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

is not so much about the death of my children or about—about Monseigneur d’Orléans …” she went on quietly after a slight pause, while her fingers burrowed into the embroidery of the coverlet. “I believe that sorrow is the portion of all women … that does not make it easier to bear. But there are things one can learn to accept.”
    Queen Blanche smiled in compassion. She saw through Valentine’s heroic attempt at self-deception.
    â€œWhat is vexing you then, ma mie? I want nothing better than to help you … if that lies in my power. A sympathetic ear can also be a help, if no advice is possible.”
    â€œThe King,” whispered Valentine, with a sidelong glance at the ladies-in-waiting. “I worry about the King.” The older woman leaned forward; the lappets of her veil fell over the blanket.
    â€œWe do not need to pretend with each other. You know as well as I do that the King’s illness is incurable. It still amazes me that it took so long for the seizures to come upon him. I saw it in him when he was only a child—he was restless and filled with strange notions. Indeed, his mother, Queen Jeanne, also suffered from a weakness in her head; there were times when she could not remember anything, not even her own name, nor her rank, or recognize the faces of her children. She suffered terribly when she came to herself again and everyone suffered with her, for she was a sweet lady, Queen Jeanne; after her death her husband said of her that she had been the sun of his kingdom—a somewhat pale sun, perhaps.” She smiled, lost in memory. “But it was well put and it expressed what many people felt. She had grace and charm—two important qualities, which Monseigneur d’Orléans inherited from her.”
    â€œThe King does not want to recognize the Queen,” Valentine said, looking up at Blanche’s face. “The Queen suffers because of it. This afternoon when they were here—he thrust her away from him. My heart bled for her; she loves the King so much.”
    â€œLoves … !” said Queen Blanche, not without mockery. “Pure madness. That is the love of the doe for the buck, the ewe for the ram. It is irresistible in the spring and when the leaves fall, it is over.”
    Valentine shook her head.
    â€œYou cannot say that, Madame. I was with the Queen whenthey brought her the news of the King’s first attack of madness in the forest of Mans; I saw how the blow struck her. It was as though she had lost her senses herself. And doesn’t she do what she can for him? Each day while he was there, she sent a message to Creil to ask him if he wanted anything. I have heard it said that she stands weeping outside his door when he does not wish to see her. Oh, but I feel with her too,” she continued vehemently. “It is unbearable to know that someone you love is close by and unreachably distant and … gone …”
    â€œThe Queen has a staunch advocate in you, ma mie,” the older woman said shrewdly. “And she does not deserve it.”
    A flush flooded into Valentine’s face; she lowered her eyes.
    â€œI know very well that the Queen cannot abide me,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “That is also one of the things that pains me. I understand it—the discord between Bavaria and the Visconti …”
    â€œAnd more yet…” Queen Blanche nodded significantly. “Much more yet—and that is worse. You know what I mean.”
    â€œYes, my God!” whispered the Duchess of Orléans; she raised both hands in a gesture of despair. “But I do not
want
that at all—I cannot help it. I love the King very much … he has always been kind and gentle to me … but surely no one would dare to say …”
    She pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks and turned her head slowly from side to side. “The Queen cannot think that,