In Normandy the summer days went by slowly. The King sat in a cool dark chamber or rode, surrounded by nobles, on a gentle horse, through the vast forests. Louis d’Orléans alternated between his brother’s retinue and the Queen’s. The members of the House of Burgundy spent the summer in their own domains.
As a gift from the King, Isabeau had received an estate in Saint-Ouen with farmhouses, fields, meadows and livestock; there she spent the beautiful days with her children and her retinue. She wanted to recreate the rustic atmosphere of one of her father’s Bavarian mountain retreats, smelling of hay and pigs, where geese fluttered about the courtyard, and where she had run barefoot through the mud with milkmaids and stableboys. She had no desire, of course, to give herself up to these simple pleasures again, although she scattered barley and grain for the fowl with her own hand, and, attended by a procession of court ladies, gathered currants in the kitchen gardens.
It was during one of these visits to the Hotel de la Bergerie, as Isabeau called her estate, that Louis wandered away from the company and strolled into the forest. From there, among the tall bushes, under the trees, he could see the lords and ladies amusing themselves on the lawn which sparkled in the sunlight. At some distance from the others, one woman stood alone, staring at the edge of the forest. Louis wished that he, like the magician in the old ballad, knew a charm which could bring Mariette de Cany to him to remain always, without a backward glance. Concealed behind the foliage, he watched her. What did she possess that kept his desire for her alive, undiminished, even after long years of fruitless waiting?
Behind the fence which separated the lawn from the field, stood grimy, half-naked children, staring at the glittering spectacle; the children were called again and again by the peasants in the fields, who had been told that the high-born company did not wish to be stared at. Louis laughed softly, glancing at the orchard where Isabeau, dressed in silk and gold, sat eating fruit. The court had come to enjoy country life; they had no interest in country people. He turned away and walked slowly through the long, dark green grass in the shadow of the trees. He could not help but think of two conversations he had had in the past year: one with Boucicaut, newly returned from Turkish captivity; the other with his old friend Philippe de Maizieres while he lay on his deathbed. Both had asked him the same questions, reproached him in the same way, asking him whether he sought power to serve his own interests or to look after the welfare of the people.
To Boucicaut Louis had given an evasive answer, but he had been speechless before the old man in his death agony. It was the contest with Burgundy that weighed upon him more than anything else; more than once in the course of the last two years he had even considered seizing the Crown himself so that he could put Burgundy in checkmate. The King’s attacks of madness were growing longer and more violent; no one believed now that he could recover.
“Do I really want that?” Louis asked himself aloud. Around him the smooth trunks of the trees rose up from the undergrowth like pillars in the nave of a church; blueberries gleamed darkly amid the low greenery. Both the laughter of the courtiers and the shouts of the peasants sounded far away; he was alone in the deep green silence of the forest. The path before him split into two forks which vanished in the dusk under the trees; he did not know where they led. For a moment it seemed infinitely important to him which path he took. But behind him a cuckoo’s call came high and clear in the silence; he turned away without making a decision and went to search for the source of that enticing sweet summer sound.
In the fall the court returned to Paris, to the palace of Saint-Pol. The epidemic had spent itself; it was true that great fires still burned in the public squares and on street corners as precautions, and that near the houses where the sick had lain the pungent odor of vinegar still hovered in the air. But the danger of infection seemed to have passed.
Under a gloomy sky streaked with rain clouds, the royal retinue rode into the city, past the abbey of Saint-Germain de Prés, through the Augustine gate beyond the temple where the royal treasures and the gold of France were stored under guard. The people filled the streets; they were eager to see the King again. The King and Louis rode side by side preceding the carriage where Isabeau sat with the Dauphin. The King sprawled in the saddle, weary after the long ride, his head drooping slightly; he shivered in the chill wind. The crowd on Saint-MichePs bridge shouted, “Noel! Noel!” These cries roused the King from his torpor; he was reminded of the days when he had ridden in triumph under a canopy through streets strewn with lilies. He smiled vaguely at the people along the way. Many of the spectators — especially those who had not seen him for years — burst into tears; they hardly recognized him. Secretly Louis supported his brother; he rode close to the King so that he could hold him by the elbow under cover of his cloak.
In the rue Saint- Antoine, directly in front of the church of Saint-Pol, a commotion broke out among the people. Someone called out, “Down with Orléans, the sorcerer, the traitor!” The armed constables of the Provost, who walked before and on both sides of the procession, pushed their way into the crowd. The horses reared, frightened by the shouting and the people. The Queen’s carriage stopped.
During the entry to the city, Isabeau had stared straight before her; the streets, stinking of smoke, the avid faces and the greedy glances of the populace filled her, as always, with a certain secret fear. She preferred to look up at the windows of the castle and the houses of the rich merchants, where well-dressed burghers, nobles and their families looked down on the procession, smiling in greeting. The poverty and hunger of most of the people was apparent in their faces and their clothing; they seemed ravaged by sickness and adversity. Among the artisans, hawkers and little people with their wives and children, among the students and priests, clerks and officials, there appeared everywhere rather terrifying figures who, in the course of the last few years, in ever-growing numbers, from near and far, had invaded Paris. Dressed in rags, dirty and neglected, gaunt, hardened and insolent, they roamed in packs through the city; they made the country roads unsafe, started brawls in taverns, committed murder and manslaughter.
While the constables shoved the uneasy multitude back to a narrow strip of ground before the houses, Isabeau, with her arm around the Dauphin, looked on with apprehension and anger. She thought she saw two men slink hunched over, to melt among the bystanders. One looked up for a moment, not far from the royal carriage. Isabeau recognized Guillaume the exorcist, whom the King had turned over to Orléans four years earlier. Louis had considered having the man executed, but finally, as a sign of greater contempt, he had released him without questioning him. And not long afterward he had dismissed the astrologer Ettore Salvia, whose glib tongue and inscrutable demeanor had begun to irritate him. Isabeau leaned forward and stared sharply at Guillaume’s companion. Both men, however, fought their way to the side street Sainte-Catherine and vanished into the crowd.
Orléans did not betray in any way that he had noticed the ominous shout or the presence of Guillaume and his comrade; it required all his attention to control the King’s horse as well as his own. The Provost’s servants cleared a path; the heralds blew the trumpets and the procession began to move again.