is life, and after he had re-married for
perhaps the second time, he had not yet forgotten or forgiven the
violent death of Richard II. _Ce mauvais cas_--that ugly business, he
writes, has yet to be avenged.

The marriage festivity was on the threshold of evil days. The great
rivalry between Louis of Orleans and John the Fearless, Duke of
Burgundy, had been forsworn with the most reverend solemnities. But the
feud was only in abeyance, and John of Burgundy still conspired in
secret. On November 23, 1407--in that black winter when the frost lasted
six-and-sixty days on end--a summons from the King reached Louis of
Orleans at the Hotel Barbette, where he had been supping with Queen
Isabel. It was seven or eight in the evening, and the inhabitants of the
quarter were abed. He set forth in haste, accompanied by two squires
riding on one horse, a page and a few varlets running with torches. As
he rode, he hummed to himself and trifled with his glove. And so riding,
he was beset by the bravoes of his enemy and slain. My lord of Burgundy
set an ill precedent in this deed, as he found some years after on the
bridge of Montereau; and even in the meantime he did not profit quietly
by his rival's death. The horror of the other princes seems to have
perturbed himself; he avowed his guilt in the council, tried to brazen
it out, finally lost heart and fled at full gallop, cutting bridges
behind him, towards Bapaume and Lille. And so there we have the head of
one faction, who had just made himself the most formidable man in
France, engaged in a remarkably hurried journey, with black care on the
pillion. And meantime, on the other side, the widowed duchess came to
Paris, in appropriate mourning, to demand justice for her husband's
death. Charles VI., who was then in a lucid interval, did probably all
that he could, when he raised up the kneeling suppliant with kisses and
smooth words. Things were at a dead-lock. The criminal might be in the
sorriest fright, but he was still the greatest of vassals. Justice was
easy to ask and not difficult to promise; how it was to be executed was
another question. No one in France was strong enough to punish John of
Burgundy; and perhaps no one, except the widow, very sincere in wishing
to punish him.

She, indeed, was eaten up of zeal; but the intensity of her eagerness
wore her out; and she died about a year after the murder, of grief and
indignation, unrequited love and unsatisfied resentment. It