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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24483-8.txt b/24483-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3b48f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/24483-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9923 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Justice of the King, by Hamilton Drummond + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Justice of the King + + +Author: Hamilton Drummond + + + +Release Date: February 1, 2008 [eBook #24483] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUSTICE OF THE KING*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + +by + +HAMILTON DRUMMOND + +Author of + "The King's Scapegoat," "Room Five," + "The Houses," "Shoes of Gold," Etc. + + + + + + + +International Fiction Library +Cleveland ---------- New York + +Copyright, 1911 +by the MacMillan Company +All rights reserved + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + + I. THE DESPATCH + II. A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE + III. FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE + IV. THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + V. THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART + VI. HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON + VII. FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN + VIII. THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE + IX. FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT + X. LOVE, THE ENEMY + XI. THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS + XII. LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED + XIII. "FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY" + XIV. FOR LIFE AND THRONE + XV. A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY + XVI. TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST + XVII. STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION + XVIII. FRENCH AND ENGLISH + XIX. GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN + XX. THE LAST STAND + XXI. DENOUNCED + XXII. "WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER" + XXIII. JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT + XXIV. A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR + XXV. "IT IS A TRAP" + XXVI. COMMINES TAKES ADVICE + XXVII. THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE + XXVIII. PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST + XXIX. THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST + XXX. "LOVE IS MY LIFE" + XXXI. SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION + XXXII. LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION + XXXIII. THE ARREST + XXXIV. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS + XXXV. THE DAWN BROADENS + + + + +THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + + +CHAPTER I + +THE DESPATCH + +All morning the King had been restless, unappeasable, captious, with +little relapses unto the immobility of deep thought, and those who knew +him best were probing deeply both their conscience and their conduct. +Had he sat aloof, quiet in the sunshine, his dogs sleeping at his feet, +his eyes half closed, his hands, waxen, almost transparent, and bird's +claws for thinness, spread out to the heat, those about him would have +gone their rounds with a light heart. At such times his schemes were +thoughts afar off, dreams of some new, subtle stroke of policy, and +none within touch had cause to fear. + +But this May day he was restless, unsettled, his mind so full of an +active purpose shortly to be fulfilled that he could not keep his tired +body quiet for long, but every few minutes shifted his position or his +place. If he sat in his great chair, padded with down to ease his +weakness and the aching of his bones, his fingers were constantly +plucking at his laces, or playing with the tags which fastened the +fur-lined scarlet cloak he wore for a double purpose, to comfort the +coldness of his meagre body, and that the death-like pallor of his face +might be touched by its gay brightness to a reflected, fictitious glow +of health. But to remain seated for any length of time jarred with his +mood. Pushing himself to his feet he would walk the length of the +gallery and back again, leaning heavily upon his stick, only to sink +once more into his chair and fumble anew with shaking hands at whatever +loose end or edge lay nearest. + +So it had been all morning, but the restlessness had redoubled within +the last half-hour. It was then that a post had reached Valmy, no man +knew from whence, nor had the messenger been asked any questions. The +superscription on the despatch was a warning against the vice of +curiosity. It was in the King's familiar handwriting, bold and +angular, and ran, "To His Majesty the King of France, At his Château of +Valmy, These in great haste." A "Louis" in large letters was sprawled +across the lower corner of the cover. + +But though none asked questions it was noted that the horse was fresher +than the man, and that whereas the one was streaming in a lather of +sweat which had neither set nor dried, the other was splashed, caked, +and powdered with mud and dust to the eyebrows: therefore the wise in +such matters deduced that short relays had been provided, but that the +rider had only halted long enough to climb from saddle to saddle. In +silence he handed his letter to the Captain of the Guard, together with +the King's signet, and in silence he rode away; but whereas he came at +a gallop he rode away at a slow walk: therefore the wise further +deduced that his task was ended. + +With the King in residence not even the Captain of the Guard could move +freely through Valmy, but the signet answered all challenges. Every +door, every stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these silent +figures the rooms and passages were alike empty. Loitering for gossip +was not encouraged at Valmy, and least of all in the block which held +the King's lodgings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King took +the air with the pointed windows open to the south for warmth, was +there any suggestion of a court. Here, at the entrance, and remote +from the King alone at the further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were in +attendance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time Lessaix +unbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to Saint-Pierre, and passed +on. In Valmy suspicion never slept, never opened its heart in faith to +loyalty, and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach the King +armed. + +While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnawing his under lip as +he watched him, suddenly flung out one hand, the palm outward, the +fingers spread, and Lessaix halted. + +"Well?" He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man speaks whose temper is worn +to breaking-point. + +"A despatch, sire." + +"From whom?" + +"There is nothing to show----" + +"From whom?" + +"I do not know, sire." + +"Have you no tongue to ask?" + +"I asked nothing, sire." + +"Um; hold it up." Leaning forward Louis bridged his dim eyes with his +hand, and under the shadow Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shut +convulsively; but when the hand was lowered the King's face was +expressionless. "What else?" + +"Your Majesty's signet." + +"Let me see! Let me see! Um; that will do. Put them on the table and +go. Where is the messenger?" + +"He left at once." + +"Um; were the roads bad from Paris?" + +"He did not say, sire; he never opened his lips." + +"Silent, was he? Then there is one wise man in France. Thank you, +Captain Lessaix." + +With a salute Lessaix retired, but as he buckled on his sword again +Saint-Pierre whispered, "Whence?" + +"I don't know," replied Lessaix, also under his breath, "but not from +Paris!" + +Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips mumbling +nervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his own handwriting: the +ring, a passport to life or death, he had at once slipped upon his +finger. Every moment he knew he was watched, every action weighed, and +he was a little uncertain how far a judicious self-betrayal would +further his purpose. His handwriting would tell them nothing but that +he knew the writer of the letter, whence it came, and that it was +important. To heighten the importance but conceal the cause seemed +wise. Of course presently he must take some one into his confidence, +and from the depth of his soul he regretted the necessity. + +That was the curse of kingship--the brain which planned, reconciling +discordant elements, must rely for execution on hands it could not +always control. Yes, that was the vice of government, and the reason +why so many well-devised, smoothly-launched schemes utterly miscarried. +If the brain could only be the hands also! If the hands could only +reach out from where the brain pondered and foresaw! But they could +not, and so he must trust Commines. Trust Commines! A little gust of +anger at his impotence shook him and he shivered, dashing his hands +upon the table; it was never safe to trust any one--never! But he was +helpless, there was no escape, and in turn Commines must trust one +other: trust him with execution, that is, with blind performance, not +with knowledge. Beyond Commines he would trust no man with knowledge, +at least not as yet, nor Commines more than he must. Later it might be +policy to let it be known publicly the great danger which had +threatened him, and France through him, but not till all was over! + +Till all was over! Again Louis shivered a little, but not this time +with anger. The phrase was a euphemism for death, and he hated the +word even when wrapped up in a euphemism and applied to another. Death +was death, disguise it in what phrase one might; a horror, a terror, +another vice of kings worse than the first. It said in plain words, +"You can sow, but you may never reap; you can begin, but you may never +finish. Some one else will reap: some one else will finish." Some one +else! The thought was intolerable. He hated, he loathed the some one +else as he hated and loathed death. With a sweep of his arm, as if he +thrust some bodily presence from him, Louis leaned forward and caught +up the despatch. Let him make an end to brooding, here was work to be +done. + +Having closely examined the seals securing the back to make certain +they were intact, he ripped apart the threads which bound it round and +round passing through the seals, and drew out the enclosure. It was a +single sheet of stiff paper. This he unfolded, and spreading it flat +upon the table bent over it eagerly. But before he could have read +three lines he sank back in his chair with a cry, and so fierce was his +face that Saint-Pierre and Leslie, at the end of the gallery, +instinctively drew apart, each suspicious of the other. The King's +wrath was like lightning, swift to fall, and where it fell there was +the danger of sudden destruction to those near. + +So he sat for a full minute, his brows drawn, his thin lips narrowed to +a line, his head sunk between his shoulders, then with a sigh audible +to the length of the gallery he again bent above the paper, resting his +weight on both arms, as if utterly weary both in body and spirit. + +This time the pause was while he might have read the page slowly twice +over, weighing its sense word by word, and when at length he raised his +head all passion had gone from him; he was a sorrowful old man, weary +and worn and grey. + +"Commines!" he said harshly, "send me Commines," and sat back, the +paper crumpled lengthwise in his hand. + +But he did not sit for long. Rising, he paced up the gallery, his head +bent, his iron-shod stick striking the flags with a clang as he leaned +upon it at every second step, the crumpled paper still caught in his +hand. At the door he paused, looking up sideways. + +"Commines? Where is Commines? Head of God! is there no one to bring +me Commines?" + +"We have sent for him, sire." + +"Sent for him? Why is he not here when I need him? I am the +worse-served king in Christendom. No one takes thought, no one cares, +no one---- Who is on guard? Leslie? Ah! Leslie cares, with Leslie I +am safe: yes, yes, with Leslie I am safe," and once more he turned +away, the iron ringing from the pavement as before. Suspicion breeds +suspicion, and it would never do to vex Leslie's blunt loyalty with any +seeming distrust. Besides, it was true, he could trust Leslie. It was +not the same trust as he had in Commines; Leslie would watch over him, +would guard him at all costs, but Commines would obey and ask no +questions. + +Three times he had walked the length of the gallery, always with +growing impatience, and three times turned before he heard the sound of +whispering at the door, and the ring of rapid feet followed him. But +he gave no sign, and went on his way as if he had heard nothing. He +recognized the footfall, but preferred that Commines should reach him +as remotely from the door as possible. + +"Sire!" + +"Ah!" Louis turned with a start. "You have come at last! At last! +There was a time I was served better. But let that pass. Philip, I +have had letters." + +"Yes, sire, I know: Lessaix told me." + +"You know, and Lessaix told you! You watch me--spy on me, do you?" + +"Sire, it is my business to know everything which touches----" + +"Yes! and what more do you know? Where did the post come from, you, +whose business it is to know everything?" + +"Lessaix thought from Paris." + +"From Paris," and Louis raised his voice so that the affirmation in it +might be clearly heard at the further end of the gallery. Then he +turned to the silent group at the doorway, watchful to seize upon any +clue to the King's mystery which might guide their feet clear of the +pitfalls besetting Valmy. + +"Let all men go from me but my friend Argenton," he said, with a wave +of the hand which still held the paper crumpled in the grasp. "Let the +guard remain beyond the door, but let no man enter till I give leave. +Paris! Let them think Paris," he went on, lowering his voice, "but +from you, Philip, I have no secrets. We are old friends, too old +friends to have secrets one from the other, eh, Philip, eh? Give me +your arm that I may lean upon it, for I grow tired. It is the heat, +not that I am ill or weaker; the heat, the heat, and I grow tired. And +yet I must walk: I cannot rest; no, not for a moment; this--this horror +has unstrung me." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE + +Passing his clenched hand through the crook of Commines' arm, and +leaning heavily on the stick in the other hand, Louis turned slowly up +the gallery, and for a time both were silent. They made a strange +contrast. The King was shrunken, bowed, and bent, a veritable walking +skeleton to whom the grave already imperiously beckoned nor would take +long denial. With his bony head, his listless face, his lean, long +neck thrust out from the fur of his upturned collar, he resembled a +giant bird of prey. The skinny hand thrust through the crook of +Commines' arm, and still grasping the crumpled despatch, was the claw +of a vulture. Above him, head and shoulders, towered Commines, +square-set, burly, muscular, and as full of life and vigour as his +master was sapless. Just midway to the threescore years and ten, his +bodily powers were at their highest, and in the ten years he had served +Louis his mind had ripened so that few men were more astute, more +shrewd to see and seize upon advantages, whether for himself or his +master. In the King's service few scruples troubled him, the +questionable act was Louis', his part was to obey. + +"Then, sire, the post was not from Paris?" + +"From Amboise," answered Louis, with sudden incisive vigour, his voice +rasping harshly. "From Amboise, where the ungrateful son of a +miserable father plots and plots and plots: and you, whose business it +is to know everything, know nothing." + +"The Dauphin? and plotting against you? But, sire, it is impossible. +The Dauphin is barely thirteen years of age." + +"The pity of it, Argenton, oh! the pity of it." As he spoke one who +did not know him as Commines knew him would have sworn that tears were +very near the dull, dry eyes. "No more than thirteen--no, not +thirteen, and yet--ah! the pity of it." + +"Oh, sire, some one has deceived you. The Dauphin is too young to +plot, even if affection and common nature----" + +"Too young?" broke in Louis, halting in his slow walk to strike the +pavement angrily with his stick. "At what age does a serpent grow +fangs? Too young? Ill weeds grow apace, and then there may be those +about him who egg him on, who sow wrong ideas in his mind that they may +reap some gain to themselves. All are not as faithful as thou art, +Philip. I have not always been merciful--not always. At times justice +has rejoiced against mercy for the general good; yes, for the general +good. There was Molembrais; men blame me for Molembrais; but if the +King's arm be not strong enough to strike, who shall hold the kingdom +in its place? And because the King's hand pulls down and raises up as +God wills"--he paused, and bowed with a little gesture of his hand to +his cap--"there are those who do not love me. But if they egg on, +those others who should be loyal to their King and are not, if they +suggest, it is my son--my son, Argenton--who is the very heart and +centre; my son, who out of his little twelve years raises his hand +against my threescore." + +"If he has done that," began Commines, picking his words slowly (he had +not as yet fathomed Louis' purpose, and feared lest he should commit +himself in too great haste to the wrong policy), "if the Dauphin has +truly so forgotten natural love and duty----" + +"If!" With a snarl which showed his gapped and yellow teeth Louis +again straightened himself, and as he raised his head beyond the +reflected glow of the scarlet cloak his face was grey with passion. +"If? If? Head of God, man! do you dare talk to me in 'ifs'? Philip +de Commines, when you were little in your own eyes, when you were the +humble fetcher and carrier to that Bully of Burgundy whom I crushed, +when you were the very hound and cur of his pleasure, fawning on him +for the scraps of life, I took you up, I!--I! Now you are Lord of +Argenton, now you are Seneschal of Poitou, now you are Prince of +Talmont, and I have made you all these, I!