Charles shook his head; slowly he unbuckled the straps of the leather bands which he wore on his wrists when he worked with the bow. He gazed past his mother’s head at the blue sky outside the arched window; large, gleaming clouds drifted slowly by, a fleet of ships on the way to unknown destinations. He saluted Valentine and left the room.
Where is he going now? thought the mother, overcome by a vague feeling of shame and regret. What is going on in him? What is he thinking?
She walked back and forth in her cheerless room; on the walls hung black fabrics, embroidered with motifs suggesting fountains of tears and with her motto, repeated over and over in pointed silver letters. She passed her days here as though she were in a tomb, surrounded by objects which had belonged to Louis: a missal, a cup, a crucifix, a glove. The dog Doucet, wounded in the attack, lay night and day on a cushion. Valentine now possessed Louis completely; at last he belonged to her alone. He continued to exist for her — nobler, purer, more upright than he had ever been or ever could have been. She was driven only by the need to justify him, to cleanse his memory of every stain — true as well as false. She did not know herself whether her tireless efforts on his behalf made his ideal image clearer every day, or whether her belief in his perfection impelled her to those efforts. The realities of daily existence had been lost for Valentine forever; she did not know whether it was raining or whether the sun was shining; she ate and drank without noticing what was put before her. She concerned herself less and less with her children: the Dame de Maucouvent, grey-haired and rheumatic but more dedicated than ever, cared for Jean and little Marguerite; Philippe and Dunois were looked after by their tutor. Fervently, Valentine wanted Charles and Isabelle to identify with her struggle. Only similar emotions could constitute any kind of bond; nothing else existed any longer for the Duchess.
For some time she had been hearing a whisding sound in the inner court — the recoil of a bowstring. She looked out the window and saw Dunois in the shooting range. Archambault de Villars was no longer there; a page and a couple of stableboys stood at a distance, watching Dunois as, lips pressed grimly together, he tried to bend the heavy bow, to aim the arrows correctly. Although he was not yet eight years old, he did not seem too young to hit the inside circle of the target if he was not too far from it. The further away he stood the more difficult it was for him, because he did not yet have the strength to draw the bow back far enough. His small, broad face was red with exertion, his short sandy hair tangled and damp with perspiration, but he did not give up. Again and again he picked up the fallen arrows, again and again he marked the holes in the target with chalk. Then he returned to a certain spot and drew the bow once more.
Valentine looked down at him; a strange smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. This boy who was not her son had, since his infancy, shown a strong will, unlike her own children. She saw in him the tenacity of purpose, the blind drive which she now thought indispensable to the present circumstances. Charles did what he was told to do; he performed his exercises for the required time and not a moment longer. Dunois possessed the sacred fire, the inborn passion for weapons and their secrets — and he refused to allow himself to be driven from the field by either fatigue or a feeling of inadequacy.
When, some time later, Valentine looked out the window again, he was still there. Apparently he had hit the target, for he now stood a pace farther away from it. The Duchess of Orléans nodded as though in reply to her own silent question.
Around the vesper hour on the twenty-eighth of August, Valentine rode out of the Hotel de Behaigne in Paris; although she had sold the house to the Dauphin, it still remained for a time at her disposal. As before, she had arrived with black carriages, black horses, and a great following clad in mourning; this time too she was attended by Isabelle. As soon as she could, she set out for the royal palace. The King, who had not been in his right mind since the spring, could not receive her; she was admitted into the hall where the Council was gathered, presided over by Isabeau. In the presence of the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry, Bourbon and Brittany, the Chancellor de Corbie, the Constable d’Albret, bishops and archbishops, nobles and prominent citizens, Valentine for the second time presented her petition for justice. With no retinue, accompanied only by her daughter-in-law, she entered the hall; she did not wait for the punctilious ceremonial marks of honor that were her due; like any suppliant she fell immediately upon her knees and from that position delivered her complaint. Isabeau could not understand such indifference to one’s rank, such extreme humility; from her raised seat she looked down on her sister-in-law with a disapproving frown.
“Madame,” she said, when at last the Duchess of Orléans was silent, “we welcome you to Paris. We assure you that we shall give your petition our most profound consideration and that we will do our utmost to grant it.”
Valentine raised her dead eyes to the woman who, all her life long, had been her bitterest enemy. That she herself had once condemned Isabeau for her cruelty, filled her now with a vague feeling of surprise. What did the discord between two women matter in comparison to the catastrophe which had engulfed her since then? She saw on the throne a fat woman dressed in gold brocade, who sat with difficulty on her hard chair. Her obesity aroused aversion and pity rather than hatred; to be sure, Isabeau’s eyes were, if possible, brighter and harder than before, but they no longer frightened Valentine.
The Queen, eager to exchange a few words with her daughter, invited both Duchesses of Orléans to accompany her to her apartments at the conclusion of the session. In the room with the golden doves of peace — how well Isabelle remembered greeting the English delegation here — Isabeau received them. She ran her eye swiftly over her daughter’s thin figure, her colorless face; she asked a few questions: how was Monseigneur d’Orléans? How old was he now? How did Isabelle like life in Blois — did it suit her? The girl answered politely, but coldly. Isabeau shrugged impatiently. Presently, she turned to her sister-in-law.
“Well, my fair sister,” she said, “it’s been a long time since we have been together. Much has happened.”
“Yes, Madame,” replied Valentine without looking up. Isabeau yawned and sat down.
“I ask myself whether you believe you have much to forgive me for,” she remarked after a while, glancing aside at Valentine. Isabelle frowned and flushed with annoyance, but the Duchess of Orléans said, in a calm, toneless voice, “Who am I to decide what I must forgive you for, Madame? We are all sinners. In my situation I no longer worry about these things. My father is dead; Monseigneur my husband is dead. There is no need for enmity between you and me, Madame, if my interests are also yours. For the sake of the goal which I have set myself, I am prepared for any humiliation.”
Isabeau smiled with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, toying with the gilt bells on her sleeve. “Do you mean to say that you consider it humiliating to speak to me?”
The Duchess of Orléans curtsied deeply.
“I mean,” she replied softly, “that it is all the same to me, Madame. I am a woman of few words — life might perhaps have been easier for me if I had known how to express myself with facility. It is a great gift to be able to capture in words an image which can move us profoundly. The Dame de Pisan was able to do that when she lost her husband. I have a poor memory for verses, but I remember a song in which she laments: T am all alone.’ She repeats this refrain incessantly, there is no room in her heart for any other thought. So it is with me, Madame; I am alone, I possess nothing on earth, I seek only justice for my husband — beyond that, I am indifferent to everything.”