“You cannot fall asleep now,” she whispered sharply; in her indignation she forgot all ceremony. “You will disgrace me. You must sit up straight and behave properly, even though you don’t like it. We cannot run away!”
Her words jolted Charles back to reality; he was wide awake instantly from sheer astonishment that the cold, elegant Isabelle could behave unexpectedly like the ladies of the court in Chateau-Thierry. Hastily he began to apologize, but stopped in confusion when he noticed that her eyes were filled with tears. She did not wipe them away but sat motionless, her lips compressed; she stared fixedly at the head of the table where Isabeau sat, as hostess, between Orléans and Burgundy.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Charles hesitantly. “I did not intend to offend you, Madame.”
Isabelle shrugged scornfully; her eyes were still on her mother.
I shall never forgive her for this, thought Isabelle, once Queen of England and now only Countess d’Angoulême. She has mortified me only to win the favor of Monseigneur d’Orléans. She would just as soon I go away — my eyes and ears are too sharp. I hate her — I hate her — and I will never forget it, not if I live to be a hundred.
So thought Charles’ young wife in fury and despair. Her rage was not directed so much at her father-in-law as at her mother, although she knew that Orléans had become the Queen’s lover the previous autumn. He had always treated Isabelle with obvious affection. Only he had been willing to take arms to avenge her grief. True, Isabelle was bitterly disappointed in her childhood idol; but she blamed her mother, whom she thought hard and grasping, and who, once she had set her mind on something, refused to budge. With deep horror, Isabelle had witnessed the arrival at Saint-Pol of Odette de Champdivers, a young girl of her own age, born of a noble family, brought to share the King’s bed now that Isabeau had found love elsewhere.
“Why are you crying?” asked Charles, tormented by guilt. “I promise I will not fall asleep again. I’m not sleepy any more anyway. Shall I tell you about Chateau-Thierry?”
Isabelle nodded; anything was better than a yawning bridegroom and a weeping bride. There were enough jokes circulating about them already. Charles, delighted that he could evince his good will, spoke quickly.
“I have magnificent books, Madame. Do you know the history of Perceval of Gaul? My tutor, Maitre Garbet, says no one in the Kingdom has a finer library than Orléans. Maitre Garbet has written a poem in Latin in honor of you and me on the flyleaf of my Sallustius. I can recite it to you, if you like.” Charles thought a moment — yes, he still remembered it. Flushed with excitement, he spoke the stately lines:
“Anglorurn regno pro morte privata mariti
Formoso moribus Ludovicifilio ducis
Aurelimensis Karolo Compendii pulchra
Francorum nupsit Isabellas filia regis
Anno millesimo julii sexto
Vicesima nona. Faveant superi precor ipsis …”
He stopped when Isabelle sighed impatiently. Remembering Valentine’s wise advice, Charles tried another tack. “My mother has beautifully trained falcons, Madame. Four white ones are named after the four sons of Haimon. Are you fond of hunting? Did you bring your horse with you? In Chateau-Thierry, we have—”
“I am weeping for the King my father,” Isabelle burst out fiercely. “Because he is ill and cannot defend himself. Because of what they do to him. Do you know what happened?”
She wheeled sharply to face Charles and looked him straight in the eye. The youth was taken aback at her vehemence; he glanced quickly around him, but the guests were engrossed in wine and rich food; no one was paying any attention to the children. The Dauphin and little Jacoba of Bavaria were throwing food at each other and squealing with laughter, overjoyed because no one stopped them. Charles and Isabelle sat among their shrieking companions as though they were in an enchanted circle of solitude.
“My father was so filthy, so filthy,” continued Isabelle with a shudder. “He got sick from it; he sat covered with boils and sores. If they speak to him kindly he lets them help him, but they treated him with violence. Men with blackened faces forced their way into his room — he thought the Devil had come to fetch him. I heard him scream. Alas, God, my poor father …”
“Yes, Madame,” Charles said, with downcast eyes. Do all women speak of sorrow then? he thought, astonished. When he had come to Compiegne and seen the streamers fluttering in the wind, he had been inclined to think his mother was wrong; the world was not a vale of tears and grief. Now he was not so sure.
“He cannot defend himself,” Isabelle went on in a rapid whisper. “He must look on while they rob and deceive him, my mother and your father.”
With some satisfaction she saw the boy’s face turn pale with anger and fear. She read his ignorance in his eyes. So Madame Isabelle found suitable employment on her first day of marriage. She bent toward her husband and whispered for a long time into his ear; why should she feel sorry for a stupid boy and spare him suffering? No one had taken pity on her, no one had spared her suffering! Alas, it was a dreary tale she told Charles; he did not understand half of what she whispered to him.
“It is not true,” he said at last, close to tears, but he knew it was true. Things his mother had said flashed through his mind; things which had been incomprehensible to him.
“Not true?” Isabelle laughed. “Everyone knows it, everyone talks about how shameful it is. On Ascension Day — I was there myself — a priest from the University preached before the court in Saint-Pol; in front of everyone he rebuked my mother and my lord of Orléans for their adultery. My mother did not dare to punish the man — do you understand what that means? Do you think he would be alive now if he had lied?”
Charles, upset by the picture she called up, pressed his fists to his eyes with a childish awkward gesture. But Madame Isabelle considered that the account was not yet balanced.
“A few weeks ago they were together in the castle of Saint-Germain,” she went on, in that sibilant whisper which now filled Charles with dread. “Do you know they nearly died? Surely God wanted to punish them. A storm broke while they were out riding — the horses bolted; if someone had not thrown himself in front of the horses to stop them, they would have run into the Seine, carriage and all. Is that not a sign?”
Charles could stand it no longer; he wanted to leap up and run from the table, escape — he did not know where — but not to Chateau-Thierry, not to his mother. He did not dare see her again, he thought, overcome by feelings of boundless misery. He wished that all this were not true, that he could wake up instantly as though from a nightmare, in his own bed with the green curtains or over an open book in the quiet reading room. How could he ever return there now that he knew that the tranquillity of his own small world was only illusory? He would never be alone again; everywhere and always Isabelle would be with him, because she was his wife forever. And wherever Isabelle was, there would always be the dreadful thing which she had just told him. He leapt up from the place of honor before Isabelle could stop him and ran from the table without a backward look; while he shoved his way through the crowd of nobles, pages and spectators, he heard behind him the loud, caustic voice of the Duke of Burgundy:
“Look, look, my lord of Angoulême feels somewhat faint! Yes, one celebrates one’s nuptials only once …” and something else which he did not understand. The walls rang with their laughter.