In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “Ah, Madame,” said Margaretha, with emphasis, “a clever wife can alwavs influence her husband. We all saw how the King turned to you before the illness overcame him. Your Majesty undoubtedly knows how to charm the King.” She paused a moment and then continued. “It seems to me that your Majesty can begin by ordering that the door be unbolted which separates your apartments from the King’s.”

  Isabeau sprang from her chair. The Duchess of Burgundy saw that she had said enough; she backed from the room, curtseying deeply once again.

  In the course of the day the weather changed. The sky clouded over; a heavy mist began almost imperceptibly to cover the dazzling blue of the sky. Within a few hours it became dark; the summer lightning darted over the hills. The reapers worked hastily to haul the sheaves inside the barns until they were halted by the rain which tumbled down in torrents; earth and sky became indistinguishable from each other. The crash of thunder echoed incessantly from the walls and high towers of Saint-Pol.

  The great reception rooms were crowded. The hundreds of nobles who were sojourning in the palace to honor the English envoys and had been driven from the gardens and fives courts by the storm, were seeking amusement in cards and dice. Louis d’Orléans had managed to shake off his despondency; he was in a boisterous mood and moved from table to table, joking loudly with the players.

  The rain squalls whipped through the inner courtyards, a wet mist blew through the windows and corridors as far as the great halls. Torchlight flickered on the walls. Orléans was offered a place at each gaming table as he approached it, but he waved his glove, watched the game for a short while and then moved on, humming to himself.

  In a side room Jean de Nevers sat with friends, playing dice at a table strewn with gold pieces. A crowd of spectators—members of de Nevers’ suite—stood around the table.

  “Ah, cousin,” Louis cried loudly, pushing his way through, “I see that you are seriously occupied, raising money for your crusade against the Turks. How many tents and lances have you assembled by gambling today?”

  Jean de Nevers looked up. He could not bring himself to smile.

  “You need not tell me how good the wine was,” he replied sarcastically. “Your breath tells me that already, cousin, and in any case your infantile behavior does not lie. Not that I begrudge you the drink,” he continued quickly, when he saw that Louis, still laughing, was about to move away. “You can raise your spirits with food and wine. You do not need to fight.”

  “Ah la …” Orléans said slowly, in the same jocular tone. “It is not my fault, my dear cousin, that we have never measured our strength in a duel …”

  Jean began to get up, but his friend Philippe de Bar, who sat beside him, put his hand on his arm. Jean curled his lip.

  “It may interest you to know,” he said, “that everyone who has a name and can hold a weapon has declared himself ready to come with me. But no doubt you knew that already. Your old friend, the Sire de Coucy, who has served you so well in Lombardy, will have brought you the news.”

  ‘The Sire de Coucy is too busy organizing your crusade, cousin.” Louis tossed his glove in the air and caught it. “It is a wearisome job to recruit soldiers and arm them, even for an experienced general—one who has no time for games or idle chit-chat.”

  Nevers flushed darkly; he clenched his fist on the table in an effort to control himself.

  “Well, that depends,” he said in a voice choking with anger. “There are reports that there is much merriment at the court of your father-in-law, Gian Galeazzo, although he sends auxiliary troops to the Turks.”

  It became suddenly very quiet around the gaming table. The rain clattered against the roofs and the thunder crackled and boomed. The side room was crowded with spectators; it was the first time since the banquet in the abbey of Saint-Denis that my lords of Orléans and Nevers had publicly betrayed their enmity. Louis stood motionless, the glove in his upraised hand. He was no longer smiling.

