The Royal Succession

by Maurice Druon

  He paused and then added: ‘Anseau, I have put you down at the Treasury for a gift of four thousand livres, and this will show you how grateful I am for the help you have always been to me. And if on the day of the coronation my cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, as I believe, will not be there to put on my spurs, you shall have that office. You rank high enough as a knight for that.’

  For riveting mouths, gold has always been the best metal; and Philippe knew that with some men the rivet must be jewelled.

  There remained Robert of Artois’s case to deal with; Philippe congratulated himself on having kept his dangerous cousin in prison during recent events. But he could not keep him in the Châtelet indefinitely. Coronation is generally accompanied by acts of clemency and the granting of pardons. On the pressing demand of Charles of Valois, Philippe pretended to show himself a kindly prince.

  ‘It’s entirely to please you, Uncle,’ he said; ‘Robert shall be given his freedom …’

  He left the sentence in suspense and seemed to be calculating.

  ‘… but only three days after my departure for Rheims,’ he added, ‘and he will not be allowed to go more than twenty leagues from Paris.’

  7

  Shattered Dreams

  IN HIS PROGRESS TOWARDS the throne Philippe the Long had not only stepped over two corpses, he had left in his path two other broken lives, two crushed women, one a queen, the other obscure.

  On the day after the funeral of the false Jean I at Saint-Denis, Madame Clémence of Hungary, whom everyone had thought was going to die, slowly began to recover consciousness and return to life. Some remedy had at last proved efficacious; fever and infection left her body as if to give place to other qualities of suffering. The first words the Queen uttered were to ask for her son, whom she had barely had time to see. Her memory was merely of a little naked body being rubbed with rosewater and placed in a cradle.

  When she was told, with every kind of excuse, that she could not be shown him at once, she murmured: ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? I knew it. I felt it during my fever. That, too, had to happen.’

  She did not suffer the violence of reaction that had been feared. She was prostrated but without tears, her face expressing the tragic irony that people sometimes show after a fire, when contemplating the smoking ashes of their home. Her lips parted as if in laughter, and for a few moments they thought she was mad.

  She had been subjected to all the outrages of misfortune; there were numbed places in her soul; and fate might strike once more without causing her greater suffering than she knew already.

  Perhaps Bouville suffered even more: condemned to lie and powerless to console. Every friendly word that fell from the Queen’s lips tortured him with remorse. ‘Her child lives, and I may not tell her. When I think of the great happiness I could give her!’

  Over and over again pity, and indeed simple honesty, all but carried the day. But Madame de Bouville, knowing him to be weak, never left him alone with the Queen.

  At least he could half-console himself by accusing Mahaut, the real criminal.

  The Queen shrugged her shoulders. What did she care whose hand the forces of evil had used against her?

  ‘I have been pious, I have been kind, at least I think I have,’ she said; ‘I have done my best to follow the commandments of religion and to mend the ways of those who were dear to me. I have never wished harm to anyone. And yet God has tried me more than any of His creatures. I see the wicked triumphing.’

  She neither rebelled nor blasphemed; she merely thought that there was some monumental error.

  Her father and mother had died of the plague when she was barely two years old. While all the Princesses of her family, or nearly all, had found husbands before they were of marriageable age, she had had to wait till she was twenty-two. The unhoped-for husband, who had then presented himself, appeared to be the greatest in the world. She had come to this marriage with France, dazzled, bewildered by an unreal love and filled with every good intention. Before she had even reached her new country she had been nearly drowned at sea. After a few weeks she had discovered that she had married a murderer and succeeded a strangled queen. After ten months she had been left a widow and pregnant. Immediately removed from power, she had been put away on the pretence that it was for her safety. And now, for eight days, she had been struggling at the gates of death, only to discover, as she returned from that particular hell, that her child was dead, poisoned, no doubt, as her husband had been.

  Could any more continuously disastrous fate be conceived?

