In a Dark Wood Wandering (10 page)

“Listen!” The Duke interrupted himself. “Can there possibly be a more perfect way of praising the pleasures of love? ‘M'es veiare que senta—odor de paradis …' ” he sang in a warm but rather unsteady voice. “ ‘It seemed to me there wafted a scent of paradise …'”

“You use music as an easy excuse to back out of the argument,” cried the Duchess de Berry with playful indignation. “I call everyone to witness! Monseigneur d'Orléans neglects his duties in the service of Lady Love, he refuses to answer the question which I put to him in the name of all those who profess true courtesy. Can Your Majesty not compel him to answer? A royal command has more weight than one from a woman like me, who am Monseigneur's mistress neither in rank nor in matters of love.”

Her loud, clear voice drew everyone's attention to the center of the royal table. She glanced laughing from Isabeau to Marguerite de Nevers, who smiled in cold contempt, but without embarrassment, as though she were only indirectly involved in the conversation. The Queen, startled from her brown study, turned mechanically toward the speaker.

“What questions?” she asked, with a forced smile.

The young Duchess of Berry repeated loudly, “I asked Monseigneur, ‘Fair sir, which would you prefer: that one should speak ill of your beloved and you should find her good, or that one should speak well of her and you should find her evil?'”

“By heavens!” exclaimed Berry. He wiped his fingers on a linen cloth which a page held out to him. “That is a real poser for a court of love. Poets will have to be called on to answer it; I fear that even
the eloquence of Monseigneur d'Orléans is no match for it. What do you think?” He turned to the Countess de Nevers.

Burgundy frowned; his wife's face became cold and vigilant. They suspected that hidden allusions were being made to the rumored infidelity of their daughter-in-law, under the guise of light-hearted banter, and they felt it as an attack upon the honor of their House.

The Countess de Nevers waved her hand and said modestly, “It would not be proper for me to give my opinion before the Queen has spoken.” Thus she diverted attention from herself.

“The question is directed to Monseigneur d'Orléans,” Isabeau said. She did not feel capable at the moment of playing clever word games. Louis, tapping his ring against a goblet in time with the music, shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “I can give you the answer that Courtesy prescribes,” he said, “which is that I would rather think my lady good and find her evil, than the reverse, if I could preserve her honor in that way, and her reputation. In all likelihood I would also deal justly in accordance with the true state of affairs, for il est vérité sans doubtance: femme n'a point de conscience, vers ce qu'elle hait ou qu'elle ame … Woman has no conscience at all about what she hates or what she loves,” he concluded, quoting a stanza by Jean de Meun. He bowed in ironic apology to his two dinner partners. The Duchess of Berry turned away, apparently offended, and Isabeau was not amused. Her eyes were cold behind the thin veil of gold gauze which fell from her high, two-horned headdress over the upper part of her face. Berry laughed loudly and raised his goblet.

“Bravo!” he called out. “Now we are back again where we ought to be, debating the value of women's love. Where is Madame Christine de Pisan, who regaled us so recently at my brother of Burgundy's with so passionate a defense of the honor of women? She is an excellent poet, my lord.” He leaned across the table to cast a mocking look at Burgundy. “And she knows how to be grateful to her benefactors; I read the eulogies which she dedicated to our brother. ‘Benign and gentle' she called him, the eternal crab. They say that she even praised his piety and bravery. In truth, that is a remarkable talent that you have taken under your protection … Chastity!” exclaimed Berry in melodious, polished tones which were more biting than playful. “It's no wonder that
Christine sings of chastity, now that she lives so near to Madame de Nevers!”

The Duchess of Burgundy put a soothing hand on her husband's sleeve; the sober gesture did not go unnoticed—surely not by Berry, who derived satisfaction from this small act of vengeance. Nevertheless, Marguerite bent her head as though in gratitude for this supreme praise; it was impossible to guess her thoughts.

Bourbon said quickly, to bridge the painful silence, “Even here in the court I can mention a passionate defender of true courtesy. I think it is not by chance that the excellent Christine has so many words of praise for the Marshal Boucicaut.”