  “If I did not know, cousin, that spreading slander had become second nature to you, I would perhaps in all seriousness take up arms for my father-in-law,” he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, despite the wine he had drunk. The dark, piercing eyes of Jean de Nevers were fixed upon him; the others waited for him to lose his self-control. For a moment Orléans was tempted to throw his glove into that face distorted with hatred and contempt. Only in combat between the two of them could they give vent to their mutual feelings. Louis knew that Burgundy’s son would like nothing better than to attack him—especially if the challenge for the fight between kinsmen came from Orléans himself—but Louis would not permit this just yet. It would be particularly ill-advised at this moment to engage in a public brawl with the House of Burgundy. He contented himself, therefore, with shoving his glove into his belt and announcing to the bystanders with a smile:

  “My lords, things will have come to a sorry pass when we can no longer joke with one another at the court of the King of France. Perhaps you would have taken it better, cousin, if I had begun by asking you whether you had squandered your tents and lances.”

  He saluted Nevers and left the room with a nod and a cheerful word for everyone who spoke to him. But he was filled with shame and anger; he craved more wine and the boisterous excitement which could be bought in many of the public houses of Paris. He sought out among the players a few intimate friends who usually accompanied him on his nocturnal expeditions through the city, and beckoned to them to follow him.

  Isabeau sat beside the King. The burning candles illuminated the parchment covered with close writing, that lay on the table. The King, already exceedingly weary after a day of conversations and receptions, and upset by the storm, squinted nervously at the papers which Isabeau had put before him; here he could see with his own eyes what it cost the Treasury to maintain the Queen’s palaces, estates and properties, what money she was forced to pay out for clothing and entertainment, what gifts she had given to kinsmen and household on New Year’s Day, on the occasions of fetes and holy days.

  “I do not do this to upset you, Sire,” she said. Her tone was soft but business-like. “I do not like troubling you with numbers and lists, but the Audit Office must make a decision about my income. I have been waiting almost two years now for an adjustment. First they assigned me a number of estates which are too remote from one another. To collect taxes I would need an army of officials. Now they tell me again that I shall receive more lands when Queen Blanche dies. But that must be codified somehow. I have no real assurance. I have my household and my children to feed and to clothe. It is an impossible situation that I must beg the Audit Office for every livre.”

  Isabeau spoke hody. She had brought up the subject as soon as she was left alone with her husband. The King looked at her blooming young Isabeau always ready for laughter and kisses, with no interest in anything resembling official documents and numbers. The plump, bejeweled woman who sat facing him bore no resemblance to the Isabeau to whom he had once sent a golden triptych as a token of his love. Her dark brown eyes were hard; they looked at him without tenderness. They were alone together for the first time in a year and a half, and she spoke of revenue, territories—gold, gold, gold!

  “I shall instruct the Audit Office to setde the matter at once,” the King said wearily, shoving the papers away from him. “And to fix the annuity which you will be paid upon my death, Madame.” He turned his head to listen to the crackling of the storm. “How it rains,” he continued nervously. “Could the flood have started like this in Noah’s day? We don’t deserve a better fate.”

  Isabeau did not answer; she tightened her lips and began to put the papers together. From time to time she glanced at the King. Wine, cake and fruit stood untouched on the table. The wall hangings stirred in the draughts. The roaring of the wind and rain drowned out all other sounds, giving the King and Queen a feeling of utter seclusion in the heart of the palace. They sat for a while, facing each other in silence, Charles with uneasy, wandering eyes, Isabeau starin
g vacantly at the golden candle holders. But the silence oppressed the Queen. She began to talk quickly, in a forced way, about her children: about the Dauphin, who knew his prayers by heart; about how dignified Isabelle was during the reception. She mentioned her discussion with the convent where Marie would be accepted and she talked about the infant Michelle whom she had named after the King’s patron saint. The King listened uneasily, tapping his fingers on the table top; he rocked back and forth in his chair, rubbing his face and his clothes. He sensed his wife’s feeling of aversion toward him, and he was frightened by this hard-eyed stranger.

  They were both relieved when Colin de Bailly, a nobleman of the King’s retinue, entered the room and requested an audience for a messenger from Lombardy who had been waiting for more than half the day in one of the anterooms. The King remembered suddenly that as early as that morning he had given instructions to let the man wait. He declared himself ready to hear the messenger.

