The Bishops of Saint-Denis and Saint-Pol and other dignitaries of the Church, as well as the Dukes of Bar and Lorraine, sat at both ends of the horseshoe-shaped royal table. Queen Blanche did not attend the christening feast; the sober life at Neauphle had given her a distaste for prolonged repasts. She had gone with her retinue to one of the palace chapels to offer candles in honor of the newborn baby. At the lower tables sat nobles from Orléans’ most trusted entourage: the Sires de Garencieres, de Morez, de Bethencourt, Jean de Bueil and Marshal Boucicaut. The servants in their dark green livery constantly carried in new dishes — haunches of venison, pork, capon and other fowl, stuffed with truffles or cooked in sour sauce, all accompanied by compotes, by spiced meat pies and egg dishes. The two tall buffets on either side of the tables were loaded with platters piled high with pyramids of fruits, raisins, dates and nuts. The Duke’s precious silver plate, the jugs and goblets which Valentine had brought him as part of her dowry, stood displayed there. The servants filled graceful decanters from almost man-sized narrow tankards with wines from Bordeaux and Burgundy, mead spiced with honey and currants, malmsey and sweet hippocras. The music continued without pause; minstrels appeared on the balcony and started singing the couplets of Bernard de Ventadour, so beloved by Orléans.
“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?”