“Well, my lord?” The Queen was cold and haughty in her turn. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Louis ran his eyes over the rows of noble women. Margaretha of Burgundy stared past him, her face hard and grey as though it were hewn from stone; the Countess de Nevers smiled politely; her eyes were icy. Louis, who under other circumstances had seen those eyes gleam with a different emotion, raised his brows ironically. The other ladies of Isabeau’s suite kept their eyes fixed demurely on the floor.
“Send your women away, Madame,” replied Louis. “What I must say to you is intended for your ears only.”
The Queen wanted to deny his request curtly; she could see that Margaretha of Burgundy expected her to do so. But in that case she feared that Orléans would not speak, and she felt it was her duty to find out what he was up to. Therefore she commanded her women to withdraw; the Burgundy women, deeply offended, led the others from the chamber.
“I have been with the King,” said Orléans, as soon as the door had closed behind the Queen’s retinue. “Perhaps Your Majesty does not know that he has once more recovered his health?”
Isabeau looked up in surprise. “Naturally, I know it… ”
“You have not visited the King for weeks,” said Louis, looking at her steadily, “although he sends you messages repeatedly. He has complained of it himself, Madame.”
“But that is not true!” The Queen made a vehement gesture; the perfumed ball rolled to the floor. “I have been to see the King twice with the Dauphin. A day does not go by without my inquiry into the state of his health.”
“Oh, yes, very good, Madame,” said Louis impatiently, “but you choose to misunderstand me. The King is your husband.”
Isabeau’s face and plump neck turned deep scarlet; she lowered her eyes. It was extremely quiet in the room: birds could be heard in the park, and the shouts of nobles on the fives-courts.
“I do not want to,” the Queen burst out harshly. “I cannot. Jesus, Maria. I do not want to any more.”
Louis d’Orléans gazed at Isabeau’s broad fingers; she was wringing her hands with a strength that seemed to belie their softness.
“What do you mean, Madame?” Louis asked gently; he was moved despite himself by her distress. She sat huddled together.
“I have had ten children, Monseigneur,” she replied, struggling to suppress her anger and embarrassment. “Don’t you see that it is a miracle that I have been able to go on like that when the King has been almost continuously insane? I have brought seven children into the world since he went mad.” She fell silent. Louis picked up the perfumed golden ball and held it out to her.
“I am afraid of the King,” Isabeau continued vehemently. “Everyone knows how he threatens me when he has an attack. He can change so that he is hardly recognizable; he has driven me from his rooms with blows and abuse. Must I endure all that forever? Is there no one who will have compassion for me—who will try to imagine what I go through?”
In that silent room, that bower of bright embroidery, they sat and stared at each other. Louis d’Orléans had the sudden feeling that he had never met this woman before. She was fat and faded and no longer even resembled the fresh, robust princess whom he had greeted as his brother’s bride in Melun. But her desperation moved him more than all the memories of happier days. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps all Isabeau’s political maneuvering was simply an attempt to escape from the agonizing nightmare of her married life. He felt ashamed that he had never before considered her behavior in this light. And as an admirer of women, he quickly respected her for the dignity and pride with which she had borne her silent, secret despair. Involuntarily he relaxed his stiff demeanor; his tone became gentle, his eyes lost their coldness.
He smiled at the Queen as he had smiled only at little Isabelle — with understanding and compassion. He so closely resembled the King as he had been fifteen years before that Isabeau’s heart began to ache in a queer way; she began to weep for her vanished happiness.
She is only a woman after all, Louis thought, gazing down on her bent head. By God, she is also lonely. Burgundy has taken advantage of her misery. It occurred to him that the cold pride which he had always disliked in Isabeau was only a mask behind which she concealed her feelings. Can she be guided? he asked himself. Could she possibly be amenable to reason? If she is on my side, then I have won the battle. Burgundy uses her, but apart from politicking he gives her nothing in return. Of course she is a woman — how could I have forgotten that? thought Louis, in mounting astonishment. She wants to be understood and not pitied. My lord uncle does not perceive things like that.
“I understand your situation, Madame.” He spoke softly and warmly. “Please don’t think I am blind to the sacrifices that have been demanded of you. But the King is so fond of you when he is well, and we can only guess at the shame and remorse he must feel for the anguish he causes you. I know how painful it must be for you to speak about these things with me. The King has taken me into his confidence because I am his closest blood relative. And he knows that I put his welfare before anything else.” Isabeau looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps we don’t agree about that, Madame,” he added quickly, still with a pleasant smile.
The Queen dashed her tears away, upset that she had lost control of herself, although she was well aware that she had aroused Orléans’ sympathy.
“The King has now two sons, Madame,” Louis went on, somewhat more coolly now that he saw she had regained her composure. “Neither is robust. If something should happen to the Dauphin or his brother — which God forbid — France would have no successor to the throne.”
“I am amazed that it is you who lets himself be used as a go-between,” Isabeau said with irony. “In that case the throne would pass to your heirs, my lord.”
Louis rose and bowed. “I am afraid that we do not understand each other,” he replied coldly. But the Queen entreated him to remain.
Isabeau’s moods changed quickly. Her tears had left no trace; her grief had given way to the cautious calculation so basic to her nature. She began to weigh the possibility of a return to the friendly relationship of the past. Under the pervasive influence of Burgundy and his wife, court life had been reduced to empty ceremony. Isabeau sorely missed the imaginative exuberance of Louis’ fetes. She missed the careless delight, the surrender to intoxicated pleasure. In her desire for happiness she forgot that youth cannot return, that what is finished cannot be repeated. What weighed most strongly in Louis’ favor at the moment was the fact that he was unlikely to curtail in any way what she regarded as her rightful income. Burgundy, who seized every opportunity to push his expenses and debts off onto the public treasury, was always demanding greater frugality of Isabeau. Under the guise of concern for public monies, he dogged her footsteps, spying zealously on all her expenditures, no matter how petty. This niggling surveillance irritated her beyond measure, but she had to put up with it because she needed Burgundy.
She considered, staring thoughtfully at her brother-in-law, how pleasant it would be if the person upon whom she relied for political guidance were also indulgent and forbearing toward her in other respects. She had often toyed with the idea of keeping Orléans close at hand; but she had done nothing about it because he did not seem sufficiendy important to her interests. But now he had shown that he was a match for Burgundy; in her eyes there was no greater proof of capability.