In a Dark Wood Wandering (18 page)

The King sat huddled together for a few minutes, without touching the papers spread before him. In the green reflection of the tapestries his was the face of a drowned man—flabby and translucent, drained of blood.

“How can the body be healthy when the mind is ravaged by disease?” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “Surely savagery and disorder must prevail in the cities of France, de Tignonville; for when the King was well, he had neither the inclination nor the insight—and now that he wishes to do his duty like a good prince—God knows—he has lost his senses.” He turned his head from side to side as though he were in pain.

The Provost sighed and said nothing.

Louis d'Orléans walked slowly through the reception halls in the old part of the palace, followed at a distance by Jacques van Hersen and two gentlemen of his suite. The halls were crowded; the arrival of the English envoys had drawn nobles and dignitaries to Saint-Pol from far beyond the confines of Paris. Orléans acknowledged their formal greetings with brief replies; he had no desire to chat or even to exchange civilities. He knew this behavior was unwise; he was making his displeasure clear to all these people. But at the moment he was not capable of masking his real feelings.
He set out for his own apartments; although his official residence was the Hôtel de Béhaigne, he spent six days a week in Saint-Pol.

He dismissed his followers and withdrew to the dusky coolness of the armory. Here he was seized by the same feelings of despondency which had overwhelmed him during the winter and spring; in his uncertainty and anguish at his own helplessness, he paced back and forth between the wall hangings with their autumnal colors and the racks of swords and knives. He thought bitterly how unrewarding the task was which he had taken upon himself; the only thing he was striving after was to undo Burgundy's work, to weaken the Regent's every move by a counter-move. He could not see yet where his actions were leading; he could not himself take control of the situation by pushing Burgundy off the stage. He thought of himself as one of those water insects called whirlygigs which are in constant motion but never make any headway. He moved incessantly between Isabeau, the Duke, the King, almost always a little behind events. If he should ever move a little ahead, his uncle of Burgundy was hot on his heels. Valentine's removal to the Hotel de Béhaigne, the abortive negotiations with the Pope at Avignon, the plans for the royal marriage—these were all personal defeats for him.

He knew that he had to act again to thwart Burgundy, that he had to change his plans and do what Burgundy least expected him to do, and he knew that this behavior smacked of desperation; he hated this constant maneuvering, these abrupt changes of direction. His attention had been diverted from the Italian situation: Gian Galeazzo had been made Duke of Milan by the Holy Roman Emperor, Wenceslaus; this expanded the tyrant's power. Louis guessed that in the future his father-in-law would want to settle his own affairs without any outside help. And it was doubtful that Pope Benedict of Avignon would abdicate of his own free will, especially after what had happened in the spring. The advocates of cession found a staunch supporter in the Duke of Burgundy; for that reason Louis considered throwing his own support to the Avignon Pope, however much he distrusted him, but first it was his duty to revise his attitude toward the English question. The only thing he could find no solution for was Valentine's exile; he watched helplessly as the enmity against her grew day by day in the royal circle at court—although they sent her letters and gifts—and among the people of Paris.

Louis d'Orléans stood motionless before one of the arms racks,
his hands behind his back. He had once heard a tale of a knight whose evil fate hung around his neck day and night in the shape of a demon. Now he himself felt the constant weight of a leaden, oppressive presence. Even at the hunt, or at games, or during the brief amorous adventures which he pursued from a craving for oblivion, he was never free from the burden of melancholy. He thought of his brother the King, huddled apprehensive and distraught under the green tapestries of his pavilion, afraid of the physician, of new attacks of madness.

Over the course of a few years the good-natured, pleasure-loving young man had become a wreck, a hopeless invalid, who tried vainly in moments of lucidity to make up for what he had frittered away during the ten years of his reign. This man, tormented by feverish bewilderment, wore the Crown of France. His hand, which could not hold a glass of wine without spilling it, all too quickly took up the pen to sign decrees and edicts, the significance of which he could not possibly grasp. He alternated rapidly between suspicion and unquestioning trust: if in the morning he allowed himself to be convinced of something by Louis, at noon he let himself be equally persuaded of an opposing view by Burgundy. Louis knew that this was true, from his own experience; not infrequently after a talk with Burgundy the King had revoked a decision which he had made earlier at Louis' insistence.

He sighed and resumed his walk through the armory. The Holy Virgins who were leading Mary to her Coronation in Paradise smiled down from the walls, the stiff folds of their garments spread around their feet over the celestial fields. Among roses and lilies, Saint Catherine, Saint Barbara, Ursula, Veronica, walked in procession wearing crowns and veils like worldly princesses. Louis gazed at their sweet, mysterious, laughing faces, at their hands, folded demurely on their breasts. Mariette d'Enghien had looked like that as she stood among the women of Valentine's entourage. Neither his considerable powers of persuasion nor the magic ring which the astrologer Salvia had brought him seemed able to shatter her resistance. She spurned gifts, thrusting them shyly but firmly away; whenever, in the seclusion of house or court, he endeavored to approach her, she stood motionless, with lowered eyes, in anguished apprehension. Had it been any other woman, Louis would undoubtedly have abandoned his hopeless courtship earlier; he did not usually go to such pains for the sake of beauty alone. Besides, he
never needed to, for women as a rule offered themselves before he was even ready to approach them. He did not know himself why he desired the Demoiselle d'Enghien more desperately from day to day; in the couplets which he sent her he compared her to a meadow buried under snow, to a frozen crystalline mountain brook or an icy spring wind. She seldom answered him when he spoke to her; sometimes she only looked at him and her glance was green and sparkling—something smouldered there, which he did not understand. He tried to forget his chagrin and annoyance in the arms of other women; fleeting adventures with strangers encountered in streets or taverns; a few days' fling with a court lady of the Queen's, the frivolous wife of a nobleman who lived in Saint-Pol. Valentine he treated with the greatest delicacy; since her confinement she had not yet regained her strength, and although she hid it well, she suffered from the calumny which threatened to make her life in Paris impossible.

Louis smiled sardonically, gazing at the placid saints on the wall hanging. “Has she a talisman which protects her from love?” he said in a low voice. “But why is she uncertain then? She flees, but she herself does not know why.” An enticing image rose before him: Maret, her auburn hair loose upon her shoulders, her chaste garment about to slip away … He covered his eyes with his hand and turned hastily from the tapestry.

Valentine, Duchess of Orléans, sat in a small bower in the ornamental garden of the Hotel de Behaigne. Trees shaded the grass; within the border of wallflowers and lilies, a fountain leaped from a marble basin. Surrounding the garden was a hedge of clipped shrubs; it was like a fragrant green chamber. Shadows and droplets from the fountain cooled the air; the dry, stifling heat which burned down on stone and sand outside the garden did not reach the women in the arbor. Valentine was bareheaded and wore a light undergarment; on her lap she held a harp, a beautifully painted instrument which she had brought with her from Lombardy. Around her in the grass lay rolls of music. She played the harp with great dexterity; writers eagerly offered her their compositions.

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.