A loud, coarse laugh rose from the group of bystanders. Arnaud Guillaume made quick use of their good humor.
“But believe me, friends, there is no reason to despair. The people of Paris—what am I saying?—the people of the entire Kingdom have always a friend and protector in a highly-placed man—do I need to mention his name?—who would like nothing better than to continue the work of his noble father. Ah, brothers, listen to reason before it is too late! Take a stand before you bitterly regret your indecision. The man I refer to—a gallant knight, a mighty prince—is your protector. He is outraged at the excessive taxes which are imposed on you … yes, he urges you not to pay the tribute … he takes personal responsibility. He is devoted to peace and the preservation of the armistice—help him, give no more money for warmongering. He strives along with the pious clergy of the Sorbonne for cession—support him, refuse to obey Avignon. He champions the cause of our unfortunate King, of our defenseless Dauphin. He has set himself the task of working against Orléans in every way—Orléans, the accomplice of the Evil One, who with his late father-in-law conspired with the Turks to destroy our Christian knights at Nicopolis. Yes, this fearless hero to whom I refer,” cried Guillaume, carried away by his own artificially inflated enthusiasm, “this hero, friends, will be on his guard to make sure that the King’s innocent young daughters do not marry the son of a poisoner, a witch, whom you yourselves have driven out of the city!”
While the listeners shouted their agreement, one of Guillaume’s companions threw an open purse onto the table: gold and silver coins rolled into all the corners. The ascetic from Guyenne raised his voice once more over the ensuing uproar.
“Thibault, Dice-Player! Wine for all my good friends present here! In the name of our benefactor and protector, a drink! He intends the best for you, brothers, he is a brave man, a high-minded man, a man who would rather give away money with both hands than knock a single denier out of your pockets. God and the Virgin for Burgundy!”
The shrieks of response were momentarily overwhelming; the walls resounded with the shouting. The landlord, a man in a leather apron, pushed his way with difficulty to the wine vats which were stacked against the rear wall of the room, and knocked the bung from a cask. Jars and beakers were quickly given out; within a few minutes the tavern had become too small. Doors and windows were thrown open; men streamed from the hot, stuffy tavern into the cool air. Thibault the Dice-Player, busily filling the cups for a second round, saw, not without uneasiness, knives flashing near the place where the purse had fallen.
“Let the fellows quarrel,” said a voice near his ear; one of Guil-laume’s companions stood next to him, and slid a handful of gold pieces into the pocket of Thibaulfs apron. “Don’t forget what was said here tonight and take care that it is spread abroad.”
“Certainly, Messire,” answered the landlord nervously; it was not the first time that he had played host to this trio. He thought that the speaker and his friends had come from the Hotel d’Artois. Therefore he added, “But I am running into danger. This is less innocent than gambling or fighting, Messire. Who will protect me if Orléans sends his men after me?”
The stranger leaned forward so that the lappets of his black hat fell loose. The light from the candle stuck on top of the wine casks shone on his face: the large, sharp nose, the mouth with its protruding lower lip, the small but fierce eyes. Thibault gasped and stared; then he fell to his knees and let the wine stream out.
“Get up,” said Jean of Burgundy harshly. “Control yourself. Do as I order and don’t worry about your life. Send your friends through the city—you know the way—and tell them to repeat what Guillaume has said, in the halls, on the bridges, in the market, in the outskirts of the town. Choose some trustworthy men, send them to the Hotel d’Artois. Watchword: ‘the hour is coming—the time approaches—.’ Understand?”
The landlord nodded and went back to the wine vats. The three visitors quickly pushed their way out through the knots of drinking, fighting, loudly wrangling men. Soon they were swallowed up in the dark street.