Louis burst into laughter and beckoned to one of the cup-bearers who carried a tankard through the hall. The man hastened to him, filled the Duke's cup to the brim and, at his request, took it to the Marshal who sat at one of the two tables beneath the dais. Boucicaut rose and drank to Louis, not without wondering what had caused this signal honor, because he could not hear the conversation at the royal table.

“Fair sir,” cried Orléans, “drink to the health of the virtuous women whom you have praised in your ballads. Here we are involved, as usual, in combat over the Book of the Rose. How could it be otherwise? It seems that for lack of bloodier fights we must break our lances now continually in the service of Love. I fight under the banner of the Rose, to the vexation of Monseigneur de Bourbon, who has chosen you as his champion. I defy you, Boucicaut, with this beaker of wine—choose your weapons and come into the arena.”

Boucicaut raised his grave young face to the Duke. The rigid carriage of his lean, sinewy body, the hair clipped short around his high forehead and his black garb distinguished him from his gaily dressed, somewhat boisterous table companions. He was barely thirty years old; great personal bravery and thoughtful acts had won him the title of Marshal a few years before, during a crusade in the East. After he had returned the goblet to the waiting servant, he said with his usual calm gravity, “It is true, my lord, that I hold women in high esteem and I have vowed to serve all equally, regardless of rank or age.”

“Ho ho, fair sir.” Berry interrupted him. His eyes glittered with spite and his face was bloated by wine and heat. He found the young Marshal, notwithstanding his blameless conduct, to be faintly ridiculous. “You say you serve all, regardless of age or rank? But what
do you think of ugly women, without charm, and especially of evil, malicious ones, such as there are—alas!—enough among us, to the distress of Dame Venus herself?”

“I serve all,” replied Boucicaut with a slight bow.

Isabeau sighed. The conversation held little interest for her. She was warm, the weight of her clothing and jewels was beginning to oppress her sorely. Moreover, the King had become restless again; he had pushed himself forward on his seat so that he was sprawling halfway over the table, muttering incessantly. Burgundy tried in vain to calm him down; when he finally attempted to pull the King back onto the seat by his arm, a small struggle ensued, in which goblets and plates were knocked off the table.

Orléans signalled to his steward. The leather curtains in front of the servants' entrance parted and a procession of servants, dressed as savages, festooned with leaves and fruit, carried in a huge tray holding a mountain landscape made of cake and sugar round a lake on which swans were floating; this was intended as a compliment to Isabeau, who was meant to recognize her native country, Bavaria. Armored knights brought in the gigantic pie from which the dwarf would emerge later on, and there were also silvered birds filled with sweets and pastry, and a fountain which spouted different kinds of wine to the sound of cunningly concealed carillons. Last of the cortege were jongleurs, singers and musicians displaying their skills before the tables. This diversion distracted the guests' attention from the King; he himself showed a childish interest in the great pie which had been set down before the royal seat on a tray standing on wooden trestles. The dwarf, clad as a herald for the occasion, appeared through an opening in the top of the pie and directed a speech in rhyme to Isabeau and the other women. Margaretha of Burgundy, who was wiping the wine from her husband's sleeve, considered the whole spectacle rather shabby, compared to the entremets and richly ornamented dishes which were customarily served at festivities in her native Flemish cities.

“Is that not Madame Valentine's Italian dwarf?” she asked Burgundy in an undertone. The King, hearing that beloved name, became restless once again. “Valentine, Valentine,” he repeated, rising from his seat. His dilated eyes strayed from one face to another. “She is not here,” he said, in fear and impatience. “Why haven't they invited Madame my sister-in-law? Let her come here at once. Instantly.” He pulled nervously at Burgundy's shoulder.

The dwarf fell silent in confusion; even the musicians, who stood playing at the lower tables, put down their instruments. Good manners prevented the guests from staring at the royal table, but an oppressive silence suddenly prevailed. The blood drained from the Queen's face. She bent toward her husband, whispering.

“But Sire, the Duchess of Orléans is lying-in; it is impossible for her to come here. We sit at the feast in honor of her son, whom you yourself held at the font today.” She offered him her hand, inviting him to sit down. But the King drew his cloak tightly about his body, and with a cry of aversion withdrew to the farthest corner of the bench.

