Free In a Dark Wood Wandering by Hella S. Haasse Page A

different from any other woman at court. The mourning which she had not laid aside in the forty years of her widowhood made her appearance all the more impressive. Past a row of deeply curtseying court ladies and chamberwomen, she walked to Valentine’s bed, her long mantle trailing after her.
    The Duchess of Orléans, refreshed after a deep sleep, lay on her back against the pillows, her face framed by two brown braids.
    â€œWell, Valentine?” said Queen Blanche cordially; she seated herself on a stool which the chamberwomen had placed hastily beside the bed. The Duchess smiled and attempted to sit up and kiss the older woman’s hand. Blanche held her back.
    â€œLie still, darling. You must be tired enough after the reception here this afternoon. You are as white as a waxen votive image. Was it difficult this time?”
    â€œAh, no.” Valentine shook her head. “Only I am so tired,” she added in a whisper. “I feel as though I will never find the strength to get up again. God knows it is a sinful thought… but sometimes I wish I had died in the childbed.”
    â€œHush, hush, ma mie.” Queen Blanche leaned forward to block, from the ladies of her retinue who stood together at some distancebehind her, the sight of tears gliding slowly down Valentine’s cheeks. “Don’t give in. Be brave. Life is hard for women—no one knows it better than I, ma mie; we must endure much sickness, grief and solitude before God delivers us. We are puppets; another will manipulates the strings, never our own. There is nothing for us except resignation and patience, Valentine, till the end of our days. Pray for strength to the Mother of God who had to bear more than any other woman on earth.”
    Valentine nodded; she could not restrain her tears.
    â€œAnd as far as my lord of Orléans is concerned,” continued the older woman softly, “there are worse husbands, darling. He is always courteous and obliging, and he does not neglect you—Harken to the testimony,” she added, smiling as the infant began to wail in the adjoining room. “All men are like that, ma mie—unruly and violent when they are young and foolish in their old age. A white neck, a pair of pretty eyes—no more is needed to bring their blood to a boil. Look at me, child, I know what I am talking about. When I was eighteen years old I was chosen by the King to be the Dauphin’s bride. I was pretty—prettier than these wax dolls here at the court. La Belle Blanche they called me in Navarre. My God, where does the time go?”
    Her smile deepened, wise, full of humor, and spread to the laughter lines around her bright, childlike eyes, black and round as Morello cherries.
    â€œThe King had never seen me; he allowed me to come to Paris with my father to draw up the marriage agreement. I found my cousin the Dauphin not unpleasant—a little thin, but at least young and lively enough—and he was eager to have me; he made no bones about it. Then the King saw me and I did not become the wife of the crown prince; I became the Queen. My bridegroom was almost sixty years old. Do you think that I did not shed bitter tears, Valentine, when I had to stand beside that old man at the altar and still be silent? It pleased God to summon my husband two years after our marriage—perhaps you are thinking that I had little reason to complain about that. But my blood was young, even though I wore mourning—and I had no children. No, ma mie, you don’t know your own wealth.”
    â€œDon’t think that I am ungrateful, Madame,” said Valentine. She was a little livelier; color had come into her cheeks. “When I was a child I had already learned that there is not much sense indreaming too much. In Pavia too, reality was hard and bitter. But within the last few years it seems as though everything happens at once. I hardly solve one problem before another one appears. It