“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.