--I! and you answer me with +an 'if'! But the hand which raised you up can drag down, you who +answer me with an 'if.' The hand which drew from the mud can fling +into the ditch, you who answer me with an 'if.' And, by God! I'll do +it! An 'if'? We say 'ifs' to fools. Was I a fool to turn the +lickshoe of Charles the Bully into the Prince of Talmont? Was I a fool +to grope in the mud for a Seneschal of Poitou? Am I a fool now--I, who +have held the strings of all Europe in my hand for thirty years, and +loosed or ravelled them as suited the greatness of France? God be my +witness, all has been for the greatness of France! France comes first, +always first. And now, when I say my son plots against me, that +twelve-year boy who is of an age to be king, am I a fool and liar? +Does this lie? Answer me, Argenton, does this lie?" And wrenching his +hand free from Commines he shook the paper passionately above his head. + +So sudden and so fierce was the attack, so full of bitter venom and raw +rage, so brutally naked and perilous in its threat, that Commines +fairly quailed. The florid ruddiness of his fleshy face faded to a +pallor more cadaverous than the unhealthy grey of Louis' sunken cheeks +as he remembered Molembrais. At the door stood the guards with crossed +pikes, beyond these were Leslie and Saint-Pierre, watchful and alert. +He was loved little better than his master, and he knew it. Let the +King speak and there would be no hesitancy, little pity. In his rapid +rise he had kicked many rivals from the ladder of Court favour, and +climbed yet higher by trampling them underfoot, caring little what gulf +of disgrace or worse swallowed them. And the King's threat was no idle +boast; the hand which had raised could drag down, not only to +irremediable disaster, but to the very grave itself. A hand? A +beckoning finger to those who waited at the door would be enough, and +Commines trembled. + +"Sire, sire," he cried, his arms raised in protest and supplication, +"how have I offended you? In what have I been ungrateful? I meant no +more but that it seemed impossible a son could turn against so good, so +great a father. That--that--staggered me for the moment. It beggared +reason; it--it--but let me read the despatch for myself, sire. Not for +belief, but for comprehension, and that we may meet the blow together, +that we may turn it aside--may turn it back on--on--the hand that +strikes." + +"Aye!" said Louis drily, "that is more like the Commines of old, the +Commines who served his master without an 'if.' And that is a good +phrase of yours--turn back the blow on the hand that strikes! When +that is done, and the time comes for reward, I will not forget that it +was your phrase. And it was for that I sent for you: I knew my friend +Commines would find a way to--to--guard his master effectually." + +Before Louis ended all the harshness had gone from his voice, and it +became marvellously gentle, marvellously kindly, almost caressing. A +master student of the subtle trifles which unconsciously influence +great events, he played upon men's minds as a skilled musician on his +instrument, and they obeyed the touch. Nor was Philip de Commines, +opportunist, political adventurer, philosopher, soldier of fortune, +diplomatist, exempt from the influence of that skilful mastery. As he +had gloomed so now he gladdened: he squared his shoulders to his +fullest height, filling his lungs with a deeper inspiration, and the +colour ran back to his cheeks in flood. Nor was it all in pride; there +was relief, and the lifting up of a burden which for one terrible +moment had threatened to crush him to the earth itself. + +But the life which gave its strength to the hand which lifted and +dragged down was frail almost to extinction, and remembering that one +day the Dauphin must step into Louis' place Commines ventured to +temporize. + +"Yes, sire, but to turn back the blow I must know who aims the blow, +whence it comes, where it will strike, and when. To fight in the dark +is to waste strength. Have I your leave to read the despatch from +Amboise?" + +"Eh?" With the gesture of a natural impulse Louis held out the paper, +then drew it back. "We will wait a little. I am tired, very tired. +This shock has unnerved me. Let me sit down, Philip, and rest." + +Slowly, with an arm on Commines' shoulder, he turned and, sinking into +the chair, leaned forward upon the table in an attitude of utter +weariness, his hand still resting upon the despatch. So there was a +pause for a moment, Commines standing to one side, silent and ill at +ease. Then with a sigh, which was almost a groan, Louis roused +himself. Reaching out his hand he raised to his lips a little silver +image of Saint Denis, one of a group which filled a corner of the +table, some standing upright, some pitched upon their faces without +regard to reverence or respect. Kissing it fervently he again sighed, +his eyes raised to the groined roof, and shook his head sadly. If +Saint Denis did not whisper inspiration he at least spun out the time +for thought. Commines' request was reasonable, and he was at a loss +how plausibly to evade it. + +"Have I your leave, sire?" + +"Eh?" Down came the King's hand upon the paper, Saint Denis grasped, +baton-fashion, by the feet. "No, Philip, no, I think not. It is in +confidence, and above all things a king must respect confidence, or how +could he be trusted?" A sentence which sounded strange from the lips +of a man who never kept a treaty he could break to his own advantage, +or, to give him his due, to the advantage of France. + +"That I can understand," answered Commines, as gravely as if his +master's tortuous road to the consolidation of the kingdom had not been +strewn with ruptured contracts, unscrupulous chicanery, and solemn +pledges brazenly evaded. "But how am I to act? How can I, in the +dark, parry a blow from the dark?" + +"Suspect every one," answered Louis, brushing aside Saint Denis as he +turned sharply in his chair. The saint had served his turn. He had +been invoked in a perplexity, and now that the way was clear, no doubt +in answer to the invocation, he was flung aside without ceremony. +"Suspect every one. To suspect all you meet is the first great rule of +prudence, wisdom, success; and to suspect your own self is the second. +Go to Amboise. Remember there is no if, and sift, search, find, but +especially find." + +"Find what, sire?" + +For answer Louis clutched the paper yet tighter and shook it in the +air, and if Commines could but have guessed it, there was a double +meaning in the action and the words which accompanied it. + +"Find this!" + +"And having found?" Commines paused, conscious that the ground was +treacherous under his feet. "Sire, remember he is the Dauphin and the +son of France." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE + +With a quick gesture, the arm thrust out, the hand open, the fingers +spread, Louis shrank back, his other arm across his face. It was a +movement eloquent of pathos, despair, and suffering; then, with another +sigh, he straightened himself, his corpse-like face pinched with care. + +"The son of France!" he repeated. "Yes! the son of France! but, +Philip, my friend, my one friend, must the father perish for the son?" + +"Oh, sire, sire," cried Commines, deeply moved, both by the words and +the appeal in the voice. "Never that. And it is true--you are France, +France itself as no King ever has been; France in its strength, France +in its hope, and God knows what evil will befall----" He checked +himself sharply as a spasm twisted the King's sunken mouth. Carried +away by his sympathy he had forgotten that it was an almost +unforgivable offence to hint that Louis was not immortal. For him the +word death was wiped from the language. If the dread shadow took form +to strike, those near might say "Speak little," or "Confess," but +nothing more. + +But for once the offence passed without rebuke; it was even seized upon +to point a moral, and nerving himself to face the thought the King +completed the sentence. + +"God knows what evil will befall France in a boy's hands! And within a +year he will be of age; of age and yet a child. A puppet king of +France!" Louis paused, drawing in his breath with a shudder like a man +chilled to the marrow. "A puppet, a puppet, and in the hands of a +puppet what must the end be? Ah! France! France! France! It is +disaster, unless it can be turned aside. Philip, you must go to +Amboise. Take with you some one you can trust, if in all Valmy there +is such an one!" + +"There is, sire; one I can trust as my King can trust me." + +"Yes, yes, but not overmuch; do not trust him overmuch. Remember what +I said--suspect, suspect." + +"I am not afraid, sire, Stephen La Mothe owes everything to me." + +"Gratitude? Is that any reason for faithfulness? Piff!" And the King +blew out his thin lips in contempt. "To bind men to you, Commines, to +bind them so that you may sleep easy o' nights, you must hold them +either by the fear of to-day or the hope of to-morrow. Gratitude! +Thanks for eaten bread! How many are there who owe me everything, and +yet have turned against me. But let that pass; may God and the Saints +forgive them as I do." Louis paused, and a sardonic smile flickered +for an instant across his face. If God and the Saints had no more +forgiveness for his enemies than he had, then their prospects in the +life to come were as miserable as Louis would have made the remnant of +their days in this present world if they but fell into his power. "And +this La Mothe," he went on, "there is no need to tell him all we know. +To tell all you know is to lose your advantage. And why should he be +faithful? Why does he owe you everything?" + +"I promised his sister--it was years ago----" + +"A woman? Um, I do not like women. The ways of men I can follow, but +the ways of women are beyond me. Seven devils were cast out of one, +but not from the rest, and so there is no understanding them. No, I do +not like women." + +"Sire, she is long dead." + +"Yes? That makes it safer, but I do not see that it is any reason for +trusting the brother. Take him with you to Amboise if you think he is +safe, but remember"--and the King's lean hand was shaken suddenly +upward almost in Commines' face, a threat as well as a warning--"I hold +you responsible, you, you, you only. Let him be with you, but not of +you; let him enter Amboise apart from you, and let him work out of +sight like a mole, obeying orders without knowing why he obeys. Then +if he fails, or blunders, or is fool enough to be caught spying, you +can disown him, can wash your hands of him, and let him hang! Um! You +don't like it? I see in your face that you don't like it. Will you +never learn that a face has a tongue of its own to be used to conceal +our thoughts? But yours--I know your thought. The woman! Bah! the +woman is dead." + +"Sire, a promise to the dead is like a vow to the Saints; none can give +it back." + +"Um! a vow to the Saints? But we must have the Saints on our side. +Let me see--let me see. Yes! Take him with you, openly or secretly as +you will, and if he bungles I shall deal with him. That frees you from +your promise. The justice of the King! Eh, Philip! will the justice +of the King please you better?" + +The justice of the King! Louis sat back in his chair as he spoke, his +blotched gums showing in a grin between his thin lips, his dull eyes +half veiled by the drooping of the leaden-hued lids. More than ever he +was a mask of death, but of a death that possessed a grim humour, +malevolent in its satirical cynicism. The justice of the King. Who +should know that justice so well as Commines, its minister for almost a +dozen years, or who so testify to its stern implacability? None +escaped the rigid iron of its wrath. Their almost royal blood saved +neither the Duke of Nemours nor the Count of Armagnac. Saint-Pol, +Constable of France, perished on the scaffold. Besides these a score +of the greater nobles of France had fallen, nor could the scarlet of +the Cardinalate shield Balue from its vengeance. If these, the great +ones of the chess-board, were beyond the pale of mercy, what hope would +there be for a simple pawn like Stephen La Mothe, if once he fell +beneath that inflexible ban? And yet to the courtier the King's +question could have but one reply. + +"The justice of the King," repeated Commines; and added, without +thought of irreverence, "Let him fall into the hands of God and not of +man." + +"Good!" The thin lips twitched, and deep in the dead eyes a sombre +fire glowed. It warmed his cold humour to read so plainly the thought +hidden behind the smooth words. But to a mind as fertile as the King's +that very thought was a suggestion. It would be well that this La +Mothe should clearly understand all he had to fear; and not to fear +only but also to hope. The justice of the King could raise up as well +as cast down, could reward without measure as well as crush without +mercy. + +"Go to Amboise. Be myself in Amboise. If--I use your own word, +Philip--if justice must strike---- Ah! poor wretched King and yet more +wretched father!--be thou the King's justice, be thou the King's hand +in Amboise, and let this Monsieur La Mothe be your ears, your eyes. +And--um--yes, let me see this La Mothe before you leave; I am, as you +know, something of a judge of men. To-morrow will do, and the next day +you can go to Amboise." + +"And my commission, sire? My authority to act on your behalf?" + +"Commission?" The plaintive, gentle calm of the King's voice broke up +in storm. Leaning forward Louis tapped his finger-tips on the table +noisily. "Sift, search, find, find, there is your commission. +Authority? Um--um--when Absalom rebelled against David did Joab, the +king's servant, say, 'Where is my authority?' Rebellion is your +authority; the safety of your King is your authority; the plot against +France is your authority. For such crimes there is none above justice, +Monsieur d'Argenton, none--none. But justice is like truth, and +sometimes dwells in shadow. Do you understand? Justice, but no +scandal. We must be circumspect. There must be no shock to public +thought in France. It is the curse and fate of kings to be misjudged. +Justice might well come by way of accident. And--let me see! This La +Mothe! He owes you everything and you say he can be trusted?" + +"Yes, sire, but I have been thinking----" + +"Then, Philip, tell him something of what I have told you. The +danger----" The King again shook in the air the crumpled despatch +which had never been exposed, never left his grasp for an instant. +"The danger to me--to France--to you, above all to you who vouch for +him. He owes you everything as you owe me, perhaps he will understand +as you do?" + +"But, sire," said Commines again, striving hard to keep his voice +unemotional, "while you spoke I have been thinking. I fear Stephen La +Mothe is too young, too inexperienced, for so grave a mission." + +"And are there two in Valmy you can trust with your life? Too young? +No! To be young is to be generous, to be young is to dream dreams. +The generosity of his youth will repay you all he thinks he owes, and +will not count the cost: the dreams will see the glory of serving +France. Age brings caution, Philip; age brings too much of the +weighing of consequence; and at Amboise a little incaution will be +good, incaution of himself, you understand. He owes you everything; +let him get it into his head that you are the gainer by his +incaution--as you will be, Philip, as you will be, and he too. There! +That is settled. Send him to me to-morrow. Move the brazier nearer to +me, then go. Nearer yet; within reach of my hand. There! that will +do." + +But filled by a fear he dared not show Commines still lingered. Across +the gulf of the past years came the voice of the dear, dead woman, the +voice of the lost love of his youth, lost while youth was generous, +while youth dreamed dreams and loved passionate. It was the sweetest +voice he had ever known; sweet in itself because of itself, caressing, +gentle, sweeter still because passionate love had throbbed through it. +"Watch over him, Philip, for my sake," it said, and she had died +comforted by his promises, died trusting him. And now---- But while +he hesitated, willing but afraid to dare, Louis bestirred himself. +Resting one arm upon the table he pushed himself half upright with the +other hand, and so, half poised, pointed forward at the door. A blotch +of crimson showed upon the cheek-bones and the dull eyes glowed. + +"God's name, man! did you not hear me? Do you serve me or the Dauphin? +Which? Go! go! go!" + +This time Commines obeyed, and obeyed in silence. The King's question +was not one which called for an answer; or rather he understood that +Amboise must give the answer, give it emphatically and without a +quibble. Once outside the door he paused. Between Saint-Pierre, +Leslie, and himself no love was lost, but the bond of a united +watchfulness against a common danger bound them to mutual service. + +"Where was it from?" asked Saint-Pierre. But Commines shook his head, +running his fingers inside the collar of his doublet significantly. +Complacency, even when it was the complacency of self-defence, had its +limits. + +"I dare not," he whispered back. "He is in the mood of the devil. +What is he doing now?" + +As if playing the part of sentry Saint-Pierre turned and walked twice +or thrice up and down before the open door, glancing cautiously within. + +"Tearing the despatch, and burning it piecemeal in the brazier." + +"I feared as much. If you love yourselves, gentlemen, see that you do +not cross him to-day. And when I am gone from Valmy walk warily." + +"Where are you going, Monsieur de Commines?" + +"To Amboise, and I would have given a thousand crowns for one look at +that despatch." + +But it is a question whether the look would have taught him much, +though he had studied the paper for an hour. It was blank; beyond the +superscription and the "Louis" sprawled across the corner there was not +one single word. And yet, to one trained by ten years service in his +master's ways of crooked cunning the very blank would have been +eloquent of warning. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + +As Commines crossed the courtyard to his lodgings his face was puckered +with anxious thought. Many a time he had fished for his master in +waters both foul and troubled, but always he had known the prey he +angled for. Now, and he shook his head like a man who argues against +his doubts, but with little hope of compelling conviction, he was not +sure. Or was it that he was afraid to be sure? Was he afraid to say +bluntly out, even in the secret of his own mind, the King desires the +death of the Dauphin and for good cause? + +That there might well be cause, that there might well be a sinister +upheaval against the King with the Dauphin as its rallying centre he +could easily believe, even without the evidence of the despatch. +France had never yet known such a nation-builder as Louis. His +quarries had lain north, south, and east. In his twenty-two years upon +the throne he had added to the crown Artois, Burgundy, the northern +parts of Picardy, Anjou, Franche-Comté, Provence, and Roussillon. To +secure such a wholesale aggrandizement he had been unscrupulous in +chicanery, sleepless in his aggression, ruthless to the extremest verge +of cruelty; no treaty had been too solemn to tear up, no oath too +sacred for violation, no act of blood too pitiless. + +With Louis the one sole question had ever been, Does it advantage +France? If it did, then his hand struck or his cunning filched, +careless of right or privileges. As he had said, and said truly, +France came first. It was his one justification for the unjustifiable. +No! Never such a nation-builder and never a man so feared and hated +for valid cause. He was the King of the greatest, the most powerful +France Europe had ever known, but it was a miserable France, a France +seething with wretchedness, with discontent, and each hour he went in +terror for his life. Only a few, such as Commines himself, could +foresee how great would one day be the power of these weak, +antagonistic states he had so ruthlessly welded into one. For the +rest, France was so full of unhappiness and dread that the Dauphin +might well be the centre of a plot, a plot to murder the father in the +son's name for the relief of the nation. But was the Dauphin himself +concerned in the plot, or had he that knowledge which, prince though he +was, laid him open to the penalty for blood-guiltiness? These were the +questions which troubled Commines. + +Clearly--and as he followed his train of thought he turned aside, his +hands locked behind him, his head bowed, and walked up and down in the +shadow flung by the gloomy range of buildings which cut the courtyard +into two halves--clearly the King had no doubt: clearly the despatch +had left no room for doubt. Or else--the thought was contemptible, but +it refused to be thrust aside--the King wished to have no room for +doubt. The frown deepened on Commines' face as he remembered how often +the King's wishes had been master of the truth. + +But could any father be cursed with such a terrible wish? Yes, when +the father was that complex, unhappy man, Louis of France. Commines +knew the King as no man else knew him, and in the gloomy depths of that +knowledge he found two reasons why the father would have no sorrow for +the death of the son. It was characteristic of Louis to hate and dread +his natural successor, nor did his distrustful fears pause to consider +that if the Dauphin was swept aside Charles of Orleans would stand in +his son's place. When that day came he would hate and dread Charles as +his suspicious soul now hated and dreaded the Dauphin. + +The other reason he had himself unveiled to Commines, no doubt with a +set purpose. Behind the King's most trivial act there was always a set +purpose. In a boy's feeble hands, a puppet as he had called him, a +king in legal age and yet a child in years and ignorance, this great +France he had built up so laboriously would crumble into ruin. Louis +was a statesman first and a father afterwards. So Commines must go to +Amboise, must sift, search, find--but especially find. Find what? His +question had been answered--find and prove the boy's guilty knowledge. +But having found, having proved that the King's fears were terribly +justified, what then? The answer to that question touched the hopes of +his ambition. Upon most men death steals unawares, but for Louis the +edge of the grave crumbled in the sight of all who served him, nor, +when the end came, would it linger in the coming. Supposing death +struck down the King while he, Commines, was still at Amboise, finding? +What then? The opportunist in Commines was vigilantly awake, that nice +sense which discriminates the rising power and clings to its skirts. +The Dauphin would be King of France. For the third time he asked +himself, What then? + +It was a relief to his perplexity that a cheery full-noted whistle +broke across the question, a whistle which from time to time slipped +into a song whose words Commines could hear in part: + + "Heigh-ho! Love's but a pain, + Love's but a bitter-sweet, lasts an hour: + Heigh-ho! Sunshine and rain! + If it's so brief whence comes love's power? + Wherefore go clearly, + Sweetly and dearly--" + +and the song ran again into a whistle. + +At the sound the gravity faded from Commines' face and the coarse set +mouth grew almost