For him this policy might possibly yield much more favorable, if costly, results than the naval expedition would have been able to do. So, after all, he did not regret the failure of his plan, for which France bore the enormous cost. And although Burgundy did not betray by word or deed that he was aware of Berry’s role in the failure, he did not forget it.
The horses’ hooves clattered on the pavement of the inner courtyard of the Hotel d’Artois. Philippe dismounted before the main door. He threw his cloak, heavy with dampness, to one of the nobles in his retinue and strode swiftly into the palace. In the rooms where he was accustomed to spend his time when he was at home, he found his son, Jean, Comte de Nevers. The young man was standing near a writing desk, slowly turning over the pages of a manuscript. He closed the book and turned when his father entered.
“You are late, Monseigneur,” he said, with a formal bow.
Burgundy greeted his son with a frown. “I missed you at the christening ceremony,” he said curtly.
The corners of Jean’s mouth turned down in an expression of contempt.
“If I had to attend christenings for all of Orléans’ offspring — legitimate as well as illegitimate—” he began, but a glance from his father silenced him. He went to the hearth and spat into the fire.
“You know what I mean,” said Burgundy sternly.
“Yes, in that respect I am not so good a diplomat as you, my lord. I cannot dissemble. God knows I would like nothing better than to wring Orléans’ neck — I find him too much beneath contempt for me to dirty my sword or my dagger on him.”
“You know my position.” Burgundy looked at his son, who now stood with his back to the fire. The wax candles on the reading desk illuminated his somewhat sharp, oldish face; he had his father’s keen eyes and a sour mouth with a full lower lip. He was rather small and badly built: his upper body was disproportionately heavy, a trait that was exaggerated by the short pleated jacket he was wearing.
Jean de Nevers and Louis d’Orléans held much the same position in the Kingdom; they were about the same age, all but equal in rank and well-matched in acumen. Louis had many enemies at court, but he had no fewer admirers; with unparalleled luck he managed to maintain his position in all circumstances and avoid unfortunate entanglements. Nature had not withheld a single gift from him.
Jean, on the other hand, lacked all the qualities which could have made him shine: his mind, forceful and caustic rather than quick-witted, did not show to advantage in the courtly world of Saint-Pol, where his surly character won him few friends. Ever since his boyhood, the preference shown to Orléans had been a thorn in Jean’s flesh. He had his father’s uncommunicative disposition. Resentment burned in him, a constantly smouldering fire nourished by countless petty incidents involving his cousin: a precedence at a banquet, a victory in a tournament, the admiring glance of a woman, a word of praise — and more than all this, Louis’ own airy amiability, even toward Jean himself — his adaptability and dashing courtliness.
At a fête given by the King a few years before, Jean de Nevers had found his wife Marguerite in Orléans’ arms. Earlier in the festivities he had already had reason to complain about her roving glances, her attention to the banter of the King’s younger brother. Because no one was sober and the momentum of the celebration could not be interrupted, the affair did not result in an altercation or a physical fight.
The day after this evening of indulgence was more bitter for Jean than any which came from simply drinking too much wine. He was assailed by doubt and rage; he was not sure now what exactly he had seen in his drunken condition; he did not know what to believe or what to do. There were no witnesses; Marguerite remained silent, Orléans behaved with courteous indifference. Spies, servants with sharp eyes, could discover no signs of an illicit love affair. But Jean, wracked by jealousy, saw signs where there were none: a poem filled with allegory, which the Duke of Orléans had written and which he read aloud at a court fete, Jean took to be a hymn of praise to his wife’s beauty. His self-possession deserted him completely and he let himself go into frenzies of hatred. Of all those who worked for Burgundy, secretly fueling hostility against Orléans, he was the most industrious; he supervised the men in his father’s service who were trying to enflame the people. And it was he who came up with the notion of using Louis’ dabbling in the occult as a weapon against him.
Jean was driven to these methods by his father’s prudence; he himself would much rather have allowed his bottled-up loathing to explode into violence. But his father firmly and resolutely opposed any form of assassination, including the poisoned cup. So Jean could only wait, brooding in solitude on the rancor which embittered his life. Because he did not have the ability to feign amiability or even indifference, every moment he spent in Orléans’ presence was a torment for him. He kept away from the court, but etiquette had assigned his wife a place among the Queen’s ladies, so he could not forbid Marguerite to go to Saint-Pol. He bided his time, taking refuge in the library of the Hotel d’Artois or in various of his many country estates, venting his fury in hunting and sport.
“In truth, I know your position,” he said in response to his father’s look of cold disapproval. “But I repeat once more: I am incapable of so much diplomacy. Wild horses could not have dragged me to that christening this afternoon.”
“You’re a fool,” Burgundy said, rising from the bench onto which he had sunk. “And the future of your landed inheritance is very dim if you persist in carrying this attitude into other areas of your life. But I know you better than you know yourself. I have confidence in you — you’re shrewd and you’re capable of looking ahead. Like me, you learn from experience; you’re guided by the adage ‘what three know, the whole world knows’. But in God’s name, control yourself. Don’t let yourself be carried away by your emotions. I know what rage means, I know passion, but I’d sooner seal my mouth up with iron locks and my hands with chains than speak or act too quickly.”
A semblance of a smile flitted over Jean’s clever, pointed face; he shrugged. In many respects he found his father too cautious; he felt more in sympathy with the Italian tyrants who did not hesitate to employ any means to get what they wanted. He hated not being able to express his urge to action; he cursed his indolence. His resdessness drove him to keep abreast of all news of events at home and abroad, all public disturbances, all military operations, preparing himself to choose sides and participate as soon as the opportunity arose. He considered it a serious deficiency that he had never won fame on the battlefield and looked for the chance to come into the flower of his manhood in that respect.
“I waited here because I wanted to speak with you, Monseigneur,” he began, coming away from the hearth. Burgundy paused on his way to the door.
“I have very little time,” he said crustily. He did not want to reveal how tired he was. His shoes, which had gotten wet during his ride home, were uncomfortable. And he had to change clothes for the christening fete. “I cannot avoid my obligations as easily as you do,” he said without turning around. “I must return to the palace.”