“My God,” said the King, “this is a gross insult. Is Burgundy behind it?”
Louis shrugged. “It can’t be tracked down. You might as well try to surprise a viper in his hole as try to trace the origin of an ugly rumor; you know that as well as I, brother.”
The King, already restless and overwrought, could not restrain his emotion. He hung over the arm of the bench, racked by sobs. In vain Louis attempted to quiet him with soothing words, rebukes, promises.
The physician, Freron, who had not taken his eyes from the royal tent even for an instant, approached in haste, followed by the King’s old valet. Despite the physician’s mild manner and his courteous, even submissive demeanor toward the Duke of Orléans, he retained an aura of cold determination, verging on brutality. Freron was considered to be a skillful doctor; only Isabeau knew that he put his own interests before the welfare of his royal patient. It required no effort for him to do what his predecessor, de Harselly, would never have done; at Isabeau’s request he administered to the King potions and powders prepared by the exorcist Guillaume; sometimes he brought the ascetic into the King’s bedroom at midnight to perform spells in secret.
As Louis d’Orléans emerged from under the canopy, the physician cast a venomous glance at him; he intensely disliked the King’s brother, who always argued against him as well as against Arnaud Guillaume. Orléans bit his lip; he blamed himself for his impulsiveness. But he knew from experience that he must take quick advantage of the King’s lucid moments before Isabeau or the Regents could stop him from speaking privately to his brother by taking up his time with trifles. Isabeau and the Dukes were preoccupied at the moment with the important visit of the English nobles, but they would notice the King’s recovery soon enough.
“Rest now, Sire my King,” Louis said gently to the sick man who, supported by his valet, had taken a draught of some medicine; the physician stood nearby, watching coldly. “I shall come back later; there is still a lot to talk about.”
The King nodded and waved his hand. He had recovered himself somewhat, but his lips still trembled and his eyes were bloodshot.
A stir ran through the group of nobles standing at the other end of the gallery. The Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, preceded by sentries and pages from the royal retinue, and accompanied by a secretary and a few clerks, appeared at the gate which joined this section of Saint-Pol with the state rooms. Orléans acknowledged the magistrate’s grave salutations and took formal leave of his brother. “The birds should be brought inside; it is too hot,” he said to one of the pages as he left the gallery. Fréron, who had given the order to bring the birds outside, blinked several times.
The King invited de Tignonville to sit opposite him under the canopy. “Don’t talk about my health, Messire. I want to use these few hours which God has granted me to put my affairs in order.”
De Tignonville, an older man with a tranquil, sober demeanor, closed his eyes in a gesture of understanding. He nodded to the secretary who stepped forward with some rolls of vellum: accounts, surveys, petitions. While de Tignonville was busy with these papers, the King hurriedly removed the pile of playing cards from the table.
“How goes it in Paris?” he asked, staring uneasily at the many closely written pages which the Provost was carefully smoothing out before offering them to him.
“The city is sorely concerned for Your Majesty,” replied de Tig-nonville slowly, “and also about the schism in the Holy Church. The populace is disquieted and fearful; the winter was severe. There is much suffering in the city and around it and now the land is stricken by drought. I have often noticed,” he continued after a pause, “that in times of stress, men behave in different ways: some seek penance and a sober life; others fall into crime and licentiousness. So it is in Paris, Sire: there are processions and gatherings in the churchyard of the Innocents — but the taverns and bordellos are as full as the churches and the Chatelet, the pillory and Gallows Hill are overcrowded. I do not believe that such a rabble has ever roamed through the city streets as in recent years. The houses are falling down, the streets are filthy. I do not bring you good news, Sire, but I bring you the truth.”
The King sat huddled together for a few minutes, without touching the papers spread before him. In the green reflection of the tapestries his was the face of a drowned man — flabby and translucent, drained of blood.
“How can the body be healthy when the mind is ravaged by disease?” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “Surely savagery and disorder must prevail in the cities of France, de Tignonville; for when the King was well, he had neither the inclination nor the insight — and now that he wishes to do his duty like a good prince — God knows — he has lost his senses.” He turned his head from side to side as though he were in pain.
The Provost sighed and said nothing.
Louis d’Orléans walked slowly through the reception halls in the old part of the palace, followed at a distance by Jacques van Hersen and two gentlemen of his suite. The halls were crowded; the arrival of the English envoys had drawn nobles and dignitaries to Saint-Pol from far beyond the confines of Paris. Orléans acknowledged their formal greetings with brief replies; he had no desire to chat or even to exchange civilities. He knew this behavior was unwise; he was making his displeasure clear to all these people. But at the moment he was not capable of masking his real feelings. He set out for his own apartments; although his official residence was the Hôtel de Béhaigne, he spent six days a week in Saint-Pol.
He dismissed his followers and withdrew to the dusky coolness of the armory. Here he was seized by the same feelings of despondency which had overwhelmed him during the winter and spring; in his uncertainty and anguish at his own helplessness, he paced back and forth between the wall hangings with their autumnal colors and the racks of swords and knives. He thought bitterly how unrewarding the task was which he had taken upon himself; the only thing he was striving after was to undo Burgundy’s work, to weaken the Regent’s every move by a counter-move. He could not see yet where his actions were leading; he could not himself take control of the situation by pushing Burgundy off the stage. He thought of himself as one of those water insects called whirlygigs which are in constant motion but never make any headway. He moved incessantly between Isabeau, the Duke, the King, almost always a little behind events. If he should ever move a little ahead, his uncle of Burgundy was hot on his heels. Valentine’s removal to the Hotel de Béhaigne, the abortive negotiations with the Pope at Avignon, the plans for the royal marriage — these were all personal defeats for him.
He knew that he had to act again to thwart Burgundy, that he had to change his plans and do what Burgundy least expected him to do, and he knew that this behavior smacked of desperation; he hated this constant maneuvering, these abrupt changes of direction. His attention had been diverted from the Italian situation: Gian Galeazzo had been made Duke of Milan by the Holy Roman Emperor, Wenceslaus; this expanded the tyrant’s power. Louis guessed that in the future his father-in-law would want to settle his own affairs without any outside help. And it was doubtful that Pope Benedict of Avignon would abdicate of his own free will, especially after what had happened in the spring. The advocates of cession found a staunch supporter in the Duke of Burgundy; for that reason Louis considered throwing his own support to the Avignon Pope, however much he distrusted him, but first it was his duty to revise his attitude toward the English question. The only thing he could find no solution for was Valentine’s exile; he watched helplessly as the enmity against her grew day by day in the royal circle at court — although they sent her letters and gifts — and among the people of Paris.