest expectations had been surpassed. They praised the appearance and behavior of the princess—above all, they admired her self-possession and well-chosen words. Isabeau listened to the envoys in silence, still smiling. Now that the reception, the high point of five months of negotiations and preparation, had been a success, she had achieved her goal—at least in regard to the English marriage. Isabelle seemed in every way a perfect bride for a king. So far as the signing of the marriage contract was concerned, Richard’s spokesmen would presumably raise few objections. New labors awaited them.
Isabeau withdrew; she had sent away the children with their nurses. The Englishmen set out together with the Duke and Council members to pay their respects to the King in his apartments.
In the coolness of her bedroom, Isabeau attempted to prepare herself for the meeting with her husband. During the last few days she had seen him only at state dinners. She knew that he was somewhat recovered, but strangely enough, this filled her more with apprehension than with hope. She could not identify the sickly, prematurely aged man who avoided her eyes, with the King her husband. The passion was dead which had driven her into his arms a year and a half ago; instead of pity she felt aversion, as though for a stranger. But she could not shun him, even if she wished to; she needed his co-operation. She had to bend him to her will as long as he was capable of judgment.
Isabeau, who suffered sorely from the heat—after her last confinement she had gained even more weight—allowed them to remove the high headdress and all her jewels. While her chamberwomen busied themselves about her, she stared sullenly, her lips pursed, at the potted shrubs blooming along the wall. Her brother Ludwig had arrived with news that in all its aspects required careful consideration. Isabeau knew from experience that Ludwig had a sharp nose for being on hand when important events took place; she trusted his judgment implicitly. She had heard that the German electors intended to depose the Emperor; Wenceslaus the Drunkard had in the course of years convincingly proven his ineptitude. A new candidate for the throne of the Holy Roman Empire had already appeared in the person of Ruprecht of Bavaria, Duke of Heidelberg, a member of the Wittelsbach family. Isabeau’s kinsmen were strong supporters of Ruprecht; they had never forgiven Wenceslaus for conferring the title of Duke of Milan upon their arch-enemy Gian Galeazzo. It was a matter of winning France to Ruprecht’s side. Ludwig who, with some justification, saw in his sister the strongest advocate of the Wittelsbach interests, considered that his goal was very nearly accomplished. Isabeau, on the other hand, was not quite as certain of success; many influential members of the court favored Wenceslaus—pre-eminent among them was Louis d’Orléans. Isabeau saw a possibility of influencing the court in Ruprecht’s favor only with Burgundy’s support. She considered that she might win the Duke and Duchess over to the Electors’ plan; in large measure Burgundy and Bavaria shared the same interests.
In her brother’s presence, Isabeau had already spoken to the Duchess of Burgundy; but Margaretha, always cautious, said only that she would need time to consider in tranquillity before she could respond. The Queen was positive that Burgundy would be told that same day and that the couple would act appropriately. And indeed Margaretha took advantage of the fact that Isabeau would be alone after the reception, to continue the discussion. The Duchess of Burgundy, alone of the highly-placed women of the court, entered Is-abeau’s chambers unannounced; she assumed that her role as the Queen’s right hand guaranteed her this privilege. Isabeau, who disliked the cold, all-too-shrewd Fleming, would not have allowed this presumption if she were not convinced of Margaretha’s value to her. She forced herself, therefore, to smile when the Duchess of Burgundy appeared in the doorway. Philippe’s wife considered it unwise to irritate Isabeau by showing too much self-confidence; she could hardly believe that she could enter the Queen’s presence again and again without ceremony. She entered in her slow, stately manner and curtsied deeply.
“Does it please Your Majesty to receive me?” she asked, knowing that Isabeau would acquiesce. The chamberwomen withdrew.
Margaretha politely declined the proferred chair. She remained standing at a proper distance from the Queen, her hands folded together on her breast. She spoke first of all of the successful reception; she praised the child Isabelle and wished the Queen joy in the brilliant debut.
“Yes,” Isabeau said impatiently. “Have you considered meanwhile what you will say to the Duke of Bavaria?”
Margaretha raised her brows slightly; she could not become accustomed to Isabeau’s lack of finesse.
“One cannot form a judgment on a matter of such importance in a few days, Madame,” the Duchess of Burgundy parried in respectfully gentle rebuke. “We have never been supporters of the Emperor Wenceslaus, as you know. But Your Majesty knows also that the Emperor has many friends here at court—that the Duke of Orléans your brother-in-law is well disposed toward him.” She paused and shot Isabeau an inquiring glance. “I take it that it is worth a lot to Your Majesty to win the
King to your point of view.”
“I know that in all circumstances the opinion of Monseigneur of Burgundy is extremely important,” the Queen said irritably. She picked up a comb from the table and ran it through her thin hair which hung loose to her shoulders. Isabeau had had good reason to introduce the fashion of wearing elaborate headdresses which concealed the hair.
“Well, Madame,” said Margaretha softly, “my husband has heard with interest the news from Germany. Your Majesty may rest assured that he will study the matter thoroughly. I think that he may still find an opportunity to speak with the Duke of Bavaria before His Grace leaves the court.”
Isabeau nodded; she was not displeased to hear this.
“And now I should like to discuss another matter with your Majesty.” The Duchess of Burgundy voice became rather brusque. “It concerns my granddaughter, my son Jean’s oldest child. It is a year now since Monseigneur my husband spoke to the King about the possibility of a marriage between Marguerite and the Dauphin. Such an arrangement would be highly beneficial to our mutual interests, Madame. Moreover, as it happens,” she moved a few paces closer to the Queen, “my sons have sons—and Your Majesty a very few young daughters for whom, I believe, plans have not yet been made.”
Isabeau dropped the comb into her lap.
“Monseigneur d’Orléans also has two sons,” she replied, with some hauteur. “And I seem to recall that the King has already made an agreement with Orléans concerning the Dauphin.”
The Duchess of Burgundy gave a short, malicious laugh, while her cheeks flushed with anger.
“There is no assurance that Monseigneur d’Orléans will ever have a daughter. Such an agreement can have little value. I hope with all my heart that Your Majesty can convince the King to make a wiser decision, especially in the light of the news from Bavaria.”
“Yes, yes.” Isabeau sighed and threw back her head. A familiar feeling of rebellious rage swept over her. How much longer must she allow them to dictate to her? “You say I have so much influence with the King,” she burst out hotly. “Has it not been obvious in the last few months that it is not I who have influence with the King?”
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