The Strangled Queen. Морис Дрюон

the opening of the door, with a single, instinctive impulse for mutual support, reached for each other’s hands.

      Artois looked them up and down. His eyes blinked. He had halted in the doorway, completely filling it.

      ‘You, Cousin!’ said Marguerite.

      And, as he did not reply, gazing intently at these two women to whose distress he had so greatly contributed, she went on in a voice grown quickly firmer, ‘Look at us, yes, look at us! See the misery to which we are reduced. It must offer a fine contrast to the spectacle presented by the Court, and to the memory you had of us. We have no linen. No dresses. No food. And no chair to offer so great a lord as you!’

      ‘Do they know?’ Artois wondered as he went slowly forward. Had they learnt the part he had played in their disaster, out of revenge, out of hate for Blanche’s mother, that he had helped the Queen of England to lay the trap into which they had fallen?³

      ‘Robert, are you bringing us our freedom?’

      It was Blanche who said this and now went towards the Count, her hands extended before her, her eyes bright with hope.

      ‘No, they know nothing,’ he thought. ‘It will make my mission the easier.’

      He did not reply and turned upon his heel.

      ‘Bersumée,’ he said, ‘is there no fire here?’

      ‘No, Monseigneur; the orders I received …’

      ‘Light one! And is there no furniture?’

      ‘No, Monseigneur, but I …’

      ‘Bring furniture! Take away this pallet! Bring a bed, chairs to sit on, hangings, torches. Don’t tell me you haven’t them! I saw everything necessary in your lodging. Fetch them at once!’

      He took the Captain of the Fortress by the arm and pushed him out of the room as if he were a servant.

      ‘And something to eat,’ said Marguerite. ‘You might also tell our good gaoler, who daily gives us food that pigs would leave at the bottom of their trough, to give us a proper meal for once.’

      ‘And food, of course, Madam!’ said Artois. ‘Bring pastries and roasts. Fresh vegetables. Good winter pears and preserves. And wine, Bersumée, plenty of wine!’

      ‘But, Monseigneur …’ groaned the Captain.

      ‘Don’t you dare talk to me,’ shouted Artois. ‘Your breath stinks like a horse!’

      He threw him out, and banged the door shut with a kick of his boot.

      ‘My good Cousins,’ went on Artois, ‘I was expecting the worst indeed; but I see with relief that this sad time has not marked the two most beautiful faces in France.’

      It was only now that he took off his hat and bowed low.

      ‘We still manage to wash,’ said Marguerite. ‘Provided we break the ice on the basins they bring us, we have sufficient water.’

      Artois sat down on the bench and continued to gaze at them. ‘Well, my girls,’ he murmured to himself, ‘that’s what comes of trying to carve yourselves the destinies of queens from the inheritance of Robert of Artois!’ He tried to guess whether beneath the rough serge of their dresses, the two young women’s bodies had lost the soft curves of the past. He was like a great cat making ready to play with caged mice.

      ‘How is your hair, Marguerite?’ he asked. ‘Has it grown properly?’

      Marguerite of Burgundy started as if she had been pricked with a needle. Her cheeks grew pale.

      ‘Get up, Monseigneur of Artois!’ she cried furiously. ‘However reduced you may find me here, I will still not tolerate that a man should be seated in my presence when I am standing!’

      He leapt to his feet, and for a moment their eyes confronted each other. She did not flinch.

      In the pale light from the window he was better able to see this new face of Marguerite’s, the face of a prisoner. The features had preserved their beauty, but all their sweetness had gone. The nose was sharper, the eyes more sunken. The dimples, which only last spring had shown at the corners of her amber cheeks, had become little wrinkles. ‘So,’ Artois said to himself, ‘she can still defend herself. All the better, it will be the more amusing.’ He liked a battle, having to fight to gain his ends.

      ‘Cousin,’ he said to Marguerite with feigned good-humour, ‘I had no intention of insulting you; you have misunderstood me. I merely wanted to know if your hair had grown sufficiently to allow of your appearing in public.’

      Distrustful as she was, Marguerite could not prevent herself giving a start of joy.

      Appear in public? This must mean that she was to go free. Had she been pardoned? Was he bringing her a throne? No, it could not be that, he would have announced it at once.

      Her thoughts raced on. She felt herself weakening. She could not prevent tears coming to her eyes.

      ‘Robert,’ she said, ‘don’t keep me in suspense. I know it’s a characteristic of yours. But don’t be cruel. What have you come to say to me?’

      ‘Cousin, I have come to deliver you …’

      Blanche uttered a cry and Robert thought that she was going to swoon. He had left his sentence suspended; he was playing the two women like a couple of fish at the end of a line.

      ‘… a message,’ he finished.

      It pleased him to see their shoulders sag, to hear their sighs of disappointment.

      ‘A message from whom?’ asked Marguerite.

      ‘From Louis, your husband, our King from now on. And from our good cousin Monseigneur of Valois. But I may only speak to you alone. Perhaps Blanche would leave us?’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ said Blanche submissively, ‘I will retire. But before I go, Cousin, tell me: what of Charles, my husband?’

      ‘He has been much distressed by his father’s death.’

      ‘And what does he think of me? Does he speak of me?’

      ‘I think he regrets you, in spite of the suffering you have caused him. Since Pontoise he has never been seen to show his old gaiety.’

      Blanche burst into tears.

      ‘Do you think,’ she asked, ‘that he has forgiven me?’

      ‘That depends a great deal upon your cousin,’ replied Artois mysteriously, indicating Marguerite.

      And he led Blanche to the door, closing it behind her.

      Then, returning to Marguerite, he said, ‘To start with, my dear, there are a few things I must tell you. During these last days, when King Philip was dying, Louis your husband has seemed utterly confused. To wake up King, when one went to sleep a prince, is a matter for some surprise. He occupied his throne of Navarre only in name, and had no hand in governing. You will remember that he is twenty-five years old, and at that age one is able to reign; but you know as well as I do that, without being unkind, judgement is not his most outstanding quality. Thus, in these first days, Monseigneur of Valois, his uncle, stands behind him in everything, directing affairs with Monseigneur de Marigny. The trouble is that these two powerful minds dislike each other because they are too similar, hardly listening to what they say to each other. It is even thought that very soon they will no longer listen to each other at all, which, if it continued, would be most unfortunate, since a kingdom cannot be governed by two deaf men.’

      Artois had completely changed his tone. He was speaking with sense and precision, giving the impression that his turbulent entrances were largely made for effect.

      ‘As far as I am concerned, as you know very well,’ he went on, ‘I don’t care at all for Messire de Marigny, who has so often stood in my way, and I hope with all my heart that my cousin Valois, whose friend and ally I am, will come out on