Valentine moaned aloud and threw her hands over her face. This caused a stir among the women near the door. Someone came quickly to the bed; it was the Dame de Maucouvent, who looked after Valentine’s oldest son Louis.
“Madame,” she said, curtseying low, “the procession is returning from the church.”
The Duchess opened her eyes — she was still overcome by the memory of that hellish night which had caused the King to have another, and prolonged, relapse. She gazed for a time at the trustworthy, somewhat faded face of the Dame de Maucouvent. “Help me,” Valentine said at last, holding out her arms.
The woman helped her to sit up, wiped the perspiration from her face and spread the deeply scalloped sleeves of her upper garment over the coverlet. The pealing of the bells began to subside.
The Dame de Maucouvent put a silver dish filled with sweetmeats and spices on Valentine’s lap. Custom dictated that the mother of a new-born child quit her bed during the King’s visit to offer him refreshment with her own hand. The women took the lids from the jugs on the sideboard; a fragrance of warm hippocras filled the chamber. The voices of arriving guests could be heard in the antechamber; pages opened the door to the lying-in room and the King entered quickly, walking between rows of torchbearers and curtseying women.
Valentine, who had not seen him since the early spring, was so shocked and horrified by his altered appearance that she forgot her manners and remained sitting in bed. She watched him approaching her, slovenly in his rich clothing, his eyes distended with nervous mirth. Behind him, on the threshold of the chamber and in the anteroom, stood the royal kinsmen and the court. The baptized child began to wail.
Hastily the women pulled back the coverlet and Valentine, supported by the Dame de Maucouvent, set her feet on the floor.
“Sire,” Valentine whispered, lifting the dish toward him. She was blinded by a sudden dizziness; two ladies of the court held her firmly under the arms while the King, dawdling like a child, poked among the delicacies in the dish.
“Take this, Sire, it is a deer,” Valentine said softly, almost in tears to see him staring uncertainly at the sugar beast in his hand. Over his shoulder she caught the Queen’s eye, cold and full of suspicion. Louis, Valentine’s husband, leaned against the doorpost, toying with his embroidered gloves; he held them before his face to conceal a yawn. The King clutched the piece of candy and raised his eyes for the first time to Valentine’s face.
“A deer?” he asked, motioning for the dish to be removed. “A deer? Yes, surely, a deer. You are right, Madame my sister-in-law, Valentine, dear Valentine. A deer. You know of course that a deer brings me luck? You know the story, don’t you?”
His eyes strayed about the room. No one said anything.
“I’ll tell you what happened to me,” the King continued in a confidential tone, walking along with Valentine who was being led back to bed. “I was already crowned, although I was still only a boy. I was hunting in the forest of Senlis …”
The Queen, the Dukes of Burgundy, Berry, Bourbon and Orléans, the prince and princesses of the royal House and all the counts and barons and their ladies, as well as the women who carried the infant Charles, followed the King into the lying-in chamber. They accepted some of the hippocras and candied fruit offered by the Duchess’s women and exchanged knowing looks. It was not for the first time that the King talked in front of them about this youthful experience, which held great significance for him.
“Know then, Valentine,” said the King. He bent over his sister-in-law and took one of her cold hands in his. “At a crossroad I came upon a deer. I did not shoot it. It let itself be taken by hand. It was like the deer of Saint Hubert, but instead of a cross it wore a collar of gilded copper — what do you say to that? — and on it was written in Latin …” He placed the spread fingers of his left hand over his mouth and looked with glistening eyes at Valentine, who smiled sadly at him. “On it was … well, what was written there? … In Latin?” he asked suddenly, with an impatient stamp of his foot.
One of the nobles stepped forward and bowed. “Caesar hoc mihi donavit, Sire,” he murmured, sinking onto one knee beside the bed. His long red sleeves trailed behind him on the carpet.
“That was it! ‘Caesar has given me this collar’,” continued the King, speaking so quickly that he stammered. “That is to say, the deer was more than a thousand years old. Think of it, Valentine! Was that a good omen or not? Well?” He tugged at the hand which he still clutched tightly.
“It was a good omen, Sire,” the Duchess said in a flat voice. She was constantly aware of Isabeau’s eyes; the Queen stood near the bed, staring at her husband.
“I thought so too — no, I’m sure of it!” the King said loudly. “I dreamed of a hart on the eve of the battle of Roosebeke. And didn’t I win a glorious victory there? Who dares to deny that? I was twelve years old then, no older. But you should have seen that battlefield … Ten thousand dead, ten thousand, all because of me.” He struck his chest, panting with excitement. “I won it; it was I who gave the signal for the assault. When I finally had the flag hoisted again, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in five days … Wasn’t it so? Wasn’t it so? … Mountjoye for the King of France!” he cried hoarsely, stepping down from the platform on which the bed stood.
Isabeau made a movement toward him, but he stepped back, looking at her with anger and fear.
“Who is this woman, anyway?” he said to the courtiers standing near him. “What does she want from me? She is always bothering me. She wants to touch me. Send her away!”
Valentine’s lips parted in terror. What she had heard whispered these past few months was true … that the King did not recognize his wife and refused to see her. It was true. Isabeau turned white, but her mouth remained pulled down in an expression of contempt. She stood in the middle of the lying-in chamber, broad and heavy in her ermine-lined mantle, the train held up by two ladies of the court. On her head she wore an extraordinarily tall crowned hat, under which her face looked small and full, with almost lashless eyes, round cheeks and well-shaped lips. On her breast above the square deeply-cut bodice, jeweled stars trembled with her heavy breathing.
Valentine’s cheeks burned with shame at the insult inflicted on the Queen; she nodded to her women. The platter with the candied fruit was passed around once more. Although the child was now in its cradle, it did not stop crying. It was carried into an adjoining room.
The King showed no sign of quitting the chamber. He allowed a chair to be brought to him and sat down next to Valentine at whom he stared fixedly without speaking. The court, which could not leave before the King gave the signal for departure, stood in a half-circle around the bed. The Duchess found this wall of bodies, of faces wearing formal smiles, immensely oppressive. She could not sit upright because of the roaring in her ears, which rose and fell at regular intervals. Although no one betrayed impatience by word or look, she knew only too well what thoughts were hidden behind those courteous masks.
The King’s affinity for his sister-in-law was no secret; from the moment she had arrived as Louis’ bride in Melun to celebrate her marriage — Louis then was still Duke of Touraine — Charles had openly manifested signs of the greatest affection for her. He had paid all the costs of the wedding fetes, had issued orders that the municipal fountain should gush milk and rosewater as it had at the Queen’s formal entry into the country some years earlier, and had heaped gifts upon Valentine. But the affection which, before the King became ill, had been a mark of favor that increased the respect of the court for Monseigneur d’Orléans and his wife, evoked a different response when it was evinced by a madman. The contrast between the King’s almost morbid fondness for his sister-in-law and the aversion he showed for Isabeau, was glaring. Indignation, derision, perverse enjoyment of someone else’s discomfiture — all these feelings undoubtedly existed behind those polite smiles.