  ‘The people of my country believe in bad luck. They’re right. I have bad luck,’ she said. ‘I must never undertake anything again.’

  Love, charity, hope; she had exhausted all the reserves of virtue she possessed; and now faith also abandoned her. To what use had she put them? She had no longer anything to give.

  During her illness she had suffered such torture, had been so certain of dying, that merely to find herself alive, able to breathe with ease, eat, gaze at walls, furniture and faces, seemed to her matter for surprise and provided her with the only emotion that her mind, now three-quarters destroyed, was still capable of knowing.

  As her convalescence slowly progressed, and she gradually recovered her legendary beauty, Queen Clémence began to develop the tastes of a capricious old woman. It was as if beneath that exquisite form, the golden hair, the face from a reredos, the noble breast and slender limbs, which day by day regained their beauty, forty years had suddenly elapsed. From within her splendid body an old widow demanded the ultimate pleasures from life. She was to continue demanding them for eleven years.

  Frugal from religion as much as from indifference in the past, the Queen now began to manifest curious tastes for rare and costly foods. Laden with jewels by Louis X, having despised them then, she now took pleasure in her caskets, eagerly counting the stones, calculating their value, and appraising their cut and water. Determined to alter a mounting, she would summon goldsmiths and design unwearable jewels.

  She also spent long hours with drapers, ordered the most costly oriental stuffs, and wore them impregnated with scent.

  If, when she left her apartments, she wore the white clothes of widowhood, in her own rooms her entourage were often surprised and embarrassed to see her crouching over the hearth in veils of an excessive transparency.

  Her previous generosity now survived only in the degenerate form of absurd extravagance. The merchants had passed the word round and knew that no price would be questioned. Greed gained on her staff. And indeed Queen Clémence was well served! In the kitchens the servants quarrelled as to who should bring her a dish, because for some ornamental dessert, for some cream of nuts, for some ‘golden water’, newly invented, in which rosemary and cloves had been steeped in pomegranate juice, the Queen would suddenly produce a handful of coins.

  She soon acquired a taste for singing and for having poems and romances read to her by attractive exponents. Her cold gaze no longer cared for any but young faces. A good-looking minstrel with an agreeable voice, who had entertained her for an hour, and whose eyes had responded to the sight of her body beneath its Cypriot veils, would be paid enough to make merry in the taverns for a whole month.

  Bouville became alarmed at her expenditure; but he had not been able to avoid becoming one of its beneficiaries.

  On the 1st of January, which remained the day of good wishes and presents, even though the official year began only at Easter, Queen Clémence gave Bouville an embroidered purse containing three hundred gold livres. The ex-chamberlain cried: ‘No, Madame, I pray you; I do not deserve it!’

  But it is impossible to refuse a queen’s gift; even if that queen is ruining herself; even if one must maintain an odious lie in her presence.

  The unhappy man, haunted by terror and remorse, foresaw that the Queen would have soon to face a disastrous financial situation.31

  On this same day of the 1st of January, Bouville received a visit from Messer Tolomei. The banker
found the ex-chamberlain grown astonishingly thin and grey. Bouville’s clothes hung loosely on him, his cheeks were sunken, his glance had grown uneasy and his attention seemed to wander.

  ‘The man is suffering from some hidden malady,’ thought Tolomei, ‘and I should not be surprised if he were to die soon. I must hasten to arrange Guccio’s affairs.’

  Tolomei knew the proper custom. On the occasion of the New Year he had brought Madame de Bouville a piece of cloth.

  ‘To thank her,’ he said, ‘for all the care she has taken of the demoiselle who has given my nephew a son …’

  Bouville wished also to refuse this present.

  ‘Of course you must take it, of course,’ Tolomei insisted. ‘I should also like to talk to you a little about this affair. My nephew is shortly returning from Avignon where our Holy Father the Pope …’

  Tolomei crossed himself.

  ‘… has kept him until now to work on the accounts of his Treasury. He is coming to fetch his young wife and his son.’