tender. It was Stephen La Mothe: and whatever the +words might be, the lad surely knew little of love when he so lightly +marred his own sentiment. A lover sighing for his mistress would have +sighed less blithesomely and to the very end of his plaint. Presently +the voice rose afresh: + + "Heigh-ho! where dost thou hide, + Love, that I seek for thee, high and low? + Heigh-ho! world, thou art wide, + Heat of the summer and cold of the snow. + April so smiling, + June so beguiling, + Let us forget, love, that winter's storms blow." + + +Entering the narrow hall, lit only from the courtyard and with a +much-shadowed stairway rising from the further end, Commines pushed +open a door on his right, fastening it behind him as he entered. + +"Stephen, Stephen, what do you know of June and December, love's +sunshine and the cold of the snow?" he said railingly. + +"Nothing at all, Uncle, and just as much as I want to know," was the +answer. "But a song must have a theme or there'd be no song." + +"And you think love is a better theme than the text you hold on your +knee." + +"Yes: for a song. If it was a tale, now, or an epic, it would be a +different matter. But they are beyond me, both of them. Do you think, +Uncle," and La Mothe turned over the arquebuse Commines had pointed at +in jest as it lay on his lap, "this will ever be better than a curious +toy? I think it is quite useless. By the time you could prime it +here, set your tinder burning and touch it off there, I would have my +sword through you six times over." + +"Charles the Rash found it no toy in the hands of the Swiss at Morat," +replied Commines. "But toy or no toy, put it aside while I talk to +you. Stephen, my son, I fear I have done you an ill turn to-day." + +"Then it is the first of your life," answered La Mothe cheerily, as he +stood the weapon upright in the angle of the wall. "It would need a +good many ill turns to set the balance even between us, Uncle Philip." + +"No. One thoughtless act which cannot be recalled or undone may +outweigh a life. And so with this. Stephen, I have commended you to +the King for service." + +La Mothe leaped to his feet, laying his hands on Commines' shoulders +impulsively, one upon each. And if proof were needed of the relations +between these two, it would be found in the spontaneous frankness of +the gesture: Philip de Commines was not a man with whom to take +liberties, but there stood La Mothe almost rocking the elder man in the +fullness of his satisfaction. + +"At last," he cried. "I have been eating my heart out for this for a +week past! And you call that an ill turn?" + +"Stop! Stop! Stop!" and Commines, smiling through his gravity, +followed the other's gesture so that the two stood face to face, locked +the one to the other at arm's length. + +How like the lad was to Suzanne: a man's strong likeness of a woman's +sweet face. There were the same clear expressive eyes, ready to light +with laughter or darken with sympathy; the same sensitive firm mouth +and squared chin, fuller and stronger as became a man and yet Suzanne's +in steadfastness to the life; the same broad forehead and arched brows; +the same unconscious trick of flushing in moments of excitement. Even +the colour of the hair was the same, with the curious ruddy copper tint +running through the brown in certain lights. + +Yes; it was Suzanne's self, Suzanne whom he had loved as he had never +loved Hélène de Chambes, his wife these nine years past! Suzanne whom +he still loved with that reverence which belongs alone to the gentle +dead: Suzanne for whom even now his spirit cried out in these rare +moments when it broke through the cynical, selfish crust which had +hardened upon him since Suzanne died. So for Suzanne's sake he called +Stephen his son, though there was no such difference in age, nor any +drop of blood relationship. + +"Do you know," he went on, gravely tender in the memory of the dead +woman, "that a king's service brings with it a king's risks?" + +"And did Monsieur de Perche call me coward when he wrote to you?" + +"No; he said many things which it were better a boy should not know +were said. Conceit is only too ready to take youth by the arm." + +"And am I such a boy? Surely four-and-twenty----" + +"Are you so old? It always comes as an astonishment when those we love +are no longer children. It is then we realize how the years have +passed." + +"So old, Uncle. Four-and-twenty is no boy." + +"A man in years, a boy at heart. Be a boy at heart as long as you can, +Stephen, for so will you keep your conscience clean before God. And +yet what use has the King for a boy's service?" + +"Teach the boy to be a man in thought that he may find a use for +himself, Uncle; and who can do that so well as you?" + +Commines let his hands fall to his sides and turned away, pacing the +room with short strides. His man's thoughts were not always such as he +would care to teach Stephen La Mothe. + +"To the King's service every man must bring his own thought." + +"And did Monsieur de Perche call me fool when he wrote to you?" + +"No: but the little things of Marbahan are poor training for the +greater things of Valmy, of Blois, of Plessis, of Amboise, of Paris." + +"But truth and faithfulness and courage are the same everywhere, and +whether at Marbahan or Valmy a man can but serve God and the King with +the best wits God has given him, and that I'll do." + +"Aye!" said Commines drily, "but what of that Heigh-ho song of yours? +When love knocks on one door the service of the King may get bundled +out of the other." + +Stephen La Mothe laughed a hearty, wholesome laugh, pleasant to hear. +There was nothing of self-consciousness in it, and no protest could +have more clearly proved that the mental comment of Commines' +shrewdness had read the broken melody aright. + +"That is easily settled. All His Majesty has to do is to find me a +wife of seven thousand crowns a year with two or three little additions +to give salt to their spending. Item, eyes which see straight; item, a +mouth that's sweet for kissing; item, a temper as sweet as the mouth; +item, a proper appreciation of my great merit. But, Uncle, what is the +service?" + +"That the King will tell you himself. And, lad, when kings talk it is +a simple man's duty to listen and obey. Stephen, whatever the service +may be, do it." + +"Gratefully and faithfully, Uncle. Anything my honour----" + +"Honour? God's name, boy, the King's honour is your honour: the King's +service, no matter what it may be, is your honour. Are you, a +milk-child from Marbahan, knowing nothing of the ways of men, to talk +of your honour to the King?" + +"Yes, but Uncle, Monsieur de Perche taught me----" + +"Monsieur de Perche? Monsieur de Perche taught you many admirable +truths, I don't doubt. That he might so teach you I placed you in his +household seven years ago. Monsieur de Perche has taught you the use +of arms, and that courtesy which next to arms goes to the making of a +man. But what can a simple gentleman in the wilds of Poitou know of a +king's service? and above all, of such a King? His little household +with its round of petty thought was his great world, and a trial of +hawks an event to be talked of for a week; but all France is the +household of the King, and beyond the borders the eagles of Europe are +poised to harry us. But while he lives they are afraid to swoop. +While he lives, yes, while he lives." + +"But after him comes the Dauphin?" + +"A child! a puling, weakling, feeble child. Stephen, as king the +Dauphin spells disaster." + +"He will have you to guide him, Uncle, and under you----" + +But Commines silenced him with a gesture full of angry denial. +Unconsciously La Mothe had put his finger on a rankling sore. + +"With the Dauphin king my career ends!" he said harshly. "He and those +around him hate me as they hate his father: hate me because I am +faithful to the father. And yet, Stephen, I have sometimes +thought--this is for you alone--it might be that if in some crisis of +his life I served the Dauphin as I served his father--but no! no! no! +Even then it is doubtful, worse than doubtful. If Charles of Orleans +were king it would be different. He is no child and old enough to be +grateful. Always remember, Stephen, that a child is never grateful; it +forgets too soon." + +"And I am a grown man, Uncle, and so never can forget." + +"I know, my son," and Commines' stern eyes softened. "I told the King +you were faithful, and already he trusts you as I trust you," which was +rather an overstatement of the case, seeing that Louis trusted no man, +not even Commines' self. "To-morrow you are to see him." + +"Then I hope his service, no matter what it is, will take me out of +Valmy." + +"Why?" + +For a moment La Mothe hesitated. The thought in his mind seemed at +variance with his assertions of maturity and manhood, but he spoke it +with characteristic frankness. + +"Valmy frightens me." + +"Why?" repeated Commines. + +"Because of its silences, its coldness, its inhumanity--no, not +inhumanity, its inhumanness. In Valmy no man sings; in Valmy few men +laugh. When they speak they say little and their eyes are always +afraid. And they are afraid; I see it, and I am growing afraid too." + +"But half an hour ago you were singing?" + +"But I am only nine days in Valmy. And sometimes when I sing I +remember where I am and stop suddenly. It is as indecent as if one +sang in the house of the dead. Soon I shall always remember and not +sing at all. And I do not wonder that few men laugh." + +"Why?" asked Commines for the third time. This was a new side to +Stephen La Mothe and one that in the King's service--not forgetting his +own--should not be ignored. Often in his career he had seen a +well-laid plan miscarry because some seeming triviality was ignored. +Was it not one of Louis' aphorisms that life held nothing really +trivial? + +"Because it is a house of the living dead." + +"For God's sake, Stephen, hush. If the King heard you speak of his +feebleness in such a way there would be a sudden end to both you and +your service." + +"The King? But I don't mean the King. I mean----" He paused as if +searching for a comprehensive word or phrase, and presently he found +it. "I mean the justice of the King." + +"Well?" Commines' throat seemed suddenly to have gone dry, so that the +word came harshly. Within the hour the King had used the same phrase, +and the coincidence startled him unpleasantly. + +But La Mothe made no immediate reply. To answer the little jerked-cut +dry interrogatory in concise words was not easy. He knew his own +meaning clearly enough, but how was he to make it equally clear to +Commines, who was plainly unsympathetic? When at last he spoke it was +with a hesitation which was almost an apology. + +"As I passed through Thouars on my way from Poitou--you know Thouars, +Uncle?" + +"Yes; go on." + +"Then you know its market-place with the little shops all round and the +church of St. Laon to the side: a cobble-paved space where the children +play? At the one end there was a ring of black and white ashes with +the heat still in them, and in the middle a Thing which hung by chains +from an iron stake. It had been a man that morning, but there it hung +by the spine with the chains through its ribs; a man no more, only +blackened bones and little crisped horrors here or there. Round it two +or three score, white-faced women and children mostly, stood and gaped, +or talked in whispers, pointing. Presently the little children will +play there, and shout and sing and laugh, and the women gossip or buy +and sell." + +"A coiner," said Commines. "The King must see that the silver is full +weight." + +"Yes, Uncle: but I have heard that sometimes the King himself has +coined----" + +"Hush, boy: the King is King." + +"Then at Tours, as I rode through the Rue des Trois Pucelles, there was +a house with a fine bold front. One would say that a man with the soul +of an artist lived in it. There were brave carvings on the stout oak +door, carvings on the stone divisions of its five windows, strong iron +bars of very choice smith-work, twisted and hammered, to keep the +common folk from tumbling into the cellars, and in the peaked roof of +fair white plaster were driven great nails from which hung fags of +rope, and from one something which was no rope, but a poor wisp of +humanity staring horribly aslant above a broken neck." + +"Yes," said Commines, "Tristan's house. He is the King's +Provost-Marshal and--and----" + +"Yes, I know, Uncle. He carries out the justice of the King. But to +hang a fellow-Christian over one's own hall-door is a strange taste." + +"Stephen, take my advice and have naught to do with Tristan by word or +deed. And no doubt the fellow deserved his hanging." + +"That he may have naught to do with me is my hope," answered La Mothe, +with a little laugh which had no humour in it. "And as to deserts, he +drank overmuch and beat the watch. Truly a vicious rascal! God send +us all sober to bed, Uncle, and may a sudden end find nothing worse on +our conscience than a dizzy brain. But that's not all. Midway between +the castle and the Loire stands the Valmy gibbet, fair set in the +sunshine and for all to see: and as I rode past there were two hung +from it; two hang from it still, but they are not the same two." + +"Thieves," said Commines. "Would you have the roads unsafe?" + +"One of to-day's couple is a boy of twelve--unripe fruit for such a +tree, Uncle, and a fearsome danger to the peace of France. Tristan +does well to keep the roads safe from such swaggerers. Twelve years of +life, twelve years of a pinched stomach, and--the justice of the King +to end it all! And what of the woman who gathered nettles for the pot +from the river-bank? The archers shouted to her, but she was hungry, +poor starved soul, and gathered on, bent to all-fours like a beast. +Then they shot her--like a beast. Down she went with an arrow through +the bent back; a woman, Uncle." + +"She should have hearkened and kept away," said Commines. "Neither man +nor woman may come near Valmy without permission when the King is here." + +"She should have hearkened," echoed La Mothe. "But the Good God had +sealed her ears; she was deaf as a stone and so for the justice of the +King she died. Then three days ago it was Guy de Molembrais, who came +to Valmy--so 'tis said--with the King's safe-conduct." + +"Molembrais lost his head as a traitor," answered Commines roughly. + +"And the safe-conduct?" + +"The safe-conduct was given before Molembrais' treason was fully +proved." + +"Then it is the King's justice to lure suspects----" + +"There can be no faith with traitors. Did the safe-conduct make his +treason less? Do you not see," he went on, as La Mothe made no reply, +"that Molembrais got no more than his deserts?" + +"Like the brawler in Tours," said the lad whimsically. "Perhaps +Tristan gave him a safe-conduct too, and the fool got drunk. And if we +have good, warm blood in us we all get drunk sooner or later. Yes, and +please God my time will come, but may the Saints send me far from +Valmy! You think I'm talking nonsense, Uncle; but Monsieur de Perche +always let me talk. He said it was better to let blow at the bung than +burst the cask." + +"You drunk!" answered Commines jestingly. La Mothe had been on very +dangerous ground and a change of subject was an unspeakable relief. +"Why, except the King, no man in Valmy drinks less wine." + +"Wine-drunk? Am I a beast, Uncle, that you should say such a thing? +No, not wine-drunk. Love-drunk, war-drunk, fighting-drunk. To feel +the nerves tingle, the blood run hot, the heart go throbbing mad! to +feel a glorious exultation quiver through you like--yes, Uncle, I know +I'm a fool, but it's not so long since you were young yourself." + +"Nor am I so old yet, Stephen boy. When that day of your drunkenness +comes there will either be a very happy woman or a sorrowful man." + +"Yes, Uncle, if only the King gives me a safe-conduct----" + +"The King requires the attendance of Monsieur Stephen La Mothe without +delay." + +With a start like the cringe of a nervous woman suddenly frightened, +Commines, the man of iron nerves, turned to the door, the colour +rushing in a flood to his face. Neither had heard its latch click nor +seen it open, but the broad figure of a burly man was massed in the +gloom against the greater light from the outer entrance. A passing +torch, flaring up the hall-way from behind, showed him draped from +throat to ankle in some self-coloured, russet-red, woollen stuff which +caught the glare, and outlined him for the moment as with sweeping +curves of blood. To La Mothe he was a stranger, but from the little he +could see of the shaven face, at once harsh and fleshly sensual, he +judged him to be nearly twenty years older than Commines. + +"You--Tristan----" The surprise had shaken even Commines from his +self-control and he spoke brokenly. "How long have you been here?" + +"Since the King sent me for Monsieur La Mothe. At once, if you please, +Monsieur." + +"But it was to-morrow----" + +"He has changed his mind. What is to be done is best done quickly. +You, Monsieur d'Argenton, will understand what the King means by +quickly. I know nothing but that you are to leave Valmy to-morrow +morning instead of the day after, and so he must see Monsieur La Mothe +to-night. As Monsieur d'Argenton's friend, Monsieur La Mothe, I would +advise humble acquiescence." + +"In what?" It was the first time La Mothe had spoken, and in his +repugnance he could not bring himself to add the courtesy "Monsieur" to +the curt question. + +"Our Master's will, whatever it may be. It is a privilege, young sir, +to further the justice of the King." + +"The justice of the King!" replied La Mothe, carried hotly away by that +repugnance. "God's name, Provost-Marshal, I am not--not--not the +King's arm, like you," he added lamely. But though Tristan might +neither forgive nor forget the suggestion of the broken sentence he was +not the man to resent it at the moment. The King's arm must endure +pin-pricks as well as deal justice. It was Commines, rather, who +replied. + +"Hush, Stephen, our friend is entirely right. It is you who +misunderstand. The King's justice is in all his acts. Yes! and not +only his justice, but his mercy and his greatness, and these three have +made France what she is." + +"And all these three are waiting for Monsieur La Mothe. Come, young +sir, the King is very weary and it is time he was in his bed--though I +would not advise you to tell him so," and leaving the door open behind +him Tristan went out into the night: that he did so they were sure, for +they heard the rasp of his feet on the flags of the court. + +"How long was he there?" Commines spoke under his breath as his +fingers closed on La Mothe's arm with a grip which left its mark. "How +long was he listening? What did he hear? You fool, you fool, you may +have ruined yourself--and me, and me. And why has he left us together? +He has some reason for it--some end to serve: his own or the King's. +Try and think what you said: no, not now, there is no time, but when +you are with the King, and unsay it, unsay it. And Stephen, remember, +he is the King, he is the Master of France, the maker of France, and he +is dying. Promise him----" + +"Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, is the King to wait all night, +or shall I say Monsieur d'Argenton detains you?" + +"Go, boy, go. Promise everything, everything--he is the King," and as +Commines pushed him through the doorway La Mothe could hear his breath +coming in heavy gasps. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART + +If proof were needed of the King's unique trust in his Grand Marshal it +was to be found in the ease with which Tristan conveyed La Mothe past +the sentries who stood guard at every door. Not Commines, not Lessaix, +not Beaujeu himself, for all that he was the King's son-in-law, could +have brought a stranger to the King's presence without special licence. +But to none Tristan gave greeting, much less vouchsafed explanation, +and by none was he challenged. Nor did La Mothe speak. Not only had +the suddenness of the unexpected summons confused him, but his thoughts +were too deeply busied trying to remember how far he had allowed his +tongue to outrun discretion. + +To say he was afraid would be too much, to say he had no fear would be +too little, but his fear was less a dread than an awe. The gaiety of +his laughter had clean gone from him, and his heart of song was hushed: +even the crude, ironical satire of his uncomprehending youth was +stayed. He had made grim jest of the justice of the King, and now the +King's justice, in its sternest, most sinister incarnation, rubbed +shoulders with him. It was little wonder that his mood was sobered as +his mind, instinctively swayed by Commines' almost frenzied insistence, +groped its way step by step from Poitou to Valmy in a troubled +endeavour to recall just what had passed between them when Tristan's +interruption pricked the bubble of his irony. + +And he succeeded in part. First there had been the coiner of Thouars, +then the brawling drunkard of Tours, the thief of Valmy, the +nettle-gatherer, and lastly Molembrais who held the King's +safe-conduct. Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small when +not even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in his cups, or the +holder of the King's safe-conduct could slip through. Perhaps it was +as he spoke of this last the door had opened. It was then he had hoped +he might be far from Valmy the day his passion of soul was stirred. It +expressed his mood of the moment, but now he knew he had said more, +much more, than he had meant, as youth so often does in its gay +self-sufficiency, and the words as they stood--if Tristan had caught +them--were no commendation to either favour or confidence. How could +the King trust him when his foolish satire had so plainly hinted that +he did not trust the King? It would be unreasonable: faith begets +faith. For an instant it flashed across his mind that he might explain +away the words, but in the same instant he dismissed the thought. +Explanation would never win belief from such a man as Tristan, nor +could he bend his repugnance to such a familiarity. + +So in silence they crossed the courtyard where Leslie's Scottish +archers lurked in every shadow, in silence passed the many guards +grouped at the gateway to the King's lodgings, in silence traversed the +great square hall, gaunt and comfortless, but brighter than daylight +from its many lamps--the King was afraid of gloom--and in silence +mounted the stone stairway. At its head they turned along the +right-hand corridor, entering a silent ante-room with sentinels at its +door; at a further door, masked by drawn curtains, the guard was +doubled. Force, vigilance, suspicion, were the dominant notes of +Valmy--in a sense they were Valmy itself. Midway across this ante-room +Tristan paused and struck La Mothe lightly on the arm with a gesture +that seemed part contempt. + +"A word of advice, young man, from one who knows. Be frank, say +little, answer promptly: do what the King bids you and be thankful." + +"Is that a threat?" La Mothe answered the tone of half-truculent +command rather than the words. + +"A threat? No! The King and I do not threaten, we fulfil." + +"The King and you?" + +"I have said so, do you want it proved?" Drawing back the curtains +very quietly Tristan stood a moment blocking the doorway before +motioning to La Mothe to follow him. He knew his master, and wished to +make certain that the stage picture was set before the audience was +admitted. + +The room was even more brilliantly lit than any they had passed +through, and yet with such a skilful distribution of the light that the +further end was completely shadowed. It was the effect of an +artificial alcove. There, where the grey thickened, sat the King, or +rather there he lay propped high upon a couch, pillows behind him and +pillows at either side to support and comfort his weakness. A peaked, +close-fitting cap of crimson silk, laced with gold embroidery, covered +his head down to the very roots of the ears, while a long, wide-sleeved +robe of the same colour, furred at the neck, and draped to give an +appearance of breadth of chest, swathed him to the feet. So shadowed, +and with a reflected glow flushing the thin face, it would have needed +a shrewder suspicion than that of country-bred Stephen La Mothe to +detect how low the flame of life burned in the frail vessel of clay. + +In front of the couch a low table, hardly higher than the couch itself, +was placed within reach of the King's hand: behind all--the draping, as +it were, of the alcove--hung arras of blue cloth interwoven with golden +fleurs-de-lis, a fitting and picturesque background to the tableau. To +the left were windows, fast shuttered, to the right a closed door. + +Drawing La Mothe to the front Tristan turned on his heel and re-entered +the ante-room in silence, dropping the curtains behind him. There had +been no formal announcement, no word spoken, but as the curtain fell +the King stirred upon his pillows and La Mothe was conscious of a +scrutiny which slowly swept him from head to foot. But the protection +of the peaked cap was insufficient. Lifting his hand Louis shaded his +eyes yet further, and leaning forward repeated the scrutiny; then he +beckoned very gently and lay back upon the pillows. He was a judge of +men, a crafty reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or the +faint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far he was +satisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, but at least this La +Mothe was no assassin. Nevertheless the door upon the right opened +quietly so soon as La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, opened +wide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the darkness of the +passage without. Louis was not a man to run a needless risk, and the +bolt which brought home the King's justice to the nettle-gatherer would +not miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet. + +"Nearer," said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, uncertain how far that +beckoning hand had called him, "nearer yet; there! that will do for the +present. You are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and trusted +friend, therefore my friend also, and the King has need of friends. +No, no, say nothing, Philip said I could trust you as himself. That is +a great deal for one man to say of another." + +"Prove me, sire." La Mothe spoke with an effort. The weary, caressing +voice with its subtle note of pathos, the affectionate, frank admission +of Commines' worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of a +personal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as music has the +power to stir, so that to command words was difficult. "My uncle told +me----" + +"Uncle?" Louis' suspicions sprang to life newborn. Goaded by their +sting he leaned forward, one arm thrust out, and for the first time La +Mothe saw the deathly pallor of his face. "Uncle, do you say? +Commines never called you nephew?" + +"Not in blood, sire: in love--service--gratitude." + +"Then it is better to have a nephew by name than a son by nature. Do +you hear? If you love your uncle pray with all your soul that he may +never have a son to grudge him his life." The thrust-out fingers, +little more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless bones, were +shaken in a convulsion of passion, from the sunken, dull eyes a sudden +fire glared, and the thin lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in an +instant the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows, +breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord fastening his +robe at the breast. "See what it is to have a son," he said, but in so +low a tone that La Mothe barely caught the words, nor were they spoken +as if addressed to him, then with an effort which racked his strength +the King roused himself. "Love! Service and gratitude! Words! empty +words! Kings hear them daily and find them lies. Because of these in +his mouth Guy de Molembrais was trusted as it may be Stephen La Mothe +will be trusted, and Molembrais is dead--dead in a traitor's grave. +Words? It is deeds France has need of, deeds--deeds. And you, young +sir, for whom my friend Philip vouched as for himself, are you more +faithful than Molembrais?" + +"God helping me, sire." + +"Um, um; have you need of God's help to be faithful?" + +"I only meant----" + +"There! there! obey orders and you will have help enough. You owe much +to Monsieur de Commines?" + +"Everything, sire." + +"Everything? Sit there," and Louis pointed to a low stool placed just +beyond the transverse angle of the bench-like table which fronted the +couch. "Everything! Love! Service! Gratitude! You are right! Take +these from life and there is not much left. And how will you repay the +everything you owe?" + +"Love for love----" + +"Um! A woman may have a word to say as to that! Well?" + +"Service for service----" + +"You are not your own. France claims you; never forget a man's first +service is to his country. The nation is the mother of us all. Well, +what next? Shall I tell you? Win his gratitude in return! Eh, Master +Stephen, how would that please you? Prove your love, show your +service, earn his gratitude, and these you will do to the uttermost by +serving the King and France." + +"Sire, sire," cried La Mothe, shaken out of himself by the gust of +healthy emotion which seized him as the King's quiet voice grew in +strength and fullness till it seemed to vibrate with as generous a +passion as that which stirred the depths of the listener; "I am yours +to use body and soul." + +"Body and soul," repeated Louis, his eyes fixed searchingly on La +Mothe's face. The lad's prompt response promised well, all that was +needed was to keep this enthusiasm of devotion keyed to the pitch of +action. "Body and soul! Be sure I shall not forget. But what you +promise in hot blood you will forget when your mood cools. No? Well, +Molembrais' mood cooled and he has been colder than his mood these +three days past. But you are different, you are of stronger, finer, +truer stuff, your love and service are for Commines as well as for +France, and so you will not forget. You understand? Monsieur de +Commines vouches for you. Monsieur de Commines." The King paused, and +the nervous fretful fingers plucked at the breast of his robe afresh. +He was utterly wearied and must have time to regain strength. +"Monsieur de Commines stands surety for you; never forget that. Your +faithfulness is his faithfulness, your failure his failure: keep that +always before you. To-morrow you will----, but first tell me something +of yourself." With a moan of weakness he settled back into the pillows +and his eyes closed. "I must know Philip's friend as Philip knows +him," said the soft voice. + +And again La Mothe was touched to the heart, touched in his pride for +Commines, the King's trusted friend, touched in his grateful sympathies +that the King, weary and burdened by many anxieties, should find time +and thought for so kind an interest in one so insignificant as himself, +though that, too, was for Commines' sake; touched above all with a +generous self-reproach when he remembered his bitter satire on the +King's justice. He now saw that the severities which had horrified and +repelled him were exigencies of State, repugnant to the gentle, kindly +nature of the man in whose name the law took its course. + +And out of that grateful heart of youth he spoke frankly as Tristan had +bidden him speak. Briefly, succinctly, he told of his childhood's +poverty, of the change which came later under Commines' unfailing, +affectionate liberality, of his placing him as a lad in the household +of Monsieur de Perche, of the life in Poitou with its training in arms +and simple teaching of Keep faith, Live clean, Follow the right and +trust God unafraid. It was a very simple story, but he told it well. +No tale grows cold in the interest or halts for words when the heart is +behind the telling. + +And through it all Louis lay among his cushions like one dead. Not an +eyelid flickered, not a finger moved, his breath came so softly, so +quietly that the red robe scarcely stirred beneath his sunken chin. +Every muscle was relaxed in that restfulness which next to sleep is the +surest restorer of exhausted vitality. But the brain, the most acute +and cunning brain in France, was awake. With that dual consciousness +which, even more than dissimulation, is the diplomatist's prime +necessity for success in the worsting of an adversary, he gathered and +stored for use in his memory the salient points from La Mothe's story, +while all the while, co-energetically, his mind was busy searching out +how best to use this new tool for the cementing closer that fabric of +France which was his pride and glory. France was at once the mother +who gave his genius form and the son of his jealous love. And as he +listened, planning, sufficient strength crept back to the worn body. +He could play out his part to the end, and La Mothe would carry with +him no sense of his master's frailty to paralyze action. In loyalty +for loyalty's sake Louis had no faith. + +"You need say no more," he said, nodding his head with sympathetic +interest. "A debt--a debt indeed. And to-morrow you begin your +repayment. To-morrow you go to Amboise with Monsieur de Commines. +Amboise," he repeated slowly, "Amboise," and paused. "Where His +Highness, the Dauphin----" + +"Where my son waits--and watches." The thin hand crept up to the sunk +lips, lingered there an instant, crept up to the dull eyes, passed +across them once or twice with a motion eloquent of weary hopelessness, +and fell drearily to the lap. "God keep us in His mercy," said the +King, and as his finger-tips made the four points of the cross upon his +breast La Mothe felt he was upon holy ground. "God keep us in His +comfort. All is not well at Amboise, but my friend Philip knows--knows +and feels for me. I have no orders to give. All is left to him. Only +I say this, and never forget it, never--France comes first and +obedience is the payment of your debt." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON + +La Mothe sat silent. His fear had passed away utterly, but in its +place his awe had grown, an awe full of a deep pity. Youth is the true +age of intolerance and for the simple reason that it is the age of +ignorance. In its abundant strength, its sense of growth and +development, its vigorous, unfailing elasticity, its blessed want of +knowledge of the ills of life, its blindness to the inevitable coming +of these ills, it is impatient of a caution it calls cowardice, or a +frailty it neither understands in another nor anticipates for itself. +But in the rare instances when it takes thought its sympathies are more +generous than those of age, because the sorrows it sees are so much +greater than any it has known, ever realized in itself or even +conceived. So was it now with La Mothe. The pathetic, solitary +figure, feeble almost to helplessness, diseased, shrunken, dying, +Commines had said, yet with a heart warm in friendliness and a thought +for France alone, thrilled him to the very depths. And the dull eyes, +watching him from under the heavy lids with an alert vigilance from +which no shift of mood escaped, read his emotion unerringly. + +Again Louis leaned forward. But it was a changed Louis. This time the +light fell on a worn face fixed in a grey solemnity. The grave +protesting voice, the outstretched hand driving home its indignant +points, completed the spell. + +"No, all is not well at Amboise. They think the King grows old. Poor +humanity must needs grow old, but they are impatient and +would--anticipate age. I have a son, not yet thirteen--but of age to +be king. Silence--silence, he is the Dauphin. It is not for you to +blame--or condemn the Dauphin. Nor does the King's justice condemn +ignorantly. Plots, plots, plots! Plots against the father, God and +the father can forgive; but plots against the King--plots against +France: for these there is no forgiveness and youth is no excuse." + +"But, sire," began La Mothe. Then he remembered the Valmy gibbet where +a boy of twelve still hung that the roads of France might be safe, and +his voice choked. The King was right; youth was no excuse. + +"There are no buts," said Louis, sternly emphatic, and sank back upon +the pillows. "I have knowledge, I have knowledge, Commines +knows--others--France, Europe--must know later; an honest lad like you +will be believed." + +"Three weeks ago I was in Poitou----" + +"Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without prejudice, you are +not of the Court." + +"I meant, sire, I have no experience." + +"And so the nut may be too hard for your teeth? I see no fault in your +modesty: diffidence is not cowardice. But you will have help in your +nut-cracking, you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, Fear, +and Love: with these three I have made France what she is. Money--a +man--a woman; what will these not do! With the first--bribe and see +that you do not hold my skin too cheap; Fear--a life forfeit, if I lift +a finger he hangs; Love--a woman." + +"A friend, sire?" + +"An enemy--but a woman. Fool her: she is young and Amboise is dull. I +have a scheme for you ready made. You sing? But I know you do, +Tristan has told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing: and nothing is too +small for the King's service. Always remember life holds nothing +trivial. Leave Valmy with Commines, but separate on the road and go to +Amboise as a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will welcome any +distraction. You make verses?" + +"Sometimes, sire," stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flushing +as youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost as +disconcerting as being found out in a lie. + +"Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, and +Amboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one flesh +under the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember," added Louis +hastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothing +more, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give you +your orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of his +robe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, then +went on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse and +ride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay and +keep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or night +will open every door in Valmy." + +"What end, sire?" + +"What end? What end? Ask Commines, serve him, serve France; that end, +boy, that end, and in the name of Almighty God, ride fast." The dull +eyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow of +the scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a passion waked +the blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect of +its quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!" +he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motioned +imperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it will +pass--it is nothing, nothing at all--and I have one thing more to say." + +Fumbling amongst the cushions he drew out a little silver figure, +whether of man or woman La Mothe was uncertain, so fully the tense +fingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowed +to it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weakly +to his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image clattered on the floor. +It had served its purpose, out of the curious act of faith a renewal of +strength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the words +faltered. + +Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. It +was littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such a +presence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goose +quills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, a +lumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded and twisted inwards. +Amongst these the nervous hand shifted uncertainly here and there, +almost like the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon the +bunched folds of the napkin. + +"The Dauphin is a child," he said, his fingers closing upon the +looseness of the linen as he spoke. "A weakling--girl! And so, +girl-like, he loves to play at make-believe. You know their games? +There is the shell of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds it +against all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by assault at +the head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I am +Charlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but the +Dauphin of France!" + +"But, sire," ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural in +a child." + +"I played no such games at twelve years old," answered Louis bitterly. +"At twelve I learned king's-craft and foresaw realities; at twelve I +struggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child in +make-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. But +being a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--and +so----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linen +shook as with a palsy. "You see," the King went on hoarsely, "what it +is to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as a +child, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, not +outwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these others +would say I fostered with my hand what I condemned with my head. No, +the father's hand must be hidden out of sight, and that will be your +part." + +With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, dropping +the hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemed +a challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoff +if you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steel +rings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if the +quaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate in +the tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy to +raise a sneer or gibe a moral. + +Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of young +blood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness is +pierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, the +pathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King, +overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushed +by no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kin +even to this stern and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsion +wakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts of +fatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyalty +which had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasm +which is the devotion of the heart and counts life itself no sacrifice. +Nor could he hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines of +challenge were smoothed from the King's face. + +"A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn," he +said, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and dropping +them again in a little heap that caught the light on every separate +ring and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have a +message for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it the +spirit of the child may grow." + +"But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire, +let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from the +father to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be----" + +"God's name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with your King +who shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think--does he +think--that--that--Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingers +caught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the lean +neck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick, +quick, is it Commines--Commines--Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "I +took him from the gutter--from the very gutter; he was traitor to a +Charles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve a +Charles again?" Pushing himself up, half kneeling on the couch, half +leaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening hand +towards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak and +tell the truth, you dumb dog?" + +But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shivered +as if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, one hand feebly +beckoning to La Mothe to come nearer. + +"Whisper," he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smile +twitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone, +we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Come +now?" + +"No one, sire, on my honour, no one." + +"Honour? I know too much of the ways of men to trust men's honour. +Swear, boy," he burst out again, passionately roused. "Swear on this. +It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears +falsely dies, dies within the year--dies damned. Honour? Honour is a +net with too wide a mesh to hold men's oaths. Dare you swear?" + +Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it reverently, while +Louis, his lungs still fighting for breath, witched him narrowly. + +"Sire, I meant nothing, nothing but----" + +"But that you were a fool. Only a fool sells--the lion's skin--while +the lion--is alive." His voice strengthened as if the thought +stimulated him like a cordial. "And the lion is alive--alive! I must +finish, I must finish," he went on more querulously. "Yes, a fool, but +fools are commonly honest. You may be a faithful servant, but you are +a bad courtier, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"But, sire, have you not more need of the one than of the other?" + +"Of the servant than the courtier? Aye, aye, that is well said, very +well said. You are less a fool than I thought. But I must finish or +Coictier, my doctor--he thinks me less strong than I am--will be +scolding me. Take these," and he pushed the coat of mail away from him +impatiently, as if vexed that he had been betrayed into such a display +of feeling. "Remember that I have never seen them, never, never. You +promise me that? You swear that?" + +"I swear it, sire, solemnly." + +"And you will return to Valmy--to me, in silence?" + +"I promise, sire." + +"Swear, boy, swear." + +"I swear it, solemnly." + +"There!" And again he pushed the mail from him, his delicate fingers +touching the mask delicately. "Give them from yourself. All things +have their price, and the price of a child's confidence is to serve its +pleasures. But, young sir, remember this too, remember it, I say, my +son is the Dauphin of France and that which is for a prince's use, even +in play, is for his use only. Let no one else have commerce with +these." + +"Be sure, sire, I reverence the prince too deeply----" + +"Aye, aye: you can go. Words cost even less than honour. Give me +proofs, Stephen La Mothe, proofs, and trust to the justice of the +King," which shows how right Commines was when he said that the justice +of the King had many sides. + +And so, with his deepest bow and his heart full of many emotions, La +Mothe left his master's presence, and the cross-bow in the shadows +beyond the door on the right was lowered for the first time in more +than half an hour. For what he was to trust the justice of the King he +was no more clear in the confusion of the moment than what his mission +to Amboise was. But of one thing he was certain, the King was a man +much maligned and little understood: harsh of word and stern of act, +perhaps, but with a great, undreamed wealth of tenderness behind the +apparent austerity. Of that the little coat of mail and tinselled mask +bore witness. It was wonderful, he told himself, how the yearnings of +the human heart found excuse for what the sterner brain condemned; +surely that was where the human drew nearest to the divine! This was +not alone a master to serve, but a man to love! + +And Louis, a huddled, shapeless mass on his tossed cushions, sat +gnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. All +passion had died from him and suddenly he had grown very old, though +the indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age. + +"My son," he said, shivering, "my son, my son." Then the bent +shoulders straightened, the bowed head was raised, and into the tired +eyes there shot a gleam of fire. "I have no son but France!" Was he a +hypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who never deceived himself +to another's hurt cast the first stone at him. + +When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from Valmy the next +morning on their way to Amboise he was there upon the walls, a solitary +grey figure pathetic in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as they +were in sight, did his eyes wander from them. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN + +Many, deep, and diverse are the springs of silence. If Commines asked +no question when La Mothe returned from his interview with Louis, and +made no comment beyond "You are late, my son," it was because he knew +that curiosity was almost as dangerous as opposition where the schemes +or secrets of his master were concerned. La Mothe, in his ignorance, +had on the other hand no such thought, no such fear, but a charge which +he held sacred had been solemnly committed to him: he shared a secret +with the King and the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines' +ultimate orders might be he understood now what his mission was, this +mission to Amboise: it was to do for the father what the father might +not do for himself, and as they rode slowly along the high road from +Valmy he thought complacently to himself that he alone recognized the +true nature of the man who watched them from the walls. + +But there were obvious limits to the silence if the line of procedure +laid down by the King was to be followed. A parting and a meeting were +to be arranged, a plan of campaign to be decided upon; and it struck La +Mothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make-believe in a boy +could yet seize upon make-believe for his own purposes. + +"The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise with you," began La +Mothe, and it is to his credit that he spoke with hesitation. To +Commines, as Commines himself had said, he owed everything, and yet it +seemed as if already he had come between Commines and the King's +confidence. And yet, just because he was in the King's confidence it +was not easy to keep a touch of importance out of his voice. It was as +if he said, "The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are to +stand aside." But the bubble of his complacency was soon pricked. + +"At Château-Renaud you will stay behind after we have dined," answered +Commines, "nor will you leave the inn until three o'clock. You will +then go on foot to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and take +the Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then to ford the Loire +at Grand-Vouvray and enter Amboise from the south. Once in Amboise ask +for the Chien Noir and put up there for the night." + +"So you know all about it," said La Mothe, crest-fallen. Nor was it +simply that Commines knew all about it, it seemed he knew much more +than La Mothe himself. + +"Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some one who can open the +doors of the Château to you I know nothing, and I want to know nothing. +There you are to obey orders, but to have your time to yourself; and, +my son, my son, pray God there may be no orders to give." + +"But the King told me nothing of all this last night." + +"It is enough that he told me this morning," answered Commines drily. +"You need not look downcast; it is his custom to divide his +instructions." + +But La Mothe had another objection, and one so obvious that he +marvelled how it had escaped Commines' notice. + +"One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as a stranger will be +impossible. Riding behind us there are twelve good reasons why I +should be recognized." + +"Do you take us for fools?" retorted Commines. Turning in his saddle +he pointed backwards. Valmy was still in sight, and a keen eye could +have detected the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the grey +walls. "What is that to the right of the castle?" + +"Valmy gallows." + +"And from it hang three good reasons why the twelve will keep silence. +The King's grip is as sure in Amboise as it is in Valmy; it is over all +France, and God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. Think +twice, Stephen, before you say the King forgets--and then don't say it." + +La Mothe rode on in silence. This sudden reminder of the justice of +the King had dashed his satisfaction. Wherever he turned it confronted +him, and always with a warning which was less a warning than a threat. +It had been so with Tristan, it was so now with Commines, nor could the +memory of the coat of mail and embroidered toy in his saddle-bags +entirely quiet the uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seeking +relief, his thought cast back to Commines' curt instructions. + +"Who is this fellow--for I suppose it is a man who is to meet me at the +Chien Noir?" + +"Who is he? Slime of the gutter, contemptible old age unashamed, human +pitch whose very touch is a loathing, a repulsion, a defilement." It +seemed as if Commines was less afraid to speak his mind now that the +walls of Valmy were out of hearing, for he went on bitterly: "The King +chooses his tools well, a foul tool for a foul use, and neither you nor +I can come out of it with clean hands. His name? The gallows-cheat +has a dozen names and changes them as you would your coat. He is like +a Paris rag-picker, and his basket of life is full of the garbage he +has raked from the gutter." + +"And the woman?" + +"The woman! To hear you say the woman one would think there was but +one in the world. The King told me of no woman." + +"Then I am not likely to get drunk in Amboise, unless your rag-picker +pours the wine. + + 'Heigh ho! Love is the sun, + Love is the moon and the stars by night.' + +The scheme seems a foolish one to me. I can never play the part. But, +Uncle, what do you say? Shall I make a good troubadour?" + +"Sing while you may," answered Commines, with a dry gravity behind the +softening of his stern mouth, "and remember that at Amboise you sing +for a King's pay." + +"And I would sing five songs for nothing but the pleasure of singing +rather than one for a fee. What kind of a little lad is the Dauphin?" + +Commines made no reply, but rode on with knit brows. The question so +lightly asked was one he had often weighed in his own mind nor found a +clear answer. Rumour said of him--but under her breath, for to speak +at all was dangerous--that he was shamefully neglected, slow-witted, +ill-taught, or, worse still, untaught, but, and here rumour whispered +yet lower, that flashes of shrewdness broke the dull level of the +undeveloped intellect when least expected. That he was small for his +age he knew, that he was weakly, ill-formed, and awkward. These things +were patent to the eye and common knowledge, but into the depths of the +lad's nature he had not ventured to probe lest Louis' suspicious +jealousy should be aroused. Now that he found himself between a +father's twilight and a son's dawn, with "The king is dead, long live +the king," an imminent proclamation, he blamed himself for his +cowardice as men always do who are wise after the event. With a little +more certain knowledge his star might rise with the dawn, instead of, +as he feared, setting with the twilight. + +"Eh?" he said, rousing himself as La Mothe repeated the question. "The +Dauphin? I know little of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy or +Plessis with the King: it is long since the two have met. An ailing, +obstinate, dull boy, they say, with no more wit than can be put in him +with a spoon. If it were not that weak natures often turn vicious that +they may be thought strong I would say the King's fear of a plot was +baseless." + +"But surely there is no plot--a son against a father: a father who +loves him," added La Mothe, remembering the contents of his saddle-bags. + +"I wish the plot was as doubtful as the love; we might then have stayed +comfortably in Valmy," answered Commines cynically, and La Mothe's eyes +twinkled as he thought how much better he had read the King in his +single hour than Commines had in all his ten years of intimacy. "The +woman," he went on, "must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spend +your hour or two's walk from Château-Renaud to Amboise adding a verse +to your love song." + +"Why not a new song all for herself!" replied La Mothe, the twinkle +broadening to a laugh, "or had I better wait till I see her? She would +never forgive me if the adored dimple was in the right cheek instead of +the left, or the sweet eyes of my song grey instead of blue. Which are +they, Uncle?" + +"I never knew the colour of any woman's eyes but one," answered +Commines; and La Mothe knew by the softened voice that he spoke of +Suzanne. "And when a woman has taught you the colour of her eyes may +you see that in them which will make black or blue or grey the one +colour in the world for you. As to Ursula de Vesc, she detests me much +as I detest that offscouring from the dregs of brazen Paris who will +meet you at the Chien Noir. But there is Château-Renaud, where you +will find something better for your age and more to your liking than +women's eyes." + +"Dinner! and I twenty-four!" + +"Eighteen, Stephen, eighteen, not a day older, and be thankful for the +heart of a boy." + +"Why not be thankful for the heart of a girl!" retorted La Mothe. +"Pray the Saints, as the King would say, that Ursula de Vesc is as +pretty as her name." + +Partly that his men might be free from the restraint of his presence, +and partly because he did not wish to advertise his visit to Amboise +more broadly than necessary, Commines ordered their meal to be served +in a private room. It was to the front, with two small windows +overlooking the roadway. These were open, and as the stamping of hoofs +and jingling of bridle-chains came through them Commines bade La Mothe +see who were without. + +"But do not show yourself. Between Valmy and Amboise every man is a +friend or an enemy, with fewer friends the further Valmy is left +behind." + +"A priest, with three of an escort," said La Mothe, "King's men, I am +sure. Some of your own have gone out to meet them. Shall I go down to +make sure?" + +"No; go into that inner room, rather, for I hear feet upon the stairs. +If you are to be a stranger in Amboise the fewer who see you at +Château-Renaud the better. We cannot give a priest the Valmy gallows +as a reason for silence." + +As the inner door closed the outer opened, and a Franciscan entered, +his robe strewn thickly with the dust from the highway. Commines +recognized him at once; he was from Valmy, one of the many clerics the +King's strange religiosity gathered round him, and justly held by Louis +in deep respect for the simplicity and saintliness of his life. In an +age when the fires of scandal scorched the Church with such a flaming +vehemence that the heat kindled round the throne of the Chief Bishop +himself, Father John escaped without so much as the smell of burning on +his garments. None could lay self-seeking to his charge, nor even the +smallest of the many vices which in every order raised their heads, +rampant and unashamed. It was characteristic of Louis that he should +attach to himself men of such unselfish humility and austere pureness +of life. God and the Saints would surely forgive a little chicanery to +one who lived in an atmosphere of other men's holy lives. + +"Father John!" and Commines caught the Franciscan by the arm almost +roughly, a sudden fear setting his pulses throbbing. "Has Saint-Pierre +sent you? Is the King ill--is he--is he?--you of all men know what we +fear for him." + +"No, my son, no; the King is as you left him, well, praise God! and +strong: it is he himself who has sent me after you. He said that such +a mission as yours had great need of the blessing of God upon it." + +"And was that all his message?" + +"That he committed France to your care. He spoke, no doubt, of the +Dauphin, who is the hope of France." + +"Yes," answered Commines drily, "I do not doubt he spoke of the +Dauphin. Now, Father, I fear you must dine in haste, for it is time we +were on the road." + +"A crust in my hand to eat as we go is enough. It makes me so happy, +Monsieur d'Argenton, to see the King at last taking thought for his +son." + +"Yes," repeated Commines, with the same dryness. "The Dauphin is +indeed much in his thought. But though we are in haste there is no +need you should die of starvation. France has need of you, Father +John. There are plenty to play the devil's game by living, do not you +play it by dying before your time." + +Twenty minutes later they were again on the road, La Mothe's +saddle-bags fastened on his led horse. He himself followed at the hour +named by the King, but on foot, a knapsack strapped across his +shoulders and on it a lute in open advertisement of his new trade. His +sword was with his saddle-bags, but was no loss, so free from danger +were the roads under the iron persuasion of the justice of the King. +Nor were travellers numerous. Only twice was he passed, once by a +courier riding post to Valmy, and once by a lad, little more than a +child in age, who thundered up from behind on a great raw-boned roan +horse and disappeared ahead in a cloud of dust. