Very old people in Blois, who can still remember the late Lady Valentine, often say that the Duchess shows, day by day, a greater resemblance to Monseigneur’s mother. Each time they see Marie d’Orléans sitting in the great hall or, from a distance, in the cool shadowed garden arbor, dressed in black as always, with an embroidery frame or a book before her and equally industrious court ladies around her, it seems to them that time has stood still for fifty years. Even the black wall coverings with the motto stitched in silver — Rien ne m’est plus, plus ne m’est rien — hang once more in the Duchess’s apartments, and Madame wears the ornament which Duchess Valentine never removed after her husband’s death: a fountain of tears cunningly constructed from silver and tiny glittering gems.
Fancywork seems to have become a passion for Marie d’Orléans; she busies herself chiefly with crocheting beads and buttons from Cyprian gold thread. Everyone has received these as gifts from her; Monseigneur wears them on his jacket and cloak, and they are threaded into his paternoster. It seems to Antonio that the Duchess is never cheerful or happy; she tries to be friendly to everyone, following her husband’s example, but her heart does not seem to be in it. Even the little dogs and birds which she keeps near her always, she caresses absently. Now that Bourbon’s son Pierre de Beaujeu, whom Orléans has raised as a foster child, has grown into young manhood, he no longer needs Marie’s attention. If anything can make her realize profoundly that time gives no quarter, it is the presence of this tall adolescent squire who once — it seems only yesterday — entered Blois as a little child.
One day in the summer of the year 1456, Antonio set out at noon in company with a few other clerks from Monseigneur’s office for the great hall where the repast was about to be served. They walked quickly through the garden, only pausing for a moment near the walled pond which the Duke, not long before, had had fitted with a fountain. Standing in a rock in the center of the pond was a bronze gargoyle. The splashing of the streams of water springing from between its lips, out of its nostrils and ears, was usually audible in the innermost chambers of the castle. But the fountain had been silent since that morning; there was something wrong with the ducts. The Duke, who had missed the familiar sound, had come to the well that morning, joking that he would die of thirst next to his fountain. Antonio and his friends mounted the broad stairs to the hall.
There the preparations for the meal were in full swing; under the supervision of the steward, Alardin de Monzay, three or four servants were busy putting tops on the trestles, unfolding the linen cloths. A youth ran about with a basket, from which he strewed fresh leaves on the floor. From one of the deep window recesses came smothered laughter; two of the Duke’s pages stood there joking with Pierre the fool. The harpist, one foot resting on the steps of a bench, attentively tuned his instrument. Antonio went into another window niche, knelt on the stone seat and leaned forward to look outside.
The southwestern portion of Blois looked like a gigantic green-and-bronze-tinted tapestry. In the last few years vines had taken possession of nearly every open spot on the old wall. The village of Blois lay at the foot of the precipice in the burning midday sun. The river was low; the reflection of the sunlight on the exposed sands was so dazzling that Antonio involuntarily closed his eyes.
As he leaned on the window seat, dozing in the warmth, he caught the conversation going on among the jocular group in the next window niche. With exaggerated intonation, the fool was reciting a rondeau consisting of nothing but nonsense words, accompanied by the jingling of bells.
“Stop it, Pierre,” said one of the pages. “In the name of anything you like, spare us from poetry for a while. If we aren’t in church, we are rhyming. About love, about the four seasons, about the kindness of Madame the Duchess …”
“What do you want then?” replied another youth. “The Duke doesn’t like the hunt and he is too fat for games of skill and horseback riding. Can you imagine him jousting?”
“He had fights enough when he was young, at least if you can believe the stories. He should certainly know something about what goes on. Don’t forget he has been through Agincourt!”
The fool began to titter shrilly.
“We have another hero of Agincourt, gentlemen; only look at Messire de Monzay who stands there surveying the tables like a commander with his battlefields!”
“Hey, de Monzay, I didn’t know that!” cried one of the pages. “Were you at Agincourt, man?”
“Hush, hush, hush!” the fool whispered so sharply that he could be heard in the farthest corners of the hall. “Do not bother Messire. He won’t be happy to be reminded that the English stripped him stark naked and let him run away like that.”
The pages laughed, half in derision and half in scandalized astonishment. De Monzay said, in a choked voice, “It would have been better for me if they had killed me, or sent me to England with the Duke.”
“Man, you would have died from boredom on the other side of the Straits of Calais,” cried the fool. “In that climate! I’ve been told that the fog is so thick in London that you can’t see three steps in front of you.”
“The Duke must still consider himself lucky that they let him go.”
“He may well, but his purse still feels the pain.” The fool uttered a terrifying series of moans and gasps. Suddenly he stopped and said in a normal voice, “Listen, the harpist is playing! There must be a lady nearby. Unless I’m wrong, even two ladies. There come a couple of the Duchess’s young women, the two prettiest if I’m not mistaken …”
The easily enflamed Antonio Astesano, who was accustomed to wooing all the court ladies in turn — until now, however, in vain — hastily emerged from the window niche. The two young ladies, Isabel and Annette, floated gracefully into the hall. From their fashionable pointed hats hung veils of white muslin. They tried to maintain a dignified demeanor, but in their bright eyes sparkled the inexplicable, irrepressible delight that seizes maidens as soon as they enter the company of men whom they know they can tease. They glanced derisively with feigned hauteur at Antonio, who bowed, at the pages who gave them a friendly greeting.
“Messire de Monzay, the Duchess has left her chambers,” said Isabel. “Monseigneur and Madame will be here shortly.”
With a gesture the steward indicated that everything was ready. He clapped his hands; the servants, who had set down the plates and goblets and arranged the slices of bread in a great pile on the serving tables, lined up against the walls.
“Is it true that we will have a poet as guest again tonight?” Annette asked de Monzay curiously. This was the opportunity Antonio had been waiting for; even before the steward could answer, he sprang to the fore to give the requested information.
“Messire François Villon has arrived, a poet from Paris.”
“From Paris, yes above all, from Paris,” cried the fool shrilly. “He is banished from Paris, ladies, I hear he is a fine gentleman. Robbery, murder, whoring … and on and on. He stood once with the rope around his neck. We shall surely hear a different kind of verse this evening from what we heard last week when Monseigneur read a poem about the foolish hats-with-tails that you wear. Monseigneur will soon rhyme as creditably as a fool. Then I can do away with myself.”
“Ah, don’t mock,” said Annette angrily. “Monseigneur is kind and courteous. We know perfectly well that his heart is occupied with other things besides our hats. He is only being cordial to us. This winter he gave me two golden ecus, because I had lost all my money at cards.”