  Bouville felt faint.

  ‘One moment, Messer, one moment,’ he said; ‘there is a messenger outside waiting for me to give him an urgent answer. Pray wait a moment for me.’

  And he went off, the piece of cloth under his arm, to take counsel with his wife.

  ‘The husband’s returning,’ he said.

  ‘What husband?’ asked Madame de Bouville.

  ‘The wet-nurse’s husband!’

  ‘But she isn’t married.’

  ‘We must take it that she is! Tolomei is here. Look, he brought you this.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘That the girl should leave the convent.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t yet know. But soon.’

  ‘Well, wait till you know, don’t promise anything and come back and tell me.’

  Bouville returned to his visitor.

  ‘You were saying, Messer Tolomei?’

  ‘I was saying that my nephew Guccio is due to arrive in order to remove his wife and child from the convent in which you were kind enough to find them refuge. They no longer have anything to fear. Guccio is the bearer of a letter from the Holy Father, and will go to live in Avignon, I think, at least for a time; though I should have liked well enough to have kept them here with me. Do you know that I have not yet seen this little great-nephew of mine? I’ve been on the road, visiting my branches, and only got the news in a happy letter from the young mother. As soon as I got back, the day before yesterday, I took her some sweets; but at the Convent of the Clarisses they shut the door in my face.’

  ‘The rule is very strict at the Clarisses,’ said Bouville. ‘And besides, on your demand, we gave definite instructions.’

  ‘Nothing unfortunate occurred?’

  ‘Oh, no, Messer; nothing that I know of. I would have informed you at once,’ replied Bouville, who felt himself to be on thorns. ‘When does your nephew arrive?’

  ‘I expect him in two or three days’ time.’

  Bouville looked at him in fear.

  ‘I must ask you to excuse me once again,’ he said, ‘but I’ve suddenly remembered that the Queen sent me for something and I have forgotten to take it to her. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  And he disappeared once more.

  ‘The malady is in his head, for sure,’ thought Tolomei. ‘How pleasant to talk to a man who disappears every other second! As long as he doesn’t forget that I’m here, too!’

  He sat down on a chest, stroked the fur which edged his sleeve, and had time to calculate, to within about ten livres, the value of the furniture in the room.

  ‘Here I am,’ said Bouville, raising the hanging. ‘You were talking to me of your nephew! You know that I am very attached to him. What a delightful companion he was during our journeys to Naples! Naples …’ he repeated with nostalgia. ‘Could one ever have imagined it …? The poor Queen, the poor Queen …’

  He sank on to the chest beside Tolomei and wiped away the tears of memory with his spatulate fingers.

  ‘And now I suppose he’s going to weep on my shoulder!’ thought the banker; but aloud he said: ‘I have not referred to these disasters, but I know full well what you must have suffered. You have been much in my thoughts …’

  ‘Oh, Tolomei, if you only knew! It was worse than anything you can imagine; the Devil took a hand in it …’

  The sound of a little dry cough came from behind the tapestry; and Bouville stopped short on the verge of dangerous confidences.

  ‘Someone’s listening to us,’ thought Tolomei, who hurriedly went on: ‘At least in our affliction we have one consolation: we have a good King.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, yes, we have a good King,’ Bouville replied without much enthusiasm.

  ‘I was afraid,’ went on the banker, leading Bouville away from the suspicious tapestry, ‘I was afraid that the new King would be harsh to us Lombards. But not at all. It appears, indeed, that he has farmed out the taxes, in certain seneschalships, to members of our companies. But, returning to my nephew, who I must say has done very well, I should like him to be recompensed for all his trouble by finding his wife and his heir installed in my house. I am already preparing a room for the charming young couple. People speak ill of the younger generation. They say that they are no longer capable of sincerity, love or fidelity. But those two are very much in love, I can guarantee that. One has but to read their letters. And if the marriage was not made according to the rules, what does it matter? We can begin all over again, and I will even go so far as to ask you, if you will not be offended, to be a witness.’

