“I do not have to go home,” she replied slowly, with her eyes down.
Unconsciously, Valentine continued to stroke her harpstrings; soft, vague sounds issued from under her fingertips.
“Where can you go then, Mademoiselle?” she asked, not looking at the girl.
Mariette folded her hands stiffly in her lap.
“As it happens, Madame, I have consented to become the wife of Sire Aubert de Cany, who serves in the King’s retinue.”
Now Valentine raised her head quickly; between the braided tresses her small narrow face seemed paler than usual.
“I had not heard that a promise of marriage existed between you and the Sire de Cany,” she said.
“My kinsmen arranged the matter. Messire de Cany will ask for the King’s consent. But that is a mere formality, if I understand properly. No one can hinder the marriage.”
Valentine’s heart throbbed so loudly she felt it must be audible in the deep silence. She attempted to ask in a light, jesting tone the question which tormented her.
“Your heart was not then at the Court of Orléans during the time that you served me, Mademoiselle?”
Mariette stood up; the folds of her dress rustled over the grass.
The Duchess saw that the girl’s green eyes were filled with tears; her mouth, however, remained firm and her expression austere.
“My heart was with you, Madame,” said Maret, almost roughly. “That is why I am leaving. I beg you to excuse me now.”
Valentine released the harp and took Mademoiselle d’Enghien’s hand in her own.
“Can we not speak honestly with each other?” she whispered. Mariette stood motionless; the Duchess felt something in the girl tighten with resistance; the hand which she held firmly was cold despite the heat.
“Madame,” said Maret d’Enghien with an effort, “it is my wish to become the wife of Messire de Cany. He is a noble man, Madame … too good to be deceived. Where I was raised they had little sympathy for adultery, and no pretty words for it. So I was taught; I cannot think otherwise. It is a great honor for me to marry a man like Messire de Cany, whose views are no less strict.”
“Maret, Maret.” The Duchess of Orléans was moved by an emotion which she could not name. “Is this an escape?”
A spark of impatience flickered in Mariette d’Enghien’s eyes.
“You doubt my courage and the firmness of my will, Madame,” she said. Valentine sighed and released the girl’s cold, damp hand. The damsel stooped to pick up the rolls of music.
“May I go now, Madame?” she asked at last. Valentine nodded.
“I wish to remain out here a little longer,” she said, attempting to regain her usual airy, benevolent manner. “Send my women — but not too quickly.”
Mariette curtsied and left the enclosed garden. The Duchess of Orléans sat motionless, gazing after her. That this resilient young body, this firm mouth and deep green eyes had aroused Louis’ lust disturbed and alarmed her, but she could understand it. Her sorrow deepened as she realized that within Maret lay the power of enchantment — a power which, precisely because it was so deeply concealed, was more irresistible than any beauty and grace of form.
Was it perhaps the strength to resist, once she had made up her mind to it? Valentine stood within the hedges of her garden like a prisoner; the fountain murmured in the silence. Coolness seemed to have vanished from the arbor with Maret’s departure; despite the shade, hot air rose from grass and shrub. The water dropped into the brimming basin of the fountain like a rain of tears. The odor of the wallflowers reminded her suddenly of the sweet but poisonous perfume which her father in Milan gave freely to those who had lost his favor. She thought of her youth, spent in the gardens and palaces of Pavia, amid greater opulence and greater cruelty than she had known since then; she thought of her girlhood, her deep sadness over the misery of the world, her yearning for warmth and happiness, all the vague forebodings of future sorrow which had already disturbed her under the radiant skies of her native land. She knew while she sat motionless amid the greenery of the arbor that storm clouds were gathering on the horizon of her life. She was condemned to wait as though she were the victim of some evil spell until the tempest burst loose above her — until wind and hail blighted and tore the delicate blossoms of her ornamental garden.
Queen Isabeau received the English legation in the palace of Saint-Pol. The English lords had insisted on seeing the bride as soon as they reached Paris. Although the eight-year-old Madame Isabelle had not yet reached the marriageable age, it was still possible to conjecture what sort of flower would develop from such a bud. The King’s eldest daughter, deeply impressed at being the main object of interest at the ceremony, stood behind Isabeau, hand-in-hand with her brother the Dauphin. The royal delegation stood in the reception hall of the Queen’s apartments. Isabeau had ordered the walls hung with new, beautiful tapestries, patterned with crowned doves of peace, golden against a dark red background. Except for the Queen and her two eldest children, only the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, the mistress of ceremonies, Madame d’Eu, and Marguerite de Nevers were present; in the rear of the hall were a number of members of the King’s Council, among them the Chancellor, Arnault de Corbie, who had spoken at the assembly in favor of accepting the marriage proposal. The King was not there; they had decided to present the English lords to him when Isabeau’s reception ended. Louis d’Orléans led the envoys to the dais where the Queen stood beside her children. Isabelle freed her hand with some difficulty from the Dauphin who was, as usual, confused by so many strange faces.
“My daughter,” the Queen said, smiling; she put her hand on the child’s shoulder. But Isabelle needed no encouragement. She knew what was expected of her; maternal counsel had not been wasted on the precocious, haughty little princess. Folding her hands on the front of her stiffly embroidered dress, the child walked to the edge of the dais; she wore a crown and veil like an adult and held her fingers tightly together to avoid losing her rings. The Earls of Rudand and Nottingham knelt in homage.
“My lady,” said Rudand in slow, careful French, looking up at the controlled, smooth childish face. “God willing, you shall be our mistress and Queen of England.”
A silence ensued. Nervously, Isabeau clenched her fists; she stood too far away from the child to help her. She smiled at the envoys, but her eyes were uneasy. The royal kinsmen, the retinue, the members of the council, looked on; the English lords knelt with bowed heads. Outside the arched windows the sunlight was blinding; flies buzzed in the silence. Isabeau breathed quickly; she wanted to help her daughter. If Isabelle was anxious, she did not show it. She stood impassive in her state dress, which cast a gold reflection on the tiled floor, and kept her fingers pressed carefully together. With the interested respectful smile required by etiquette on her face, she stared straight before her over the heads of the envoys, trying to remember what words she was supposed to say. She was not frightened but annoyed at having stupidly forgotten the phrases she had studied so diligently. Behind her she heard her mother’s nervous cough; a feeling of apprehension crept over her. Behind the English lords stood her uncle of Orléans. Playfully he put his hand over his heart. The child realized that he was trying to attract her attention; he closed his eyes in reassurance, and bowed his head. The blood rushed to Isabelle’s cheeks — now she remembered what she must say. The high-pitched, childish voice did not quaver; it seemed as though she had deliberately paused for effect, to heighten the impression she made.
“Messires,” said Isabelle, “if it shall please God and my father that I become Queen of England, then am I well content, for I have always heard it said that I shall then be a mighty sovereign.”