Burgundy’s death caused what he had tried so painstakingly to prevent during his lifetime: a rapprochement between the Queen and Orléans. Jean of Burgundy inspired Isabeau with an inexplicable fear and aversion; she found him ugly, clumsy and disagreeable. Not for a moment did she consider making the son heir to the confidence which she had given the father. The Queen had been offended by the manner in which he had come to the court after his father’s death and announced himself as the Duke of Burgundy. His arrogance, his rough manners, lost for him whatever good will he might have possessed, especially in Isabeau’s eyes. Under these circumstances it was natural that Isabeau should renew her alliance with her brother-in-law. Now that Burgundy was dead, Berry and Bourbon scarcely set foot in Council or court, and Burgundy’s son did not appear to be trustworthy, the Queen could seek support only from Louis d’Orléans. Gradually they had dropped the coldness of the past few years; they conferred together, carefully avoiding all points on which their opinions might diverge. Once again Orléans played the role of royal host at Isabeau’s side; at those times the Queen noticed how much her brother-in-law had changed over the years. He had lost much of his spontaneity, his natural bouyancy; but in its place were qualities that Isabeau found more attractive: a certain hardness, reticence and the ability to act quickly, at the precise moment. His mind, always simply brilliant, had now become sharp and incisive, flashing with menace, or making a deadly strike, as he chose. In short, he was now a mature man, and an extremely appealing and courteous one to boot.
Isabeau, encountering her brother-in-law face to face almost every day, could not hide from herself, after a relatively short time, the fact that her feelings for him were no longer only friendly. She did not resist this emotion; she did not wish to resist it. She was thirty-five years old; she had sacrificed the best years of her life to a madman who cursed her in his delirium and who terrorized her during his periods of so-called sanity by his strange words and inexplicable behavior. It was true that her sacrifice had some material purpose, but nevertheless she had suffered. At first, after the birth of her last child, she had wanted only to rest and dabble undisturbed in politics. But suddenly she began to crave the joys of love, to feel a longing that was all the more violent now that youth and beauty had gone forever. Her innate pride would not allow her to choose a paramour from among the nobles of her retinue; but toward the King’s brother, who was already in many respects her husband’s substitute, she did not feel such scruples. In this way could she not wreak on Valentine Visconti the vengeance which Gian Galeazzo had escaped through death? And Louis, bound to her by love, could perhaps serve her interests in other ways. The more she thought about it, the more attractive such a relationship appeared to her to be.
When Isabeau was with Orléans, she allowed herself to be dazzled by his charm; but when she was alone, when she saw her faded face in her mirror, she was seized by anguished uncertainty. If she had not desired Orléans, she would have been less upset, less vulnerable; she might even have responded to his flirtatiousness with cynicism or indifference. Isabeau did not completely lose her head; she was much too cold for that, too self-involved. She was restless, capricious and irritable; now she decided to hold a fete, then a hunting party—or an excursion to the Hotel de la Bergerie or a picnic in the gardens of Saint-Pol, or perhaps a pilgrimage to cloisters and chapels. She left state affairs alone; even letters and messages from Bavaria went unanswered for the moment. For the first time in her life she scarcely thought about her children—the court noticed this with great astonishment.
The King heard of it when he was feeling slightly better again. He summoned the Dauphin to him and asked the child how long it had been since he had last seen his mother. The boy was frightened by the manner and appearance of the sick man: the King sat filthy and neglected in a darkened room. The Dauphin hesitated, but at last he said haltingly that his mother had not been near him for three months; his
nurse took care of him and treated him with affection. When he heard that, the King burst into tears; he thanked the nurse for her devotion and presented her with the only valuable possession he could lay his hands on at that moment—his silver goblet. From that time he was seized by a melancholy apathy; he did not bathe nor change his clothes for months at a time; he slept and ate whenever he felt like it. Covered with sores and vermin, he squatted in a corner of his bedchamber. His physicians and servants, no longer under the Queen’s watchful eye, troubled themselves about him as little as possible. They gave him his food and left him alone.