  ‘On the contrary, it is a great honour, a great honour,’ replied Bouville, gazing at the tapestry as if he were searching for a spider. ‘But there’s the question of the family.’

  ‘What family?’

  ‘The wet-nurse’s family, of course.’

  ‘Wet-nurse?’ repeated Tolomei, who did not understand the allusion.

  For the second time the little cough sounded behind the tapestry. Bouville’s expression changed, he muttered and stammered.

  ‘The fact is, Messer … yes, I meant to say … yes, I wanted to tell you at once, but … being constantly disturbed, I forgot. Oh, yes, but I must tell you now … your … the wife of your nephew, since you assure me that they are married, we asked her … look, we were lacking a wet-nurse, and she willingly, very willingly indeed, on my wife’s asking her, fed the young King, for the little time, alas, that he lived.’

  ‘So she came here; you took her out of the convent?’

  ‘And we took her back again! I was embarrassed to tell you about it … but there was so little time. And then it was all over so quickly!’

  ‘But, Messire, don’t be embarrassed. You did very well. That beautiful Marie! So she was wet-nurse to the King? What an astonishing piece of news, and what an honourable one! The only pity is that she did not need to feed him for longer,’ said Tolomei, who was already regretting all the advantages he might have derived from such a situation. ‘Then you will be able to get her out of the convent again without difficulty?’

  ‘No, indeed! To get her out permanently, her family must consent. Have you seen her family again?’

  ‘Never. Her brothers, who made such a fuss, seemed delighted to get rid of her and have never reappeared.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘At their house at Cressay.’

  ‘Cressay, where is it?’

  ‘Near Neauphle, where I have a branch.’

  ‘Cressay … Neauphle … excellent.’

  ‘Really, you’re a very strange man, Monseigneur, if I may say so!’ cried Tolomei. ‘I confide a girl to your care and tell you all about her; you go and fetch her to feed the Queen’s child; she lives here eight days, ten days …’

  ‘Five,’ corrected Bouville.

  ‘Five days,’ went on Tolomei, ‘and you don’t know where she comes from and barely what her name is?’

  ‘Yes, I do know, I know it perfectly
well,’ said Bouville blushing. ‘But at moments I have lapses of memory.’

  He could not go running to his wife a third time. Why didn’t she come to his rescue, instead of staying there hidden behind the tapestry, waiting to scold him later if he made a fool of himself! But she had her reasons.

  ‘This Tolomei is the one man I fear in this business,’ she had said to Bouville. ‘A Lombard’s nose is worth those of thirty hunting hounds. If he sees you alone, fool that you are, he’ll suspect less, and I shall be better able to manage things afterwards.’

  ‘Fool that you are … she’s right, I’ve become a fool,’ Bouville thought. ‘Well, I used to know how to talk to kings and negotiate their business. I negotiated Madame Clémence’s marriage. I had to deal with the Conclave and use guile with Duèze …’ It was this thought that saved him.

  ‘Did you say that your nephew is the bearer of a letter from the Holy Father?’ he went on. ‘Well, that makes everything easy. It’ll be up to Guccio to go and fetch his wife and show the letter. We shall thus all be covered and no one will be able to reproach us or bring an action against us. The Holy Father! What more can we want? In two or three days, you said? We must hope that everything will turn out for the best. And thank you very much for that fine piece of cloth; I’m sure that my good wife will be delighted with it. Goodbye, Messer, and I remain always at your service.’

  He felt more exhausted than if he had led a charge in battle.

  As he left Vincennes, Tolomei thought: ‘Either he’s lying to me for some reason I do not know, or he’s entering his second childhood. Anyway we shall have to wait for Guccio.’

  Madame de Bouville, however, did not wait for anyone. She had her litter harnessed and went straight to the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. There she shut herself in Marie de Cressay’s cell. Having killed her child, she had now come to demand of Marie that she should renounce her lover.