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE + +Blessed four-and-twenty. From the first breath of life until the last, +even though by reason of strength there be four-score years, is there a +more perfect age? The restraints of the schoolboy are left behind, the +tree of the knowledge of good and evil has scattered its fruit about +the feet, all sweet, all fresh in their newness, all a delight, even, +alas, the worst of them: that of the tree of life seems just within the +reach, and the burdens of the world are as yet on other men's backs. +Even if the Porter's Knot, which all must bear sooner or later, is +already on the shoulder, the light heart of four-and-twenty is +untroubled. It believes, in its optimism, that it will tumble the load +of carks and cares into the first ditch, and live in freedom ever after! + +To Stephen La Mothe's four-and-twenty with the spirit of eighteen the +world of that May day was God's good world, and what better could it be +than that! If a full-leaved cherry tree, its ripening clusters rosy +red and waxen yellow against the dense greenery, flung shade across the +road he paused in his tramp, squared his shoulders, and drank a deep +breath of the cooler air; if the blazing sun sucked up a subtle, acrid +smell from the hot dust stirred by his feet he snuffed it up greedily +and found it good to live. A hawk in the air, a thrush whistling from +a hazel bush as only a thrush can whistle, the glorious yellow of a +break of whin, all were a delight. + + "Heigh ho! Love is my life! + Live I in loving, and love I to live!" + +he sang, and broke into a whistle almost as blithe as the thrush itself +that he might think more freely. Commines' gibe had come back to him, +and for pastime he would make a verse of his love song, let Ursula de +Vesc's eyes be blue, grey, or black! + + + "Live I in loving, and love I to live," + +was a good line, a line Francois Villon himself could not have +bettered, but how should the next line run? + + "Heigho! Sweetest of strife!" + +Strife! The word jarred the context, but where would he get a better? +Wife? Rife? Worse! both worse! Sweetest of strife--of strife--strife, + + "Winning the dearest that life can give!" + +No! that was not good, not good at all: Villon would have turned the +rhyme better than that. But then Villon, wild rogue though he was, was +a poet. The dearest life can give--the dearest? What was the dearest +life could give? As the question, idly asked, fastened on his mind his +whistle sobered into silence, and he plodded on through the dust, +seeing neither the sunshine nor the shade. + +France came first, the King had said, and then had made it clear that +he was France. Was the King's service the dearest thing life could +give? In times of peace, when the millstones and the hearts of men +alike grind placidly, patriotism is a cold virtue, and even in the hot +passion of war it is often the magnetism of the individual man--the +personal leader--who wakens the enthusiasm of desperate courage rather +than the cause in whose name men die. Roland, La Mothe told himself, +might have roused such an enthusiasm, or Coeur de Lion, or Joan of Arc, +but never that fierce corpse of Valmy. And if the father was France, +what was the son--the twelve-year boy so dreaded and so loved? Was he +not France too? Did France plot against France? "All is not well at +Amboise," said the King. If that was true in the sense the father +meant it, what then? Was this dull ailing boy a double parricide to +his father's knowledge? + +That, by the law of association of ideas, called up a new thought, and +a rush of warmth, which drew none of its heat from the sunshine, +flushed La Mothe. What if the boy, dull and neglected though he was, +hid such a love for the father as the father hid from the boy, and what +if cunning Stephen La Mothe should find it out and make this torn +France one in heart? And so, because however one follows the clues +through this maze of life they always lead to love at the end, La Mothe +broke into his song again: + + "Heigh ho! Love is my life, + Live I in loving, and love I to live. + Heigh ho! Sweetest of strife, + Winning the dearest that life can give. + Love, who denied me, + Hast thou not tried me---- + +And now, plague take the verse, where is my rhyme for the end?" + +But a turn of the road brought him to Limeray with the stream of the +Eisse flowing beyond. Another league and he would reach +Amboise--Amboise, where the shuttles of fate, the man and the woman, +Fear and Love as the King had called them, were waiting to weave into +the warp and woof of life a pattern which would never fade; Amboise, +where an end was to come--he had forgotten to ask Commines what end--an +end which in some obscure way was to serve Commines and serve France. +"If I lift a finger he hangs," said the King. That, no doubt, was the +human slime of the gutter who had roused Commines' contempt, and yet +who was his passport to the castle. A pretty passport, and one not +much to his credit, thought La Mothe, and fell to wondering if Ursula +de Vesc of the uncertain eyes would class them as birds of a +feather--Ursula who found Amboise dull and was to kiss the poet as +Margaret had kissed Alain Chartier. But Chartier had been asleep at +the time, while La Mothe promised himself he would be very much awake, +and then called himself slime of the gutter for the thought. This was +not the chivalry and respect for all women he had learned in Poitou. +Who was he that a woman, sweet and good he had no doubt, should kiss +him because Amboise was dull, and if she did would she be sweet and +good? He pulled a wry face and shook himself angrily, the thought was +like a bad taste in the mouth. + +At Grand-Vouvray he forded the Loire, with Amboise sloping up from the +river in full sight, the red roofs of its houses, huddled almost +underneath the Château for protection, glowing yet more ruddily in the +setting sun, and entered the town by the Tours gate as Commines had +bidden him. Reared high above the town it at once awed and protected +was the grey castle, towered and turreted like a fortress, and fortress +it was,--fortress, palace, and prison in one. Round town and castle +alike lay the river, holding them in its embrace like a guardian arm, +and beyond stretched the rich fertility of the Orleannais. + +The Chien Noir was easily found. It seemed as well known in Amboise as +Notre Dame in Paris, and from the warmth of his reception La Mothe +guessed shrewdly that his coming was expected. Innkeepers were not +prone to lavish welcomes on wandering minstrels who carried all their +world's gear on their back like any snail. For such light-hearted folk +an open window at night was an easier method of payment than an open +purse. + +"A room and supper? Both, monsieur, and of the best. For the first +what do you say to this?" and the landlord threw open a door with a +flourish of pride. "Not in the Château itself will you find a better. +Two windows, as you see: bright by day and cool by night, with all the +life of the town passing up and down the road to keep you company if +you are dull, and the castle gates in full view so that none can go in +or out and you not know it. And for supper--I am my own cook and you +may trust Jean Saxe. Give me twenty minutes, monsieur, twenty little +minutes, and you'll say blessed be the Black Dog of Amboise!" + +"And who are in the castle?" + +"Two or three units with a dozen of noughts to their tail to give them +value; Monsieur de Commines----" + +"Monsieur de Commines? Do you dare speak of Monsieur de Commines so +insolently?" burst out La Mothe, too indignant in his loyal devotion to +Commines to remember that a wandering singer ate the bread of +sufferance and had no opinions. But the innkeeper took no offence, +which again suggested that he had his own private opinion of the +knapsack and the lute. + +"Monsieur, I meant no harm," he protested humbly. "I am Monsieur de +Commines' man--that is, the King's man--to the death." + +"Well, let it pass. Who else are at the Château?" + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc----" + +"Does she come next in consequence? Why not the Dauphin?" + +"Oh! The Dauphin!" and Jean Saxe blew out his lips in contempt. "We +who live in Amboise do not think great things of little Charles. To my +mind little Charles is one of the noughts. But wait till you go to the +Château and then you will understand for yourself." + +"And why should I go to the Château?" + +"Because they love music," and the fellow grinned knowingly as he +cocked a cunning eye at the exposed lute, "because there is another who +loves music and can open the doors and will say---- There! do you hear +him? La, lilla, la! La, la, lilla, la! He always sings over the +third bottle, and the King--God bless him--pays for all." + +Opening the door to its widest Saxe stood aside listening, his head on +one side, his hand beckoning familiarly to La Mothe, as up the dark +well of stairs there came the rise and fall of a man's voice in a brisk +chant. No words could be caught, but the air ran trippingly, and if +the higher notes broke in a crack which told of age or misuse, or both +together, the lower ran clear and full, and the tune ran on with a +rollicking, careless awing which showed that, whoever might cavil, the +singer had at least one appreciative hearer--himself! + +"A wonderful man, wonderful," whispered Saxe, his small eyes twinkling +with appreciation, but whether at the music or because the King paid +for all, La Mothe was uncertain. "A poet of poets, a drinker of +drinkers, and a shrewd, bitter-tongued devil drunk or sober. Not that +he grows drunk easily, not he! and always he sings at his third bottle." + +"What is his name?" + +"Whatever he chooses, monsieur, and so long as the King pays what does +a name matter? He serves the King as I do and--with great respect--as +you do also. Did I ask your name when you said, 'A room and supper'? +Not I!" + +"I am called Stephen La Mothe." + +"As you please, monsieur, and I don't doubt you will eat as good a +supper by that name as by any other. Give me twenty minutes and you +will say the Black Dog of Amboise is no cur." + +Nor was Jean Saxe's boast unjustified. La Mothe not only supped but +ate, and with such satisfaction that in the peace of a healthy hunger +crowned with as healthy a digestion--unappreciated blessings of +four-and-twenty--he forgot alike King and Dauphin, Valmy and the Grey +Gates of Amboise in the shadows across the road. + +But neither was allowed to remain forgotten. As he sat over the +remains of his supper, tapping out a verse of his love song with his +finger-tips on the table, the door from the common room of the inn was +opened and a man entered whom La Mothe at once guessed to be one of his +three good friends in Amboise. In one hand he carried a lighted +candle, in the other a great horn cup. + +"Thanks, Jean," he said patronizingly, nodding towards the room he had +left as he spoke. "Close the door behind me, my good fellow: both my +hands are full." Then raising the candle, he turned and scrutinized La +Mothe with a curiosity as great as La Mothe's own and much more frankly +evident. + +And he was worth studying, as a rare specimen is studied in the +difficulty of classification. If there were many such men in France La +Mothe had never yet met one of them. He was under middle height, the +jaunty, alert youthfulness of his slim figure, supple without great +strength, contradicted by the grey which shot with silver the thin hair +falling almost to his narrow shoulders, and, as La Mothe searched him +in the wavering, guttered candle-light, it flashed upon him that +contradiction was the note of all his characteristics. The weak chin +with the unkempt straggle of a beard gave the lie to a forehead +magnificent in its abundant strength of mental power: the promise of +the luminous, clear eyes was robbed of fulfilment by the loose mouth +with the slime of the gutter and sensuality of the beast writ large +upon its thick lips. From the thin peaked nose upwards it was the face +of a son of the gods who knew his parentage and birthright; but +downward that of a human swine who loved the foulness of the trough for +the trough's sake. A Poet of poets, said the eyes: Slime of the gutter +and old age unashamed of its shame, retorted the mouth; and both spoke +truth. Evidently his scrutiny satisfied him, for he heaved a sigh of +contentment as he drew nearer to La Mothe. + +"The image of what I was at your age," he said, and again there was the +note of contradiction. The voice was the sweet, full voice of a +singer, but ruined at the first emotion into roughness by excess. +Placing the candlestick on the table he lifted La Mothe's wine bottle +and smelt it with slow carefulness, applying it first to one nostril +then to the other. "Vintage '63," he said appreciatively, "and that +animal Saxe fobs me off with '75." + +"Then try my '63," said La Mothe, "and we shall see if Saxe has another +bottle of the same." + +Promptly the contents of the horn mug were flung with a splash into the +open fireplace at La Mothe's back. + +"Just what I was at your age! The same to a hair! A gay companion +generous of heart and purse. Yes," he went on, half seating himself on +the table-edge and sucking down the wine with slow appreciative gulps, +"'63; I knew I could not be mistaken, though it is four years since I +tasted it last. The palate, Monsieur La Mothe, is like nature and +never forgets. For that reason we should never outrage either." + +"Four years!" repeated La Mothe with mock admiration, then remembering +that this was a poet of poets and should know his Villon, he quoted, +"'And where are the snows of Yester Year?'" + +The narrow shoulders broadened with a start, the bright eyes grew yet +brighter, and a firmer set of the mouth gave the face that note of +strength it so sorely needed. If it were not that he was already deep +in his fourth bottle La Mothe would have said the wine had set his +blood on fire, warming him with a fictitious energy, so sudden and so +marked was the change. + +"Ah ha!" he said, setting down the horn mug as he leaned towards La +Mothe, and this time the voice was as full and round as a woman's. "So +you know your Villon, do you? rascal that he was!" + +"Was? Is Villon dead?" + +"Dead! No! But his rascality is dead: dead but not forgotten! +Saints! what a dear sweet life it gave him while it lived, that same +rascality. 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' That is the cry of +all the years after, say, four- or five-and-twenty." He paused, his +bright keen eyes watching La Mothe with a wistful humour in them, half +envious, half reminiscent. "Four-and-twenty! Up to that age it is, +Oh, for next year's suns! Oh, for the flowers of a new spring's +plucking! and ever after, 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' I +think," he added, pursing his mouth reflectively, "that what the +priests call Hell is hot just because last year's snows never come +back." + +"Gone!" said La Mothe, falling into his humour, "dead like Villon's +rascality, but as unforgotten. But are you sure Villon is alive?" + +"Monsieur," and the little man slipped from the table-edge to his feet +and bowed, his eyes twinkling with an intense enjoyment, "I can vouch +for him as you can for Stephen La Mothe: I have the honour to present +to you Francois Villon, Master of Arts of Paris and of all the crafts +of this wicked world." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT + +La Mothe stared up at him incredulously. "You Francois Villon?" he +began; "Francois Villon the--the----" + +The gallows-cheat, the human pitch whose very touch is defilement was +what was in his mind, but with those clear luminous eyes looking down +unashamed into his own he could not put the brutal thought into the +naked brutality of words. But Villon read something of his meaning in +his eyes and rounded off the sentence for him. + +"The King's Jackal!" he said, not without a sour resentment. + + "Nécessité faict gens mesprendre: + Et fain sallir le loup des boys! + +You don't believe it? But you have been dandled on the knees of +respectability all your little life: what do you know of necessity or +hunger? I know both, and I tell you necessity and hunger are two gods +before whom all who meet them bow down. Better a live jackal than a +dead poet. Besides, is he not the greatest of kings? Bishop Thibault +had me in gaol for a mere slip of the fingers and talked of a judicial +noose--the third I've looked through--but the King fetched me out--God +save the King!" + +"God save the King!" echoed La Mothe, for want of something better to +say. His mind was still confused by this sudden upheaval of his +ideals. All that was best in Villon's poetry had stirred his +enthusiasm, while all the much which was worst had left his sane +wholesomeness untainted. To the half-dreamer, half-downright, +practical lad in Poitou, Villon, with his jovial, bitter humour and +even flow of human verse, had been something of an idol, and when our +idols crash into ruin the thunder of the catastrophe bewilders +judgment. But there was more than bewilderment, there was an +inevitable disgust. The frankness of this disgust Villon discovered. + +"Besides, again, my very young friend," he went on, "what are you in +Amboise at all for, you and your lute? Is Villon the only King's +Jackal here in the Chien Noir? Do we not hunt in a couple, and have +you as good an excuse for your hunting as poor Francois Villon, who +looked through a halter, and found the eternity beyond unpoetical to a +man of imagination? What brought you to Amboise, I say?" + +"The King's orders: the peace of France," began La Mothe, but though +the words were fine swelling words in the mouth they somehow failed to +fill the stomach of his sense. Nor did Villon let him finish. + +"And I say the same. What is more, I say them openly, and do not drown +the words with the twanging of a lute. Not that I blame you--not I, + + 'Toute beste garde sa pel,' + +or, as a greater poet than Francois Villon has said, Skin for skin, all +that a man hath will he give for his life. Whose hide you guard, your +own or another's, I don't know and don't care. Mine was that of bare +life, and there you sit and look disgust at me as if to cling fast to +this good gift of God which comes to a man but once were a sin. And +what are you doing in Amboise? No!" he interrupted himself hastily, +emphasizing the negative with a rapid gesture of both hands, "don't +tell me. If there is one thing more dangerous than knowing too little +it is knowing too much. Tell me, rather, what you want me to do for +you and tell me nothing more." + +"Gain me a footing in the Château." + +"I can open the doors, but the footing you must gain and hold for +yourself. I warn you Amboise is well guarded. Oh! not with pikes, +cross-bows, and such-like useless things in which our beloved King puts +his faith, but by eyes that see and hearts that love, and so Amboise is +a hard nut to crack. But your teeth are strong, and if the good God +had made no peach stones there would be no peaches, and, my faith! +peaches are worth the eating." + +He drew a long breath and sat silent, the horn mug, which he had again +filled and emptied, tilted against his thigh. A smile flickered his +loose mouth, and the full bright eyes, turned toward the vacancy of the +empty fireplace, were sparkling with reminiscences. + +And who should have reminiscences if not Francois Villon? There was +not such another judge of peaches in all France, no such authority upon +their eating, and few who had broken more teeth over their stones. The +smile broadened into a soft chuckle, laughter deepened into puckers the +many wrinkles of his crow-footed temples, and he wagged his grey head +in the warm appreciation of a happy memory. Dipping a finger-tip into +a pool of spilt wine he wrote on the table reflectively, and as La +Mothe watched his leering face he understood Commines' outspoken +contempt of this old man unashamed of his shamefulness. + +"Peaches," he said, scratching his chin with a wet forefinger; "my +faith! yes! I have climbed walls for them, robbed gardens of them, +found them in market baskets--the gutter even. What matters where they +come from so long as the cheek is warm, the bloom fresh, the skin +smooth, and the sweetness full in the mouth. And where are they now? +Aye! aye! 