Louis d’Orléans could have put an end to this shocking state of affairs—but now he seldom visited his brother. Since he had allowed himself to be named Lieutenant-Governor of the realm once more, he was completely absorbed in his official duties. He spent months fortifying his castles, providing whatever supplies were needed for fortifications in the environs of Paris and Normandy. With regard to Jean of Burgundy, Louis followed the policy symbolized by his device of the thisde and stinging nettle: to prickle, to sting, to scratch severely the foot which tried to trample upon him. Toward Isabeau he was gallant; he wished in this way to influence her to declare null and void the marriage agreements between her children and Burgundy’s children.
As soon as he got wind of this, Jean hurried back from Flanders. The King was not in a condition to receive him; the Queen and the Duke of Orléans had left Paris—they had set off with a great retinue to pay an official visit to the cities of Melun and Chartres. The Dauphin had been instructed to join them; he had ridden out of Paris with his own entourage only a few hours before Burgundy’s arrival, accompanied by Ludwig of Bavaria who, alarmed by Isabeau’s prolonged silence, had come to see how things stood. This fact settled the matter for Burgundy. With a company of armed horsemen, he rode at full gallop through the city, to the dismay of the people, who could not imagine what was going on.
Jean of Burgundy overtook the royal travelling party near Juvisy; horsemen and carriages came to a standstill and the Dauphin thrust his head out of the window of the palanquin to see what the cause of the delay might be. Burgundy asked the royal child to return with him to Paris, at first on his knees, and in the most respectful language; but before long, when the boy hesitated and appeared reluctant, in a less courteous manner. Finally he gave his followers the command to encircle the palanquin. So Jean of Burgundy conducted the Dauphin as well as the Dauphin’s uncle of Bavaria back to the city, with a show of weapons and a flourish of trumpets, as though he had saved the heir to the throne from mortal danger.
The news spread throughout Paris like wild fire: Orléans and the Queen had tried to lead the child into an ambush, but thanks to the speedy appearance of Jean Sans Peur, the good and valiant hero, the Dauphin was now healthy and unscathed in the Louvre. The Rector of the University proceeded there with a company of learned gentlemen to give public thanks to Jean of Burgundy for his loyalty and devotion to the King’s welfare.
Under these circumstances, the people, gathered into crowds in the streets, shouting with jubilation and excitement, were only too quickly disposed to lend an ear to those men who, here and there standing on a cask, a stone, the steps of a house, cursed Orléans and praised Burgundy to the skies. A few days later, in the name of the King and Council, orders were given to the city to begin to prepare itself for attack; from the storage rooms of the Chátelet iron chains were brought which could block the streets and wall off the districts. Meanwhile, Burgundy’s allies and vassals, the Lords ofLiége, Limburg and Cleves and their men, marched in great numbers into the city.
Jean of Burgundy was far from displeased with this state of affairs; but he felt compelled to justify his frenzied behavior, to give the appearance of well-considered action to his fit of rage. He sent to Parlement a declaration of protest, signed by him and his two brothers, expressing their indignation at the King’s neglected condition, the irresponsible levying of taxes, the disorderly management of the royal domains and the corruption in the courts of justice. With real, inimitable skill, he knew precisely how to present himself as the accuser, the man who could lay his finger on the sore spot. Swift as an arrow this perception of him caused him to rise in public favor.
Meanwhile Louis d’Orléans and Isabeau were at Melun. The Queen was assailed by doubt and anxiety: in the long run her publicly flaunted rapprochement with Louis might damage her interests more than it helped them. Burgundy seemed very sure of himself and he had, if the news from Paris were to be believed, public opinion with him. No matter how she wracked her brains, she could think of no way she could return in dignity to the city unless it was under Burgundy’s protection or together with Orléans at the head of a triumphant army of troops. While Isabeau brooded in her apartments in the castle of Melun, Louis d’Orléans spent his time as profitably as possible, gathering his strength.
