In a Dark Wood Wandering by Hella S. Haasse

Madame; she knows there is nothing between the King and me but close friendship …”
    â€œAs far as that is concerned, you have certainly never given her cause for complaint,” Blanche agreed. “The King usually sought and found his pleasures far from the palace with wanton women and peasant girls—shabby amusement for a king! But the Queen could not be angry about that—no one is jealous of an hour’s nameless love. Oh no, ma mie, envy of you suits her convenience remarkably well; she
wants
to believe that she has a reason to blame you.”
    Valentine raised herself slightly from the pillows; two bright red marks stained her cheeks.
    â€œSo much is being said,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to think. One of the chamberwomen overheard a story they are telling in the streets … They say I let a poisoned apple roll into the nursery while the Dauphin was playing with my little son.”
    â€œHush—that’s foolishness.” Blanche half-rose from her seat andpushed the young woman back among the pillows. “Lie still now, Valentine. Your face is glowing with fever. Don’t you know that kind of talk is meaningless? Why, your little Louis could have eaten the apple himself.”
    She stroked Valentine’s cheek soothingly, but she kept her eyes cast down to conceal her look of alert disquiet. She had heard that strange story. Isabeau did not always do her work with caution. Valentine moved her head back and forth over the pillows as though she were in pain; her lips were dry from thirst. Queen Blanche noticed this and beckoned to one of the young women nearby; she asked her to bring a spiced drink.
    â€œI feel danger everywhere,” whispered Valentine. “Perhaps I am imagining it, perhaps it is not true. God grant it is not true. But I don’t know … my feelings have never deceived me about things like that …”
    â€œYes, yes,” the older woman nodded, sighing, while she took the goblet from the waiting-woman and helped Valentine to drink. “Try to go to sleep now, ma mie. It wasn’t sensible of me to let you talk so long.”
    â€œI can’t sleep now,” said the Duchess of Orléans. She waved the beaker away after she had taken a few sips. “I should like someone to read to me; that would distract me from my thoughts. I am too tired to read myself; perhaps the Dame de Maucouvent can come sit with me … with the Histories of Troy which I was reading before my confinement.”
    â€œI shall send her.” Blanche rose. The ladies of her suite came up quickly, ready to push away the chair and to pick up the Queen’s long train when she descended from the dais. She bent over Valentine again. “Be brave,” she whispered within the shelter of the falling veil which hid both their faces. Then she left to enter the adjoining room.
    A few of Valentine’s ladies stood around the wet nurse who was holding little Charles at her breast. The infant’s wrinkled, red head seemed smaller than the rounded breast from which he suckled. He moved his little hands aimlessly back and forth, and made loud smacking sounds, to the delight of the young women. As Queen Blanche entered the room, they moved aside and curtsied. The wet nurse made an effort to stand up.
    â€œPlease sit, la Brune,” Blanche said, with a wave of her hand. The child, who had lost the nipple, turned his head to left and right.He was bound to a small oblong cushion, stiffly wound about with bands of cloth.
    â€œA healthy youngster,” said the wet nurse proudly. “And he suckles well, much better than Monseigneur Louis did at his age.”
    Blanche smiled and brushed her forefinger lightly over the baby’s little cheek, as cool and soft as fine silk. She let her eyes travel over the room, which, like the lying-in chamber, was hung with green tapestries. Two beds of state stood there, richly made up with