  The Italian brought a letter from Gian Galeazzo. The Duke of Milan wrote stiffly that he had been shocked and dismayed to hear There were, he wrote, reports concerning the exalted and excellent lady, his daughter, the Duchess of Orléans, of whom it was apparently being said that she attempted to impede the King’s recovery by means of sorcery. He expected that the King, may it please God to grant him good health, or the King’s closest relatives, would spare no efforts to refute publicly the malevolent rumor—that the slanderers would be tracked down and then suitably punished.

  As he read the letter, the King became very excited.

  “Who said that? Who dares to say that?” he repeated; trembling with agitation, he crumpled the sleeves of his mantle into a wad. “Is that why she went away?” he asked abruptly. He stared at his wife; she read the letter, smiling oddly. He watched her eyes move to and fro under her eyelids. Isabeau let the letter fall onto the table as though the parchment were tainted. She shrugged.

  “Lombardy is the cradle of the black arts,” she said loftily. “Everyone knows that.”

  The King shook his head with impotent violence. “But who dares to accuse our dear sister?” he asked, nearly weeping; his lips trembled.

  “Who?” Isabeau’s voice shot out, suddenly shrill. “Who, Sire? The people of Paris throw stones at her carriage when she ventures outside the walls of her Hotel de Behaigne. The servants here will tell you that the people call her the Witch of Orléans. Her rooms swarm with soothsayers and alchemists … her servants disfigure corpses …”

  “Who says that, who says that?” screamed the King; the blood rushed to his head, sweat stood on his upper lip. The Queen was frightened; was the madness overcoming him again?

  “I have someone in my service,” she said, calming herself. “A man who possesses remarkable powers of healing. With his own eyes he saw—”

  “That living corpse?” The King leaned over the edge of the table and stared at Isabeau with distended eyes. A horrible image came into his memory: a face like a death’s head appearing over a can-dleflame between the bed curtains at midnight. ‘The man who lays dead frogs on my breast and forces stinking powders down my throat? Is it he, the necromancer, who accuses Valentine? Get away! Get away!” he cried suddenly, stamping his feet with rage and striking the table. “I’ll have him hanged, the filthy swine … ! De Bailly! The watch!”

  Isabeau rose hastily.

  “Sire,” she said, attempting to quiet the King by a soothing tone, “Arnaud Guillaume tends you with my approval. My lord of Burgundy is aware of it. Be calm, be calm, Sire …”

  “He slanders our sister-in-law!” The King sank back in his chair, still gasping with excitement. “Our brother of Orléans and his wife are dear to us, Madame, very dear to us. I want Valentine to return to Saint-Pol at once.”

  “Sire, Sire …” Desperately Isabeau moved toward him; she pulled at her train, which was caught on the table. “Rest now. Any excitement is dangerous. It is for your sake that I—that it was suggested that Madame d’Orléans leave the palace.”

  “But I will not see those frauds again,” the King muttered, suppressing his rage in the folds of Isabeau’s long sleeves. The Queen had thrown her arms around his neck. “Send them away, the physicians and the … the … Deliver the liar to Orléans—let my brother punish him, the slanderer!”

  “Yes, yes.” She began anxiously to whisper the endearments that had been customary between them so long ago. These words so long unspoken seemed strange on her lips. She closed her eyes so that she would not see that distorted, sweating face so close to hers. Filled with bitter aversion, she held the King in her arms; she knew that she could maintain her position only by feigning passion, at least as long as his temporary recovery lasted. He sat quietly relaxed against her, occasionally racked by a small shudder. Isabeau’s caressing hands roused half-forgotten sensations within him … Did she still exist, the wife whom he had once known, did she forgive his madness? Without looking at each other, they exchanged a kiss.

  Tears sprang into the King’s eyes; he wanted to heap gifts upon his wife, to reward her for her devotion and patience; he could not thank her, could not admire her enough. Isabeau thought of the many plans she wished to bring to fruition, of the concessions she could wheedle from him on family affairs, on questions of money, on foreign and domestic policy. The Florentine emissaries were waiting for an answer; how could she induce him to send help to Gian Galeazzo’s enemies, especially now that it was clear he wished to keep the Duke of Milan as a friend? How could she prevent Valentine from nesding once more within the walls of Saint-Pol?

