Kneeling in the chapel of his house, he remembered the many hours of meditation he had spent in Asnieres, far from war and ambition, far from the court and temptation. With a bitter smile he thought of the priests, urging him at confession to control his desires; it was easy enough to be chaste and disinterested within the white walls of his cell, listening to pealing bells and pious hymns. But who could engage in the life of the world outside without being caught up in passion? Louis had learned from the behavior of dignitaries of the Church in the environs of the court and especially from the conduct of Clement and his cardinals in Avignon that even the purple robes of prelates did not protect them against sin.
Lust and greed, the Devil’s companions, often hid behind masks. There were moments when Louis felt almost choked by the wickedness of the world. At those times he lost the light cynicism with which he managed to adjust to every circumstance; he felt like the serpent which the sculptured Mother of God trampled under her small foot. Nor did his uneasiness cease in this hushed room redolent of incense.
He crossed himself and rose to his feet. He knew that he was going to spend another sleepless night when he went to bed. The thought crossed his mind even in this sacred place, of an alternative; there were houses in Paris where, with women and dice, one could temporarily escape from reality. He struck himself scornfully on the mouth with his gloves, which he still held tightly in his hand. Then he quickly left the room.
He walked to the door which led to his own private apartments, but paused with his hand upon the door-ring, staring at the sentry who stood leaning against the wall, asleep. The torches in metal brackets, placed at regular intervals along the walls of the corridor, burned with a soft crackling sound; the man stirred in his sleep.
Orléans turned and moved cautiously to a low door at the other end of the passage, behind which a spiral staircase wound down through one of the many towers to the ground floor. The icy night air and the odor of damp earth rushed to meet him as he opened the door to the inner court. The wind had driven away the fog and the clouds; the moon stood reflected in pools of water left from early evening showers. Between the narrow cobbled footpaths which traversed the court in the shape of a star, small shrubs had been planted. In the center of the star stood a fountain.
Louis stood leaning against a pillar of the gallery which bordered one side of the court and gazed at the blue slate roofs of Saint-Pol and its numerous towers, wings and galleries looking like a mysterious labyrinth in the cold moonlight. Behind a series of narrow windows a weak glow could be seen: these were the apartments of Valentine and the women. Louis sighed and with one hand began to hook closed the cloak which he had thrown over his shoulders after the banquet. He could feel the metal ring which Salvia had brought him that morning pressing against his breast beneath his shirt; he pressed it with his hand.
He had caught only a glimpse of Mariette d’Enghien when he had visited his wife with the King’s retinue; when the girl became aware of his glance she had retreated behind a group of ladies of the court, like a deer fleeing into the wood to escape the approaching hunting party. He crossed his arms and hid his hands in the wide folds of his cloak. Startled by the sound of a light step on the stones of the gallery, he turned quickly. The moonlight, shining through the rosettes cut into the stone arches, cast a pattern of silvery patches onto the floor; in the light could be seen the face and figure of his squire, Jacques van Hersen, whom he had dismissed for the night when he left the table. The youth knelt. “My lord,” he said.
“What is it?” Louis asked curtly. He was annoyed at the interruption.
“Don’t you need me, Monseigneur?”
“Now that you have found me, you can come with me.” Louis turned his back to the page and entered the garden.
They passed under the arched gate into the gardens of Saint-Pol, which were surrounded by high walls. The young trees, planted only a few years before, stood in rigid rows along the paths; wrapped in straw against the winter cold they looked like grotesque figures, suppliants, assassins, dancers, stylites. In the summer, lilies grew here, and bright-colored columbines in flower beds; rosebushes and hawthornes divided the garden into small lawns adorned with fountains and bird houses. Now the hazy moonlight hung over branches and twigs, bare hedges and leafless arbors.
The Duke walked rapidly; without slowing his pace he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. By now it was obvious to the page where they were going; the path Louis was taking led directly to the buildings of the Celestine monastery, a pile of towers and roofs outside the palace walls. Before the Duke opened the door in the garden wall which led to the monastery, the page turned to look back once more; but the spacious gardens lay deserted and almost shadowless in the moonlight. Seen from this spot the steep walls and peaked towers of the palace of Saint-Pol seemed almost unreaclass="underline" an enchanted castle suspended between heaven and earth, a dream vision woven out of moonlight and clouds.
“Come, young man,” said Louis impatiently from the darkness.
Quickly, Jacques followed his master through the low arch and shut the door. They stood in a roofed passage, with small windows on one side, through which the moonlight cast elongated white strips onto the ground. The Duke was at home here. In this place he had his own prayer cell where he spent certain days each year leading the life of a monk, wearing cap and cord and walking barefoot on the stone floors. His old friend and councillor lived here, Philippe de Maizieres, who had retired among the Celestines shortly after Louis had been declared of age.
Louis hesitated a moment before the door of the chapel which had been built onto the cloister walls. He did not enter, but walked in the opposite direction until, past stairs and corridors, he entered the nearly dark dormitorium. Abruptly he stopped, with a half-suppressed cry of terror.
The page stepped forward quickly. “What is it, Monseigneur?”
Louis laid a trembling hand on the young man’s shoulder, seeking support, but he spoke words of reassurance.
The page let his dagger slide back into its sheath, but stood peering suspiciously into the darkness. There was only one patch of light in the hall, a square of moonlight under the little window cut high into the wall. But this bluish, misty light only intensified the surrounding darkness and silence. A cold shiver climbed between Jacques’ shoulderblades; for a moment he felt a blind urge to bolt. The Duke’s footsteps sounded quicker than before. They reached the door giving access to de Maizieres’ rooms. Louis tapped at the wooden door, his usual quick, short signal; he entered without waiting for a reply.
The former councillor to the King occupied two adjoining white-walled cells with vaulted ceilings. A life-sized image of the crucified Christ hung directly opposite the door; in the flickering light of a perpetual lamp the wounds seemed to glitter darkly with coagulated blood. A soft rustling came from the adjoining cell; after a few moments de Maizieres appeared, an old man in a cowl.
“Forgive me for arriving at this late hour,” Louis said before de Maizieres could speak. “If I had not known that you seldom sleep after midnight, I would not have come. I needed to talk to you.”
The old man stepped aside and motioned him to enter.
“You don’t look well, Monseigneur,” he said, pushing the manuscript he had been reading to one side of the table. “I cannot say that the rest in Asnieres has done you good. Nor has the celebration of your son’s birth. What’s the matter? Your hands are shaking,” he added, lapsing into that familiar tone with which he had sometimes addressed Louis the child.
“Maizieres,” said Orléans softly, “if it is true that a man can foresee his end …” He paused. “I know well enough that I have been fortunate in my undertakings,” he continued, more softly still. “But now it seems I am running out of time. I do not believe I shall live long, Maizieres. I have seen Death himself tonight.”