“There she is again,” he said, a catch of agony in his voice. “Go away! Begone—don't look at me like that. What does she want of me? Let her be gone! Valentine, Valentine!” he screamed, pounding his fist against the sidewall of the canopy.

“Sire!” hissed Isabeau sharply, white to the lips. “Don't forget who or where you are. You are the King of France!”

“Who says that?” Shuddering, Charles gripped the sculptured armrest of the bench with both hands and half-turned toward Burgundy. “That is a lie! Why do they insist that I am the King? Begone, leave me in peace! Do not believe this idle chatter, my lords and ladies,” he went on loudly to his table companions. “It is a slander, the King will surely punish those who say it when he gets wind of it.”

Burgundy stood up resolutely, but Isabeau, driven by now to extremes, thrust him back. She was torn by shame and impotent rage. She gripped Charles' hand so tightly that her nails tore his flesh. “There are the lilies and escutcheons of Valois. You stand before the throne, Sire. Surely you must know you are the King himself.”

Charles shrieked in pain and fury and wrenched his hand free. In his anguish he fell against Burgundy, who threw an arm around his shoulders to keep him on his feet. The King's face was white as chalk; foam appeared between his lips. Isabeau, who had never before seen him like that—she had not been present during his attacks of madness at Creil—stepped back and sought support against the edge of the table.

The guests sat motionless; servants and musicians withdrew into the shadows of the colonnades. The dwarf slid from the pie and crept timidly away under the drooping folds of a table cover.

“Hush now, Sire, hush,” said Burgundy, attempting to take hold of the King's resistant body. “No one will do you harm; you are among friends. Now sit down calmly; do. We will summon the man who juggles burning torches.”

But the mention of fire woke in the King's disordered brain recollections of the fearful night which had brought on his second period of madness. He shrieked and struck out wildly about him. Bourbon moved quickly to pull the dagger from its sheath on Charles' girdle and get the weapon out of the madman's reach, remembering what had happened in the forest of Mans, where the King in his frenzy had stabbed two noblemen of his retinue.

“Your Majesty,” the Duke of Burgundy began, but he was not able to finish. The King spat on the lilies on the canopy, tried to tear the tapestry, making derisive, scornful gestures.

“Away, away with that weed!” he screamed. “Take the plants away! Majesty, majesty—it is all blasphemy! My name is George—my escutcheon bears a lion pierced by a sword. I am a valiant knight! To arms! To arms!” His lips turned blue; his eyeballs turned up, showing the whites of his eyes.

“In God's name, call a physician,” said Louis d'Orléans with vehemence. “My lords, forgive the disturbance. The King is gravely ill. I regret that I did not cancel this banquet—under these circumstances.”

Jean de Bueil left the hall quickly, followed by a few retainers. The Archbishop of Saint-Denis approached in long, trailing purple robes and held a cross before the King, while he moved his lips in prayer. The King, somewhat restored to himself by the wine which someone had sprinkled on his forehead, shook his head fearfully.

“Let him rest awhile—give him a chance to breathe.” Orléans had come under the canopy. Now he took one of the King's ice-cold hands in his. “Brother—do you not know me?” he said softly, insistently. “Come sit by me here, and let us talk awhile together. Tell me about the sword and helmet which our father gave you when you were a child.”

The sick man shivered; he seemed to shake off his frenzy, like a wet dog shaking off drops of water. He blinked his eyes.

“Come, now.” Louis tapped the cushion of the bench. Burgundy looked at the Archbishop with raised eyebrows.

“It seems that Monseigneur d'Orléans really knows a treatment which is mightier than any treatment from the Church,” he remarked
in an undertone. Isabeau, still breathing heavily, gave him an angry look, but remained silent. The veil was damp on her temples; her legs could no longer hold her. Leaning on the Duchess of Berry, she sank into her seat. The King slumped against his brother's shoulder. Seen together, the likeness as well as the frightful disparity between the two was startling: one face was like a twisted reflection of the other.

“Yes, brother,” said the King, who recognized Orléans and at that moment began to speak to his brother as he had done in their childhood. “That was a wondrous story, with the weapons—they hung over my bed. I had to choose … how was it again?” He became lost in thought; his head drooped over his breast. Orléans gazed down at him with a smile which was not without bitterness.