Isabeau did not answer; she tightened her lips and began to put the papers together. From time to time she glanced at the King. Wine, cake and fruit stood untouched on the table. The wall hangings stirred in the draughts. The roaring of the wind and rain drowned out all other sounds, giving the King and Queen a feeling of utter seclusion in the heart of the palace. They sat for a while, facing each other in silence, Charles with uneasy, wandering eyes, Isabeau staring vacantly at the golden candle holders. But the silence oppressed the Queen. She began to talk quickly, in a forced way, about her children: about the Dauphin, who knew his prayers by heart; about how dignified Isabelle was during the reception. She mentioned her discussion with the convent where Marie would be accepted and she talked about the infant Michelle whom she had named after the King’s patron saint. The King listened uneasily, tapping his fingers on the table top; he rocked back and forth in his chair, rubbing his face and his clothes. He sensed his wife’s feeling of aversion toward him, and he was frightened by this hard-eyed stranger.
They were both relieved when Colin de Bailly, a nobleman of the King’s retinue, entered the room and requested an audience for a messenger from Lombardy who had been waiting for more than half the day in one of the anterooms. The King remembered suddenly that as early as that morning he had given instructions to let the man wait. He declared himself ready to hear the messenger.
The Italian brought a letter from Gian Galeazzo. The Duke of Milan wrote stiffly that he had been shocked and dismayed to hear There were, he wrote, reports concerning the exalted and excellent lady, his daughter, the Duchess of Orléans, of whom it was apparently being said that she attempted to impede the King’s recovery by means of sorcery. He expected that the King, may it please God to grant him good health, or the King’s closest relatives, would spare no efforts to refute publicly the malevolent rumor — that the slanderers would be tracked down and then suitably punished.
As he read the letter, the King became very excited.
“Who said that? Who dares to say that?” he repeated; trembling with agitation, he crumpled the sleeves of his mantle into a wad. “Is that why she went away?” he asked abruptly. He stared at his wife; she read the letter, smiling oddly. He watched her eyes move to and fro under her eyelids. Isabeau let the letter fall onto the table as though the parchment were tainted. She shrugged.
“Lombardy is the cradle of the black arts,” she said loftily. “Everyone knows that.”
The King shook his head with impotent violence. “But who dares to accuse our dear sister?” he asked, nearly weeping; his lips trembled.
“Who?” Isabeau’s voice shot out, suddenly shrill. “Who, Sire? The people of Paris throw stones at her carriage when she ventures outside the walls of her Hotel de Behaigne. The servants here will tell you that the people call her the Witch of Orléans. Her rooms swarm with soothsayers and alchemists … her servants disfigure corpses …”
“Who says that, who says that?” screamed the King; the blood rushed to his head, sweat stood on his upper lip. The Queen was frightened; was the madness overcoming him again?
“I have someone in my service,” she said, calming herself. “A man who possesses remarkable powers of healing. With his own eyes he saw—”
“That living corpse?” The King leaned over the edge of the table and stared at Isabeau with distended eyes. A horrible image came into his memory: a face like a death’s head appearing over a can-dleflame between the bed curtains at midnight. ‘The man who lays dead frogs on my breast and forces stinking powders down my throat? Is it he, the necromancer, who accuses Valentine? Get away! Get away!” he cried suddenly, stamping his feet with rage and striking the table. “I’ll have him hanged, the filthy swine …! De Bailly! The watch!”
Isabeau rose hastily.
“Sire,” she said, attempting to quiet the King by a soothing tone, “Arnaud Guillaume tends you with my approval. My lord of Burgundy is aware of it. Be calm, be calm, Sire …”
“He slanders our sister-in-law!” The King sank back in his chair, still gasping with excitement. “Our brother of Orléans and his wife are dear to us, Madame, very dear to us. I want Valentine to return to Saint-Pol at once.”
“Sire, Sire …” Desperately Isabeau moved toward him; she pulled at her train, which was caught on the table. “Rest now. Any excitement is dangerous. It is for your sake that I — that it was suggested that Madame d’Orléans leave the palace.”
“But I will not see those frauds again,” the King muttered, suppressing his rage in the folds of Isabeau’s long sleeves. The Queen had thrown her arms around his neck. “Send them away, the physicians and the … the … Deliver the liar to Orléans — let my brother punish him, the slanderer!”
“Yes, yes.” She began anxiously to whisper the endearments that had been customary between them so long ago. These words so long unspoken seemed strange on her lips. She closed her eyes so that she would not see that distorted, sweating face so close to hers. Filled with bitter aversion, she held the King in her arms; she knew that she could maintain her position only by feigning passion, at least as long as his temporary recovery lasted. He sat quietly relaxed against her, occasionally racked by a small shudder. Isabeau’s caressing hands roused half-forgotten sensations within him … Did she still exist, the wife whom he had once known, did she forgive his madness? Without looking at each other, they exchanged a kiss.
Tears sprang into the King’s eyes; he wanted to heap gifts upon his wife, to reward her for her devotion and patience; he could not thank her, could not admire her enough. Isabeau thought of the many plans she wished to bring to fruition, of the concessions she could wheedle from him on family affairs, on questions of money, on foreign and domestic policy. The Florentine emissaries were waiting for an answer; how could she induce him to send help to Gian Galeazzo’s enemies, especially now that it was clear he wished to keep the Duke of Milan as a friend? How could she prevent Valentine from nesding once more within the walls of Saint-Pol?
In March of the following year, the Duchess of Orléans quit Paris. From day to day the threats of the incited populace increased in intensity — she was now openly suspected of attempting to poison the King and his children — until it was impossible for her to remain any longer in the Hotel de Behaigne. Crowds gathered repeatedly before the gates, screaming for justice: why were witches being condemned every day when the most evil sorceress of all remained at large because of her rank? Louis d’Orléans’ armed servants drove away the troublemakers, but they came back often, and each time in such large numbers that the roads leading to the Hotel de Behaigne were impassable. When it became known, in late autumn, that the King had gone mad again, suspicion and hatred of Valentine boiled over.
The subject was brought up before the Council; in the presence of the Regents a councillor demanded the speedy removal of the Duchess from Paris. Louis replied with vehemence: although he feared for Valentine’s safety if she remained in the Hotel de Behaigne, he felt that her departure from the city would be regarded as an open admission of guilt. He knew, moreover, that this would cause a separation between him and his wife. He must, if he did not want to give up his activity in the political sphere, live in Paris, or at any rate in the immediate neighborhood of the King and court. Finally, he was forced to yield; after New Year’s Day preparations began for the Duchess’s journey.
It was Louis’ wish that she should leave the city in a regal manner, with a procession of carriages and armed riders. Her household and a great retinue of servants accompanied her; she conveyed tapestries and furniture, works of art, books; dwarfs, musicians, a physician, a librarian and her court poet, Eustache Deschamps, would share her exile.