He summoned his vassals from all parts of his domains and sent couriers to his allies at home and abroad. To Melun came the Dukes of Lorraine and Alençon with 1,400 nobles and an army of men. All these soldiers had to find lodgings in the environs of Melun, to the considerable concern of the peasants and burghers. Orléans’ messengers hurried to get to the cities throughout the Kingdom before Burgundy’s messengers did; letters were delivered and placards posted warning against the scandalous libel which would soon reach from Paris to the farthest corners of France. The Duke of Orléans vowed that he would take suitable action to lay all these rumors to rest; until then he was counting on the loyalty of the people.
While he busied himself with these and similar matters, a delegation from the University was announced. Louis received them in a frame of mind that was anything but humble. The learned doctors, who had expected to find him cast-down and intimidated by Burgundy’s actions, quickly realized their mistake. Considerably sobered, they recited their petition, taking care to greatly soften its lofty and peremptory tone.
“The University hopes with all its heart,” said the spokesman in a low voice, with downcast eyes, “hopes with all its heart that peace will prevail in the Kingdom. In short, it desires nothing so ardendy as a reconciliation between Monseigneur and the Duke of Burgundy.”
Louis, who had listened impassively, let them wait before he answered. Finally, looking over their heads, he said coldly, “In my opinion it was not wise of you to express so openly your approval of the conduct of my cousin of Burgundy. You know that he acts against me. I do not need, surely, to remind you that I am the King’s brother, and that in view of the state of his health and the Dauphin’s extreme youth, it is I whom you must obey. It seems to me that you would do well to restrict yourselves to intellectual and spiritual concerns; you can safely leave the administration of the government to members of the royal House and the Council.”
He paused and snapped his fingers impatiently. The learned doctors of the Sorbonne remained motionless, staring at the floor. They felt it expedient to assume a chastened demeanor.
“And as for a reconciliation between my lord of Burgundy and me … I was not aware that my cousin and I were at war. Where there is no war, gentlemen, there is nothing to reconcile. You have my permission to withdraw.”
He waited, his face averted, until the delegation had left the room. Then he set out for Isabeau’s apartments, to tell her his plans. He intended to return with her to Paris the following Saturday, accompanied by his entourage of allies and vassals amounting to more than a thousand men.
Isabeau, who suffered in warm weather from swollen, painful limbs, sat before the open window while her maid Femmette massaged her feet. Louis had become accustomed over the course of the year to being admitted to the Queen’s presence without ceremony; he was struck now by Isabeau’s obvious embarrassment, by the haste with which the maid straightened her mistress’s garments. While he stood on the threshold of the chamber making gallant littie jokes to put Isabeau at her ease, a thought struck him, swift and blinding as a flash of lightning.
He had treated
the Queen with the familiarity, the camaraderie, of a kinsman; with a gallantry that was perhaps not always brotherly or simply friendly, but quite natural between a man and a woman of their age. Louis had noticed with some satisfaction how the Queen had revived in his company, he rejoiced with her over the return of her enjoyment of life and profited from it himself. He had known in advance that their friendship would be blown out of all proportion; given the facts of court life, a love affair between the Queen and him would seem only too credible. He knew that Isabeau was extremely offended by this slander, but he considered her sensible enough to put up with a little annoyance if her self-interest was involved.
However now, on entering the Queen’s chambers in Melun, Louis suddenly realized the real reasons for the Queen’s contentment as well as for her rages—her blush, her glance, something indefinable about the way she quickly concealed her large swollen feet under the hem of her dress—these told him, more plainly than words. The discovery filled him with horror; he knew only too well what the consequences would be if he wanted to continue in her good graces. Nothing is more dangerous than the disappointment of a woman who thinks that she is in love, especially when her nature is essentially hard and wilful. Burgundy was waiting with Isabeau’s brother in the fortified city of Paris; the Queen’s inner uncertainty, moreover, was evident. If Orléans did not manage to bind her to him, he would drive her irrevocably into the camp of the enemy; he knew her too well not to fear the ease with which she could leap from one extreme to the other.
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