He was silent for a moment, and the bitter lines appeared again at the corners of his mouth. “It’s really hard to have to watch the constant efforts of our noble lords to disband well-trained groups of fighting men. They are so frightened of rebellion that they would sooner hand the land over to the English.”
The King’s sigh was so deep that it was almost a groan. The physician turned on his heel abruptly and came toward him. The King, who, not without reason, hated and feared Freron, began to ramble, but he managed to pull himself together and call out with a semblance of his former authority that he wished to be left in peace. Freron backed away, bowing, and joined the group of attendants.
“I do not want that man near me anymore,” the King said nervously. He drew the curtain and shifted the bench so that the physician could not see him. “He takes too much blood from me; I am weak and dizzy from it. No, no, brother, let me finish! God knows when I will get the chance again. I commiserate with you,” he said vehemently, pushing away the beaker which Louis offered him, “your lot is more difficult than mine. Few will thank you for your efforts, and you will be thwarted at every turn — and I am not able to help you. God, God, why don’t they kill me when the madness comes upon me!” Tears trickled from under his enflamed eyelids; he sat motionless, a shattered man.
“Be still now, control yourself.” The Duke of Orléans spoke almost roughly. “I do what I can, but I cannot move mountains. We must help ourselves, brother, the wolves are stealing through the snow; they will not spare us. I shall have to put up with great frustration, but I do not propose to abandon the struggle because of that. I shall be too clever for Burgundy. He thinks he has put me in checkmate by effecting the marriage pact with England; but he is mistaken once again, our lord uncle. I shall seek my strength where he has sought it himself — in friendship with Richard of England. I have already taken steps to that end.”
The King wrinkled his brow; he could hardly grasp the state of affairs, so much had happened since he had last been lucid. He strained to understand. A fierce throbbing behind his eyes warned of the onset of a headache. He put a hand to his forehead and sank back in his seat.
“Am I tiring you, brother?” Louis spoke self-reproachfully. But the King quickly shook his head. “Tell me more,” he whispered. “Do you advise me to continue negotiations then?”
“You don’t have any alternative. The English lords are here and the Queen has let them know they can call upon Madame Isabelle this afternoon. The Dukes are meeting continually to define conditions. Take a piece of advice from me …” He leaned toward the King and laid a hand on his knee. “Insist on the insertion of a clause in the treaty which excludes Madame Isabelle from succession to the throne — even from inheriting French territory. Be royal with a dowry, brother, but demand that clause!”
The King bit the knuckles of his left hand. He gazed into his brother’s face, so close to his own: he saw the healthy glow under Louis’ brown skin, the long, muscular hand raised in warning. The King shuddered with disgust at his own decrepitude.
“You could insist upon it,” he said, groping for words. “You are always there, aren’t you?”
Louis sighed with impatience.
“This is too important,” he said emphatically. “God be praised, you are now able to enforce your views in this matter. They have kept me in the dark about everything, as usuaclass="underline" Burgundy has seen to it that I was kept busy elsewhere. Do you know anything about our difficulties with the Pope?” he asked, after a brief, prudent silence.
The King nervously shook his head. For a few moments Louis stared into space. It was a difficult task to enlighten the King; nonetheless he wanted to tell him as much as he could, for the Regents would no doubt attempt to force their views upon him during his temporary recovery.
“Can you remember,” Louis went on slowly, “that you allowed a poll to be taken among the clergy more than a year ago, on the advice of the University? They favored then making concessions on behalf of re-elections.”
“Yes. True.” Charles still spoke hesitantly. “But — surely — they were correct — these doctors at the Sorbonne, were they not? You have always disagreed with them, brother, haven’t you?”
Louis shrugged. “That is beside the point,” he said testily. “I admit that I could not — and cannot — tolerate their blatant arrogance. ‘Rectify and judge—et doctrinaliter, et indecialiter?” Softly he mimicked Gershon’s hoarse voice. “They act as if they know everything. Besides, they supported Rome, which was to be expected — the learned doctors almost always come here from abroad. They cursed Avignon whenever they spoke. But then last fall Pope Clement died …”
The King nodded a few times; his eyes began to shine.
“Yes, yes.” He talked fast. “I know all about it. I signed letters to the Cardinals at Avignon, asking them not to choose a new pope.”
“The Cardinals left the letters unopened and immediately chose Pedro de Luna.” Louis’ laughter was jeering; he was thinking of his own hopes at the time. “I thought then that this was a positive action, because I knew that Luna supported cession. Well, I soon had reason enough to doubt his good intentions. The University did not leave us in peace; daily it sent doctors and orators to plead the cause of cession. Then this spring Monseigneur de Berry and I went to Avignon with an embassy from the Sorbonne. We talked with de Luna day and night but he is a sly fox who does not let himself be tempted by promises — not even for a moment. And what is the result? A pope sits in Avignon — his name is Benedict — who never for a single moment considers resigning his office in order to have a second ballot. And so farewell to the unity of the Church.”
“My God,” said Charles softly. “How are we to find solace to ease the pain of existence when our comforter, the Church, is torn by discord and dissension?”
Louis made an irritable gesture. “The Church, the Church … Sometimes I think that we ought to seek our solace, as you call it, anywhere where there are no priests and prelates. Who can enlighten us in our dark ignorance? For we are in the darkness, brother, we hardly dare to feel our way …”
The King was becoming restless. He felt tired and hot. “What are you babbling about now?” he muttered. “What you have just told me is bad enough, but what can I do about it? What do you expect of me? Where is Madame d’Orléans?” he asked suddenly, sitting up straight. “Why hasn’t she come to visit me yet? I would like to see her. It is a long time since she was last here — is she ill? Why don’t you answer me?” He looked at Louis with suspicion. Orléans sat with bowed head.
“My wife is no longer in Saint-Pol,” he said finally, without looking at the King. “She lives in the Hotel de Behaigne — she has been there since January, since she went to church after the birth of our son Charles.”
The Hôtel de Behaigne was one of the many houses which Louis d’Orléans owned in Paris. It was comfortably furnished and set amid beautiful gardens.
Two red spots appeared on the King’s cheekbones. He too lowered his eyes. “Why?” he whispered, inexplicably choked by feelings of guilt and shame.
“Your friendship for Madame d’Orléans has aroused suspicion and mistrust,” said Louis formally. “I thought it advisable that she should leave Saint-Pol.”