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' My young friend, my +very young friend, you have but one life, and when you drop it behind +you see that only the husks of its possibilities are left: crush the +grapes while you may and drink the wine." + +"I thought," said La Mothe, "that the rascality of Francois Villon was +dead? Leave it in its grave, if you please. It is decenter buried out +of sight and does not interest me. How am I to gain entrance to +Amboise?" + +Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance of carelessness, but +the unctuous complacency was wiped from his face, and the narrow eyes +and mouth showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe's disgusted +contempt. + +"How, but as my friend, pupil, and protégé," he replied, with evident +enjoyment of the other's discomfiture at the unwelcome association. +Then with incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery passed +from his voice and he went on bitterly, "Do you think I love my life? +Perhaps I do--at times. But not always, no, not always. You see that +fly there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt wine, the +ragout with its spices, the salad with its oil and its vinegar, +everything within reach which tickles its palate: then it rubs its +stupid head with its forelegs and trots back to the wine again. +Presently"--and Villon suited the action to the word--"a great hand +turns an empty tumbler over it and there it is: all the delights of the +world it has lost clear within sight, but out of reach--always out of +reach. That, my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blame +the fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life? Perhaps if +the great hand is merciful it draws the glass to one side, thus, and +still to one side, thus and thus and thus, until, phit! there is a +little red patch and no fly; yes, perhaps. Aye, aye, I have seen life. +But it is better for the fly to laugh as it runs round and round under +the glass than to sulk and cry its heart out for the snows of Yester +Year. God save the King!" + +The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe so +irrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instant +comprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shot +through the disgust. + +"Perhaps the hand will lift the glass," he said, "and let the fly back +to its spilt wine and spices?" + +Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. "Will that give me back my twenty years? +Bah! the palate is as stale as the spilt wine, and when the good of +life is gone life itself may go. There is Saxe knocking at the door. +My faith! but you have indeed scared him into discretion; he never +knocks for me. Perhaps he has brought that second bottle." + +But Saxe was empty-handed, and by the light of the candle La Mothe +could see a quizzical grin upon his face. + +"Monsieur," he began, but which of the two he addressed was uncertain, +"they are dull at the Château." + +"And have sent for Francois Villon to make sport! I have dropped the +'de,' Monsieur La Mothe, there are so many rascals amongst the nobility +nowadays that I find it more distinguished to be the simple commoner. +Dull at the Château! Good Lord! don't I know it!" He paused, lifting +his head with a quick, bird-like motion: a cunning smile wrinkled his +face and he smote the table with his open hand. "Dull, are they? +There, my hedge-minstrel from Valmy, is your welcome ready made. Bring +your lute and make pretty Ursula's grey eyes dance to a love song, +prude that she is." + +"To-night?" said La Mothe doubtfully. "Surely not to-night: the +Dauphin might resent a stranger's coming so late." + +"The Dauphin? Phit! Little Charles is pretty Ursula's echo and +nothing more. Come, let us go." + +"Then Mademoiselle de Vesc may object." + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc? So you know her name, do you? And what girl +objects to a love song? I never yet knew one who did, and Francois +Villon has lived his life. If they pout and turn aside don't believe +them: it's just that you may not see how the heart beats. Black eyes, +blue, grey, hazel, brown; Fat Meg and Lean Joan, wrinkled fifty and +smooth sixteen, their eyes have all the same sparkle, the same dear +light in them when the heart melts. I should know, for I have made +love to every colour under the sun. Except Albino," he added +reflectively and with the conscientious air of one who desires to tell +the whole truth. "I wonder what it would be like to make love to an +Albino. But now I shall never know, the fly must run round and round +its glass until the day of the red blotch. It is a mercy I tasted the +oil and vinegar in time. That disgusts you, does it? My young friend, +you must learn not to say more with your face than you do with your +tongue if you are to keep your secrets and the King's. Come, I talk +too much and they are waiting for us." + +But Stephen La Mothe left his lute behind him. He had accepted the +part allotted to him half as a jest and half for the sake of the +adventure it promised, but Villon had put a less pleasant gloss on this +open-faced masquerade, nor had the blunt question, Why are you in +Amboise? been easy of answer. Or rather, the answer was easy, but one +he did not relish in its naked truth. If to be the secret almoner of +the King's love for the Dauphin had been the sole reply to the +question, his scruples would have been as light as his love song. But +that answer was insufficient: there was a second answer, an answer +which Commines knew and these two men, Villon and Saxe, suspected, one +which would leave a soiling on clean hands, yet which must be faced. + +He found himself in the position of a circus-rider who, with one foot +on the white horse--which was Honour--and the other on the +piebald--which was duty and a King's instructions,--has lost control of +their heads and feels his unhappy legs drawn wider and wider apart with +every stride. And in the emergency La Mothe did exactly what the +circus-rider would have done--he clung to both with every desperate +sinew on the strain. To keep his piebald still under him he went with +Villon to the Château, and that he might not part utterly from his +white he left his lying lute behind him. But he was not happy: mental +and spiritual unhappiness is the peculiar gift of compromise. + +Nor did Villon make any protest at his decision. "As you will, it is +between you and the King," he said, with all the indifference of the +beast whose one thought is for his own skin, and then immediately +proved that he was less indifferent than he seemed. "But if I knew +which of the two you wish to win over, the boy or the woman, I might +help you." + +"The boy," answered La Mothe, remembering the gifts of a father's love +which lay in the saddle-bags Commines had brought for him to the +Château. Ursula de Vesc was but a means to an end, the Dauphin was the +end itself. + +"The boy?" Villon paused as they crossed the road in the sweet +coolness of the young night, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That's +not so easy. Women, of course, I know like my ten fingers, but +children are too subtle for me. And little lathy Charles with his +long, narrow white face and obstinate chin, is no A B C of a boy. You +must know something more than your horn-book before you understand him. +To-day he received Monsieur de Commines with all the gravity of the +Pope: 'Where is Monsieur Tristan, Tristan of the House of Great Nails?' +he asked, peering about him with those dull, tired eyes of his which +see so much more than most men imagine. 'Tristan?' says Monsieur de +Commines, very sourly for so great a man, 'Tristan does not travel with +me, Monseigneur.' 'He must be somewhere near,' says little Charles, +'since you come from my father, do you not? and you are both friends of +his.' It was a sharp thrust and it was not the Dauphin who looked the +fool. Now, was that more or less than the impishness that's in all +boys, prince or gutter rat? More, I say. No, children are too subtle +for me: give me women for simplicity! But I may help you with him all +the same." + +Though a king dwelt in Valmy and a king's son in Amboise, never was +there a greater contrast than between the watchfulness exercised for +their safety. At Valmy guards had thronged at every turn, more +vigilant than pickets who hold the lives of a sleeping army in their +keeping, but at Amboise the doors swung open to the touch of almost the +first comer, though it was not easy to be certain how much of this +laxity was due to the guarantee of Villon's presence. A careless +porter kept the outer gate, a single sentinel, lounging in the +guard-room, let them pass into the central court unchallenged, and the +servant or two they met upon the stairs gave them no more than a +heedless glance. That, at least, was La Mothe's first impressions. +But when he saw the same face in the lower hall, again at the +stair-head, yet again in the ante-room, and recognized that the plainly +dressed serving-man had kept them under observation at every turn, +unobtrusively but of evident purpose, he decided that a casual stranger +could not have penetrated to the heart of Amboise without first giving +a good account of himself. The watcher was Hugues, the Dauphin's +valet. And yet when Villon gently drew aside a curtain masking a +doorway which opened upon the stair-head, there was no one in +attendance to announce them. It was as if the King said, more +significantly, more emphatically than in any words, "My son may be the +Dauphin, but I alone am France." + +"There are the boy and the woman," said Villon softly, "Charles and +Ursula de Vesc. Now, had I been your age I would rather have won the +woman." + + + + +CHAPTER X + +LOVE, THE ENEMY + +Charles was seated on a low stool at the further end of the room, a +pale-faced boy with dull, peevish eyes closely set together, the long +Valois nose, and a thin, obstinate mouth. His dress was severely, +obstinately, contemptuously plain. Again it was as if the King said, +This is not the greatness or the glory of France! But love and care +had redeemed the derisive parsimony. All the lad wore was exquisitely +neat and the very severity lent the little figure a dignity of its own. + +Beside him, but a little behind, stood Love, the Enemy, Ursula de Vesc, +a slim figure in white. One arm was flung over his shoulder, the hand +holding the boy's hand as he raised it across his breast, and she +seemed to draw him back to her so that he half leaned, half lay against +her knee. Her other hand was caught up against her side below the +rounded breast, and pressed there so tensely that the slender, +bloodless fingers lay ivory-white against the hardly purer white of the +bodice. The whole attitude was one of spontaneous, natural, womanly +affection, but as Stephen La Mothe looked a second time he seemed to +find in it both defence and defiance, or if not defiance, then that +vigilant watchfulness which is almost an antagonism. The clasping arm +spoke protection, but a protection which said, "Touch if you dare." + +Nor did the expression of her face change his thought. The clear grey +eyes were alert with something more than a girl's fresh interest, the +firm mouth, even while the lips moved, was set in an unconscious +strain, and across the broad forehead two lines were shadowed where no +lines ought to have been. If the face of age, when the sorrows and +experience of years have written anxiety for the uncertain morrow +across it, moves the heart by the story it tells, how much more the +face of youth lined by cares which merciful Time should still have held +unrevealed? There are more valleys of shadows than that of death, and +it seemed to La Mothe that the gloom of some one of them had gathered +thickly round Ursula de Vesc. + +Of the three or four others grouped at the further end of the room +Commines was the only familiar figure, and though all turned at the +noise of the brass rings jangling on their rod as Villon drew the +curtain there was no recognition in his eyes. It was the opening of +the lying masquerade, and La Mothe vaguely felt the white horse stumble +as it swerved from the straight course. The soiling of clean hands +spoken of by Commines on the road to Château-Renaud had begun. + +"Gain the girl and win the boy," whispered Villon as, with his hand +upon La Mothe's arm, they walked up the room together, then aloud, +"Monseigneur and Mademoiselle----" + +"Monseigneur, if you please," interrupted the girl, but though she +spoke to Villon her eyes were on La Mothe. The voice was cold, the +words at once a self-effacement and a rebuke. It was as if she said, +"I know my place: know--and keep--yours." + +"Monseigneur," went on Villon, quite unruffled, "with the ills of life +come their cure: Amboise was dull and I present to you Monsieur Stephen +La Mothe." + +The Dauphin made no immediate answer, but glanced up at Ursula de Vesc +with a question in his eyes, and his clasp on her hand tightened, +drawing her yet closer to him. It was the action of a child to its +mother rather than that of a boy of twelve to a girl not twice his age, +and to those who understood it was curiously instructive. Looking down +upon him she smiled and nodded, nor did the gracious softening of the +tender face escape La Mothe. Her eyes were grey, and surely grey eyes +were the sweetest in all the world? + +"Monsieur La Mothe," repeated Charles, as if the girl's look had given +him courage to speak. "Monsieur La Mothe of--Valmy?" + +"Monsieur La Mothe of everywhere," replied Villon hastily, before La +Mothe had time to answer. "Singers and poets are of all the world. +They say it took seven cities to give Homer birth." + +"And Monsieur La Mothe is another Homer?" said the girl, and Stephen +winced at the insolent curve of her lips. He was quite sure they were +never meant for such a curve, surely a Cupid's bow would be more +natural than contempt, disdain, and a few other injurious opinions all +in the one expression. In this belief he hastened to reply, allowing +no time for Villon to intervene. + +"No, mademoiselle, I am neither a singer nor a poet, at least not such +a one as Monsieur Villon." + +"I hope not, for your credit's sake," answered the girl drily, nor did +she seek to keep the scorn from her voice. "As both singer and poet +Monsieur Francois Villon is beyond his age." + +"There is no such critic as the one who fails to understand," said +Villon, his wrinkled face white with anger, "and I see I was right at +first, and should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur, not +Monseigneur and Mademoiselle." + +"Master Villon, you are impertinent," broke in Commines, who loved +Ursula de Vesc little, but hated Villon more. + +"Monsieur de Commines, if it were not another impertinence I would say +that like breeds like," retorted Villon, entirely unabashed. He +returned Commines' dislike with energy, and so long as he served the +King he had little to fear from the King's minister. + +"Poets are privileged," said Mademoiselle de Vesc. "And Monsieur +Villon has paid me a compliment: I neither understand his poetry nor +desire to." Her tone was still contemptuous and had in it no thanks to +Philip de Commines for his reproof on her behalf. She resented it, +rather, since she had no desire to owe him either gratitude or thanks. + +For a moment there was a pause, a moment which seemed the prelude to a +sarcastic outbreak from one or other of those she had wilfully +irritated in that intolerance which so often goes hand in hand with a +spirit of self-sacrifice. But Stephen La Mothe interposed. + +"Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of being presented to Monseigneur?" + +"You?" she said, the lines deepening across her forehead. "A roadside +singer presented to the Dauphin! Surely you forget yourself--and him?" + +"Even a roadside singer may be a loyal son of France," he retorted, +looking her full in the face. He keenly resented the false position +into which the King's ill-considered scheme had thrust him, but he had +gone too far to retreat. "You know best, mademoiselle, whether the +Dauphin has need of a man's honest love and devotion." + +"Devotion that is here to-day, was God knows where yesterday, and will +be God knows where to-morrow! Merci! the Dauphin is indeed grateful." + +"Spitfire!" murmured Villon, but so cautiously that only La Mothe heard +him. "Certainly I should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur. Or +better still have left the Monseigneur out altogether. You do not go +the right way. Win the girl, I tell you, and the boy will follow like +a sheep." + +"Let me win her my own way," answered La Mothe, which has always been +the man's desire since Adam was in Eden with the one woman in all the +world. Then he went on aloud, "Pour your scorn on it as you will, +mademoiselle, it is devotion that will wait patiently in Amboise until +it has proved itself." + +"That will wait patiently in Amboise?" she repeated. Her eyes +challenged his as she spoke, and in them there was nothing of the light +the sons of Adam have loved to see in a woman's eyes so that they might +dwell together in Paradise. + +"Why not? And if a poor gentleman desires to see France in this +fashion is there any reason against it?" + +"A poor gentleman, but not a poor minstrel?" + +"As both I can but give my best. May I have the honour, mademoiselle?" + +Her clasp upon the boy's hand must have tightened, for again he raised +his face to hers as she stooped over him, speaking softly. This time +it was he who nodded. + +"You know best," he whispered back, and the words would have given La +Mothe food for thought had he heard them. "As you say, it will be +safer to have him before our eyes than behind our backs. We may be +quite sure that Hugues will watch him. Yes, I agree: at least he is +prettier to look at than that beast of a Villon." + +From her side, where she held it pressed, her left hand slipped down +across the Dauphin's shoulder until it too drew him towards her, but +when she raised her head the lines were smoothed from the forehead, and +if the grey eyes were still watchful, they watched through a smile. + +"Monseigneur permits it," she said. "Monseigneur, I have the honour to +present to you Monsieur Stephen La Mothe." + +"Monsieur La Mothe of where?" asked the boy gravely. + +"Of Landless, in the Duchy of Lackeverything," replied La Mothe, bowing +with an equal gravity, and at the adroit parrying of a difficult +question the smile crept down from Ursula de Vesc's eyes until it +loosened the hard lines of the mouth, and bent them to that Cupid's bow +La Mothe so much desired to see. "I have many fellow-subjects, +Monseigneur." + +"Another name for that duchy is Amboise," said Charles, "and so, +monsieur, it is my wish that you make the castle your home for as long +as it pleases you." + +He spoke with such a settled seriousness that it was difficult to be +sure whether he understood the jest and played up to it in that spirit +of make-believe which had drawn down the King's anger or answered out +of a dull uncomprehension. Nor did La Mothe care which it was. His +heart leaped within him at the double promise opened up of fulfilling +the King's mission at his ease and watching the unbending of the curved +bow, but he answered with an equal gravity. + +"Then Landless is not Houseless, Monseigneur, and to devotion gratitude +is added." + +"Discretion and good appetite give a man a longer life than either," +said Villon. + +"But remember," and Commines spoke to La Mothe for the first time, "the +King has first claim upon both." + +"On discretion and good appetite?" said Villon gravely. "I fear, +Monsieur d'Argenton, His Majesty in his present health has more need of +the second than the first." + +"Take your ribald impertinences elsewhere, but beware how you attempt +them upon me elsewhere," answered Commines, with a stern contempt. +"Here Monseigneur and mademoiselle's presence protect you." + +"But if I took them elsewhere, even to Paris--and, heavens! how I wish +I could--Amboise would be duller than ever," protested Villon, then +added, with a significance of tone which gave the careless words a +weight, "let us hope that Monseigneur and mademoiselle can protect each +other as well as me." + +Again there was a dangerous silence, and this time it was Ursula de +Vesc who turned aside the threatening storm. + +"Monsieur La Mothe is to cure our dullness. Tell us a story, monsieur, +if you will neither sing nor play. We love a story, do we not, +Charles?" + +"A story?" repeated La Mothe slowly. The chance suggestion, more than +half malicious, had given him an unexpected opening, and he was turning +in his mind how best to use it. "Why, yes, I think I might. Once upon +a time----" + +"Wait a moment," said Charles. "Here, Ursula," and he rose from his +stool as he spoke, "you sit down and I will sit at your feet and lean +against your knee. There! That is better. Now we are both +comfortable. What is the story about, monsieur?" + +"It is an eastern tale, Monseigneur." + +"I like the east better than the west, don't you, Ursula?" and he +looked up in the girl's face with a laugh, then at Commines in a way +which lent the words point and meaning. Valmy, La Mothe remembered, +lay towards the west. "Now, monsieur, we are ready." + +"There was once a king of the Genie who dwelt in a certain part of +Arabia. He was a very great and a very wise king, the greatest and +wisest his kingdom had known for many centuries. During his reign he +had added province to province----" + +"At whose expense?" broke in Villon. "In love and the building of +kingdoms there is always a giving and a taking." + +"Silence!" cried Charles sharply. "If you interrupt again I will have +you removed, even though you are who you are. Now, monsieur, go on, +please." + +"He added province to province," continued La Mothe, "until in all that +part of Arabia there was no such kingdom for greatness or for power, +and no king so feared by the kings of the surrounding countries. But +though his affairs were so prosperous he had one bitter grief which was +never absent from his thoughts: he was estranged from his only son, +whom he loved with all a father's love." + +"Yes," said Charles gravely, "I see this is really an eastern story: a +kind of a fairy tale, is it not, Monsieur La Mothe? A tale one wishes +were true, but knows is all make-believe." + +"All fairy tales have a heart of truth," answered La Mothe, "and this +is a very true one, Monseigneur, as I hope you will believe before I +have ended. In all his cares of state, and with so great a kingdom his +cares were very many, there was no such care, no such sorrow, as this +longing, unsatisfied love of the father's heart. Day and night his one +thought was how he might win for his old age the love which his boy----" + +"Ursula, I am tired," and Charles rose with a yawn. "Monsieur La +Follette, will you please call Hugues, and I will go to bed? If we are +duller to-morrow than we are to-day we will hear the rest of the story, +but I don't think I like it very much. Even fairy tales should sound +probable. Good night, Monsieur d'Argenton, good night, Monsieur La +Follette, good night, Monsieur La Mothe," and with a bow which +contrived to omit Villon from its scope the Dauphin left the room, +followed by Ursula de Vesc. But at the door she paused a moment. + +"A room will be made ready for you in the Château, Monsieur La Mothe, +and perhaps to-morrow you will tell me the end of your story?" + +"Dull?" said Villon, stretching himself with vigorous ostentation. "My +faith, yes! If you are wise, friend La Mothe, you will finish the +night with me at the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulders +with genius familiarly." + +But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe's arm. + +"Genius?" he said, sternly contemptuous. "Yes! Genius depraved and +degraded: genius crapulous and drunken. Take advice, Monsieur La +Mothe, and bide indoors: the foulest soiling of God's earth is a foul +old age unashamed of its disgrace." Then lowering his voice to a +whisper, he added, "Come to my room when all is quiet, son Stephen. +Look out for the cross of shadow and take care that the de Vesc girl +does not see you." + +The de Vesc girl! Stephen La Mothe was almost as offended by the +curtly supercilious description of Mademoiselle Ursula as Villon was at +the bitter judgment so uncompromisingly passed upon him. That may have +been because Cupid's bow had shot its bolt, and love's new wounds are +almost as supersensitive as a poet's vanity. