Berry allowed himself to be persuaded to act as peacemaker; with reluctance he took leave of Bicetre and his beloved collection for a while and set out for the Hotel de Nesle, where his young wife usually resided. After long discussions, many admonitions and much advice, Berry finally brought his nephews to the point of declaring themselves ready to conclude a new treaty of peace and friendship, and this time forever. Once more they stood together before the altar, swore an oath and took communion. Berry, not a little relieved to have acquitted himself well of a painful charge, invited Orléans and Burgundy to a banquet; they drank from the same goblet and sat side by side in the seat of honor, Burgundy wearing Orléans’ emblems and Orléans in the colors of Burgundy. At the end of the feast Louis invited his cousin to be his guest the following Sunday, and Jean accepted with courtesy.
Orléans saluted his kinsmen now and set out, accompanied by a small retinue, for the Hotel Barbette, which belonged to Isabeau, and where in recent years she had stayed more and more frequently. She had ordered it rebuilt and redecorated; new gardens were laid out around the house. It was within easy reach of Saint-Pol. The Queen had lived there uninterruptedly since spring; the court interpreted this as a sign that Isabeau wanted her new pregnancy to be considered her own affair, without concern for state or Crown. Orléans visited her regularly, treating her with a concerned courtesy for which the reason seemed all too apparent.
About the middle of November, Isabeau had given birth to a child who lived only a few days. The Queen lay in her bed, weak and listless; she believed the child’s death was a punishment for her adultery. In addition, she was uncertain about her political behavior; now that the first intoxication of her passion for Louis was over, she did not feel inclined to support his plans in every way. When Louis entered her chamber she raised herself slightly and greeted him, but for the first time in a long time there was no trace of softness in her eyes.
“I hear everything has gone extremely well,” she remarked, gesturing to a chair that stood beside her bed. Louis sat down. “Will peace remain now between you and Burgundy?” Isabeau continued, somewhat maliciously. “Or do you propose to continue indefinitely this little game of fighting and reconciliation? So much time has been lost. During the Council sessions little is discussed except this quarrel between the two of you.”
Orléans shrugged; he looked tired — he had not yet completely recovered from an illness he had suffered at the siege of Bourg.
“If I knew for certain that my cousin was a man of good will,” he began hesitantly, but he did not finish the sentence. Isabeau leaned back against the pillows and stretched her fleshy arms in a langorous gesture over the bed cover. “Are you not inclined too quickly to believe the opposite, Monseigneur?” she asked, yawning.
“Burgundy is playing a double game,” Louis said wearily, slumping forward with his hand pressed against his eyes. “How could it be otherwise? It’s to his advantage. He does what his father did before him — and I don’t deny that they both conducted these policies with skill. But that means our downfall.” He raised his head and looked at Isabeau who lay eating candied fruit without taking her cold, searching eyes from him. “How can anyone who has witnessed the events of the last few years doubt Burgundy’s purpose? Calais lies well-situated near Flanders. He who has Calais and Flanders in his power has little to fear. If Burgundy should wrest Calais from the English — well, I for one refuse to believe that he would ever restore it to the Crown.”
Isabeau made a doubting sound; she was in a strangely irritable mood. Although she did not think Orléans was wrong, she wanted to contradict him. Louis looked with pensive resignation at this woman whom, out of calculation and ambition, he had made his own. The relationship had undeniably been advantageous for him; but he despised himself immeasurably for his betrayal of his brother and Valentine — and of Isabeau herself, whose passion, at any rate, had been genuine. Alas, one did not need to have particularly sharp eyes to see that it was all over between the two of them. The death of their child, the fruit of an exceedingly strange relationship, had caused a chill, and disenchantment. Orléans gazed around the small bedchamber in which he had so frequently been a guest; he was filled with bitter melancholy at his own failure. The silk hangings painted with coats of arms stirred gently on the walls; often at night he had lain, restless and discontented, and stared at the lions, falcons and lilies.
He looked at Isabeau, sitting in the large, purple-curtained bed, extremely corpulent in her loose clothing, with a towel wound carelessly around her head. She licked her lower lip as she took the candy from the dish. Orléans lowered his eyes. From the adjoining room came the sound of impatient barking. There, with Femmette and the Queen’s ladies, Doucet was waiting, the little white dog which Isabelle had refused to accept. Louis kept the animal near him; it was very attached to him.
“I hope, Madame, that you will speedily recover your health,” Louis said, standing up.
From the corner of her eye, Isabeau gave him a long look. “You don’t mourn your son, do you?” she asked finally in a muffled voice.
“He needs no mourning,” replied Louis calmly, “for he committed no sin and owes God no account of his short life. I consider that he was lucky — what would his place have been among the King’s children, Madame?”
Isabeau laughed, a dry, fierce laugh without mirth.
“Why should the King be less generous toward a bastard than your wife has been to the boy — what do you call him? … The son of Mariette de Cany?”
Her sharp, malicious words stayed with Louis as he walked through the anterooms, followed by Doucet. He thought for the first time in years of the lovely but austere Maret, who had atoned for her guilt by giving up her most precious possession — her life. He had desired her not only for her youth and beauty, but particularly for that other indescribable quality which lay concealed in her like a precious jewel in a casket. During all the years that he had vainly sought her favor, he had never been able to understand precisely what that captivating and at the same time impalpable element could be. Long after he had conquered her and carried her off, when she lay stretched out, smiling, between candles — only then did he realize what she had represented in his life: a cool purity, chastity, fidelity to an inner law, the power of self-discipline, self-sacrifice and resignation to the inevitable — she embodied all these attributes which he had always aspired to, but had never been able to achieve. Because she could see no possibility of preserving that purity inviolate, she had died.
Not without deep shame could Louis think of Dunois who was stained with his guilt. Isabeau’s words called up a number of half-forgotten images and a feeling of strong self-loathing. As so often before, Louis hid this dark mood behind a mask of joviality. No one must see that he walked on knives. He set out for the hall where an evening meal would be served up for him and his entourage, but before he could sit down at the table he was told that a messenger had arrived from Saint-Pol — one of the King’s servants wished to speak with him.
The man stood in an antechamber, still out of breath, which surprised Louis slightly; he had been told that the messenger had been waiting for some time.
“My lord,” said the man, bowing deeply, “the King entreats you to come to him without delay — he must speak to you at once about a matter which is of deep concern to both you and him.”
“I am about to go to table,” replied Louis, but the servant continued breathlessly, “You must go immediately, Monseigneur — there is not a moment to lose.”