  In March of the following year, the Duchess of Orléans quit Paris. From day to day the threats of the incited populace increased in intensity—she was now openly suspected of attempting to poison the King and his children—until it was impossible for her to remain any longer in the Hotel de Behaigne. Crowds gathered repeatedly before the gates, screaming for justice: why were witches being condemned every day when the most evil sorceress of all remained at large because of her rank? Louis d’Orléans’ armed servants drove away the troublemakers, but they came back often, and each time in such large numbers that the roads leading to the Hotel de Behaigne were impassable. When it became known, in late autumn, that the King had gone mad again, suspicion and hatred of Valentine boiled over.

  The subject was brought up before the Council; in the presence of the Regents a councillor demanded the speedy removal of the Duchess from Paris. Louis replied with vehemence: although he feared for Valentine’s safety if she remained in the Hotel de Behaigne, he felt that her departure from the city would be regarded as an open admission of guilt. He knew, moreover, that this would cause a separation between him and his wife. He must, if he did not want to give up his activity in the political sphere, live in Paris, or at any rate in the immediate neighborhood of the King and court. Finally, he was forced to yield; after New Year’s Day preparations began for the Duchess’s journey.

  It was Louis’ wish that she should leave the city in a regal manner, with a procession of carriages and armed riders. Her household and a great retinue of servants accompanied her; she conveyed tapestries and furniture, works of art, books; dwarfs, musicians, a physician, a librarian and her court poet, Eustache Deschamps, would share her exile.

  On a windy day in early spring, Valentine rode out of the gates of the Hotel de Behaigne. The people, packed together in the streets, watched silently as the procession filed past them toward the royal palace. The Duchess remained invisible behind the closed curtains of her coach. At the great inner court of Saint-Pol she alighted; Louis d’Orléans greeted her there and escorted her to the Queen’s anterooms. The demoiselle who had carried Valentine’s train now adjusted its heavy folds over her mistress’s arm. Without attendants, the Duchess of Orléans bade her formal farewell to Isabeau.

  The Queen sat on a chair beside a made-up ceremonial bed, surrounded by a large number of high-born women: Margaretha of Burgundy, Marguerite de Nevers and the young Duchess of Berry stood in order
of rank beside her. In a deep silence Valentine made the three curtsies prescribed by etiquette. She was dressed in heavy mourning; in September Louis, her oldest son, had died from an intestinal ailment. Isabeau released the Duchess of Orléans from her third curtsey more slowly than was customary; only after some minutes did she reluctantly extend her hand to her sister-in-law as a sign that she could rise. There was a brief pause; then Margaretha of Burgundy stepped toward Valentine to render her, for the last time at the court, the homage due to the second lady of France.

  “Well, my fair sister.” When the long ceremony had been properly executed, the Queen spoke, with some hauteur. “I hear that you are going to leave us, to visit the lands and territories of Monseigneur d’Orléans.” This was the official reason for Valentine’s departure.

  “Yes, Madame,” replied the Duchess of Orléans in a low but steady voice. “I am going to the castle of Asnieres in Beaumont. It must be really lovely there in the spring.”

  Isabeau smiled, not without malice, and ran her thick ringed fingers over the arm of her chair. “When do you plan to return?” she asked sweedy. Margaretha of Burgundy looked up quickly and frowned in disapproval.

  “Madame, that rests with God alone,” Valentine said calmly.

  The Queen looked away; the sentences she had so carefully prepared, the words which, under the cloak of ceremonious friendliness, had been intended to wound, would not leave her lips. She was conscious that she could scarcely hurt that slender woman with the sorrowful eyes who stood before her, and who bore a deeper grief than any insult could inflict. A vague feeling of shame stirred in Isabeau; for one lightning moment, she almost wished she could undo the enmity that she had roused against Valentine, that she could take back the slander.