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS + +Two or three adroit questions addressed to the servant who showed him +to his sleeping-quarters gave La Mothe a sufficient clue to the +whereabouts of Commines' lodgings. That they were in the same block of +buildings as his own, and on the same level, made it comparatively easy +to find them. But the Château must first settle into sleep, and he had +an hour or two to wait before he could safely go in search of them +unobserved. In the angry mood which swayed him the delay was +fortunate. For the first time in his life his temper was exasperated +against the man to whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of his +knapsack and lute, sent from the Chien Noir, lessen the irritation. +Few things feed the flame of a man's anger as do his own faults, and in +every string of the unlucky toy--for it was little more--he saw a sharp +reminder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness left by +Commines. + +What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle de Vesc as this de +Vesc girl, as if she was some lumpish wench of the kitchen instead of a +sweet and gracious woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, and +yet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe strode up and down +the room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles; +that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in her +tenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in her +love. From which it will be seen that the Cupid's bow had sent its +shaft very deep indeed, and Commines by his contemptuous phrase had but +driven it more surely home. + +There be those who say love dethrones reason, but observe with what +admirable logic, what cogency of deduction Stephen La Mothe could argue +upon Commines' incapacity for judgment--thus. He had misjudged Ursula +de Vesc, why not also Villon? If there had been this undeserved +prejudice against an innocent and helpless girl, was not his contempt +for Villon equally unjustified? How, in fact, could such a man as +Philip de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world and of the +world's affairs, understand or appreciate Villon the poet, Villon who +had lifted the whole literature and poetry of France to the highest +level it had yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous, +unthinkable, the one as great a blunder as the other. So Stephen La +Mothe gilded his gold, painting his lily lover-fashion time out of +mind, and whitewashed into a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchings +with which Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself. + +With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found the outer passage +intensely dark. Its only illumination came from the narrow lancet +windows through which the moonlight streamed so whitely that the rest +of the gallery was yet blacker and more hidden by the contrast. +Beyond, at the end, was a deeper pool of darkness which he knew was the +arched entrance to the main body of the Château, his own lodgings being +in a projecting wing bounded on the one side by a wide court. A few +steps beyond this archway a narrow corridor cut the passageway, opening +up three lanes of shadow. These were lit to a bare visibility by as +many tiny lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings, mere specks of points +of light too small to flicker, and such as all night long hang before +the high altar of a church, symbols of changeless faith burning +unquenched even in the deepest darkness of the night of the world. + +Turning to the left, his hand upon the wall for guidance, La Mothe +crept softly on until a further passage opened to his right. Down this +he stole, breathing uneasily as men do who walk warily in the dark, +intent to keep their presence secret. From the roof depended the same +inadequate light, but at the farther end was a hazy blur which marked +the head of the stairs, and across the floor luminous shadows drifted +here and there from under doorways where the lamp still burned within +the chamber. One of these chambers La Mothe knew was allotted to +Commines, and as he scanned the flagged floor of the passage, searching +for the sign Commines had given him, a shadow amongst the shadows +stirred his curiosity, and he stole nearer on tiptoe: it was a mattress +laid before a closed door, and stretched upon it lay a man wrapped in a +blanket. + +Holding his breath, La Mothe paused, listening intently. Though he had +resented Commines' brusque reference to Mademoiselle de Vesc, the +wisdom of caution was obvious, and he knew the value of secrecy too +well to venture an unnecessary risk. But the figure neither moved nor +changed its regular deep breathing, and La Mothe slipped past +noiselessly, seeking anew for the promised signal. And midway to the +well of the stairs, where faint murmurings told of sleepless life even +in ill-lit, ill-guarded Amboise, he found it--a nebulous dusky cross, +broader than long, stretching its shadowy arms upon the flags, and at +his first low tap on the panel the door was softly opened and as softly +closed behind him. + +"Are you sure no one saw you?" + +"No one. But, Uncle, this playing at thief in the night is +intolerable. It will be very much better to say quite plainly to +Mademoiselle de Vesc----" + +"Stephen, Stephen!" and as he spoke Commines, who had been stooping +over his signal, a tiny paper cross pinned against the foot of the door +so that it blocked the flow of light from the lamp laid on the floor +behind, lifted himself and laid his hand strongly on La Mothe's +shoulder. "Do you know why you are in Amboise at all? Do you know it +is to convict this very Ursula de Vesc of complicity in a plot to +murder the King and place the Dauphin on the throne, and that the King +believes the Dauphin is privy to the scheme? And do you know what part +you are to play?" + +Commines spoke in the anxious remonstrance of affection rather than in +anger. There was no censure in the tone, no reproof, a pleading +rather: but when the irritation of offence is raw it resents +expostulation and rebuke alike: they are just so much salt to the +wound. So was it now with La Mothe. + +"It is we who conspire," he answered angrily, "we who call ourselves +men and yet creep about a sleeping house to meet by stealth in the +dark. And against whom? Against a weak girl, a weak, defenceless girl +whose one offence is that her love is loyal to a boy as helpless as +herself. A brave conspiracy truly, brave, worthy, and honourable! You +saw her to-night, how she faced us for his sake, unafraid and yet very +sorely afraid because she is so womanly through her courage. A girl +and a half-grown boy! And we call ourselves men." + +"Why do you say 'we'? Me she knows and Villon she knows, but not you." + +"Some day she will, my hope is some day she will: pray God I be not +ashamed to look her in the face when that day comes." + +"Stephen, Stephen, what has changed you? Have you grown mad or is this +that drunkenness?" + +"I don't know, I only know it is something new. And if it is that +drunkenness as you call it, then may I never be sober again my life +long." + +"Listen," and this time Commines' voice was stern to harshness. The +time for pleading, or even remonstrance, had gone by. A more vigorous +schooling was needed if Stephen La Mothe was to be saved from folly. +"If you must go girl-drunken as every sentimental boy does sooner or +later, do not go blind-drunk or sense-drunk, but keep your eyes open +and your mind clear. Mademoiselle de Vesc may be blameless or she may +not: that is what we are here to prove. You call her weak, but the +greatest folly of a foolish man is to despise weakness. Contempt of +weakness has lost more battles than strength of arms has won. Charles +the Bold despised the weakness of the Swiss, and the devotion of the +weak Swiss crushed him. Weak, you say? Love is never weak. Fifty +years ago a weak girl saved France because of her great love for +France, and to-day another just as weak might ruin France through +another great love. Never despise the power of love nor call it weak +even in the weakest. If faith can remove mountains, love is greater +than faith, and of mademoiselle's devotion to the Dauphin I have no +doubt." + +"Who has the better claim upon it?" answered La Mothe sullenly. + +"Granted, but that is not the point. And what if the devotion is +misdirected? It is a quality of love that it only sees the lights in +the jewels and not the flaws. If love saw all the flaws in us it would +hardly be love. What if Mademoiselle de Vesc, seeing the boy +neglected--and I grant the neglect,--seeing him unhappy--and I grant +the unhappiness,--seeing him denied his high position--and I grant the +denial while I assert that the King, who is a wise king, must have wise +reasons I do not understand; what if Mademoiselle de Vesc, I say, +seeing all these things and understanding the reasons for them as +little as I do, seeing no deeper than her devotion and knowing nothing +of the King's wise reasons, were moved by this same devotion to some +desperate effort which would right this wrong at any cost? Supposing +that were so, what would hold her back? Fear? She is no coward, and +there is no such courage on God's earth as the courage of a loving +woman. Weakness? Love is strong as death and stronger, for love +builds up where death can only destroy. The crime? In her eyes the +crime lies in the unhappiness and neglect of Amboise, and to right the +wrong by any means, however desperate, would be no offence before God +or man. What would hold her back? I ask you. Nothing, nothing at +all." + +"Granted," said La Mothe, impressed in spite of himself and falling +back upon the last resort of baffled argument. "It is all very +plausible, but I do not believe it all the same." + +"Because you are drunken," retorted Commines, "and because, too, there +are none so blind as those who will not see. But supposing I am right, +is not the King justified, and are not we, the King's servants, +justified too? And is the Dauphin such a fool as to be blind to this +devotion, he who has known so little love in his life? Stephen, if the +King is right and Mademoiselle de Vesc's love has overcome both fear +and weakness, he is right, too, when he links Charles with her in her +abominable plot." + +"But why has he sent----" La Mothe broke off lamely, remembering in +time that he had no right to say to Commines, Why has he sent such a +message of a father's love as lies in those saddle-bags I see in the +corner? Very naturally Commines misunderstood the interrupted sentence. + +"Why has he sent you to Amboise?" + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED + +But having ended the sentence Commines broke off at the end as La Mothe +had done in the middle, and with much the same embarrassment. His +face, harsh and stern of feature both by nature and schooling, grew +almost tender as he turned aside troubled. To speak plainly to any man +of honour and generous spirit, answering his own question in direct +words, would have been difficult, but how much greater the difficulty +when the man was brother to that dear dead woman who had sunk to her +sleep comforted by his promise of care and protection? "Watch over +him, Philip, for my sake." But into the memory of the tired voice he +had loved there clashed the King's harsh question so curtly asked in +Valmy, and torn by the conflict of the two natures warring within him +Commines paced the room in silence. La Mothe was not the only man in +Amboise who found his skill as a circus-rider tried to the utmost, and +like La Mothe Commines temporized. + +"Who are we to judge the King?" He spoke harshly, even aggressively, +and as if combating some undeveloped argument of La Mothe's. A burst +of temper may not convince a man's own conscience, or quiet its +uneasiness, but it silences its voice for a time as declamation can +always silence pleading. "Who are we to question his justice or deny +its right to strike? And it is as his arm of justice that you are here +in Amboise." + +"I?" And into La Mothe's mind, as he stood silent after the startled +ejaculation, there flooded significant, misunderstood hints dropped by +the King in Valmy, and by Commines himself on the road to +Château-Renaud, hints which had seemed to him meaningless in the memory +of the little coat of mail which was the secret gift of a father's +love. "I, the King's arm of justice? In God's name how can that be?" + +"The days of Brutus have gone by," answered Commines, never ceasing +from his restless pacing of the room. The motion eased the tension of +his nervous distress and made speech less formal, less difficult. +"Treason is treason wherever found. You know its punishment, but the +days of Brutus are gone. The justice of the King, the justice of the +father, can no longer--no longer----" But even his restless pacing +could not give him power to clothe the grim thought in blunt words, and +Commines was silent. + +La Mothe's scornful indignation had no such reticence, nor had he yet +learned how to cloak the ugliness of a naked truth in the pleasant +euphemisms of diplomacy. With frank brutality he completed Commines' +broken sentence. + +"The father can no longer murder the son and call it justice. But, +monsieur," and it was significant that the adoptive relationship was +unceremoniously swept aside, "what has the father's murder of the son +to do with me?" + +"Treason is treason," repeated Commines, finding some comfort and +strength in the bald platitude: it was incontrovertible and at least +gave him firm ground under his feet. "Nor can treason go unpunished, +or how would the throne be safe for a day? But what the father cannot +do, though a king, another can and must; and must," he reiterated, +steeling himself with a rising emphasis for what was to follow. "And +you have been chosen as the King's arm in Amboise." + +This time there was no outburst of scorn or indignation. It was not +that the crisis was too deep for noisy declamation, though human nature +differs from organic in that it commonly meets its most grave crises in +quietness. The truth was, simply, that La Mothe did not grasp the full +meaning of the words. + +"The King's arm in Amboise?" he said uncomprehendingly. "The King's +arm? What does that mean?" Then, by the very repetition of the +phrase, enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his fingers +closing in upon his palms. "Not that! For God's sake, Monsieur de +Commines, say it is not that! Not that the father---- Oh! it cannot +be, it cannot. Is it--is it murder?" + +"Justice," replied Commines doggedly through his shut teeth. "Let us +call things by their proper names. I say justice, justice of----" + +"Hell!" broke in La Mothe fiercely. "Justice is sacred, to God +Almighty, and this--this---- Where is God's hand? Where is--? Oh, +no, no, it is damnable, damnable!" + +"Justice," repeated Commines, quoting Louis. "Not even the son of a +king is above or beyond justice." + +"Vicarious murder!" retorted La Mothe. "No smooth sophism can make it +less. He would have another commit an iniquity he dare not commit +himself. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? Never! God helping +me. I am to obey you, Monsieur de Commines; these were the King's +orders; but not in this, never in this, never, so help me God!" + +"Listen, Stephen." Commines had fuller command of himself now and +spoke more quickly, but also with more assumption of authority. "Put +yourself in the King's place and consider the truth dispassionately." + +"Consider dispassionately how a father can best kill his own son; yes, +Uncle?" + +But Commines took no umbrage at the crude sarcasm, a sarcasm aimed at +himself and the King alike. He understood it as a sign that La Mothe's +mind was recovering from the shock which had swung its balance awry. +Five minutes earlier he would have declared that murder could never be +dispassionate. That he would listen at all was something gained. + +"The King is both more and less than father," Commines went on: "that +is to say, his responsibilities are greater than those of a simple +citizen, and his private rights in his son are less. He and the +Dauphin do not belong to themselves. France comes first. Do you admit +that France comes first?" + +"God knows!" replied La Mothe moodily. The dying out of his first hot +passionate protest had left him fretful and desperate. He remembered, +too, something the King had said about France being the mother of them +all, and at the time he had agreed; nor could he quite see where +Commines' argument might lead. "There was a time when I thought right +was eternally right, but now it seems a father may wipe out his +fatherhood in blood and be justified." + +"France comes first," went on Commines, emphasizing the point which he +saw had weight. "The millions of lives in France come first. Could a +son who plots against his father's life reign in France?" + +"He is a child." + +"In a year he will be old enough to reign: answer me, could such a son +reign?" + +"Are there not prisons?" + +"You do not answer my question. I ask again, could such a son reign?" + +"I am answering it in my own way, and, I repeat, there are prisons." + +"And would there not be conspiracies? Would France not be torn asunder +in civil war? Would the blood of France not flow like water? Be +sensible, Stephen: am I not right?" + +"I will never be the King's arm in Amboise, never, never. I would +sooner ride back to Valmy and face the justice of the King. The +justice of the King!" scoffed La Mothe, to ease his troubled soul. +"And in any case I shall return to Valmy; my word is passed." + +Again Commines let the sarcasm levelled at the King's justice pass +unchallenged: it is never wise to block a safety-valve when a high +pressure, whether of steam or of passion, is blowing itself off. + +"These things being granted," he went on, "what course is the King to +follow? Is he to pardon the crime against the nation? for that is what +it is; is he to pass it over in silence and leave the criminal free to +weave a second and perhaps successful conspiracy? The King dare not: +for the nation's sake he dare not. What then? Is he to arrest and try +the prince by solemn course of law? I doubt if the Dauphin of France +is not above the common law of France, but apart from that again the +King dare not. France would be rent from end to end, and her enemies, +England, Spain, Burgundy, would swoop upon her and lay her waste, as in +the days before the coming of The Maid. I say again, the King dare +not. What course is left? Nothing but the arm of justice, that +justice which is Almighty God's, striking in secret, and so France is +saved." + +He ended, but La Mothe returned no answer. Not that he was convinced, +no, not by a hairbreadth. But the sophism, and he knew it to be a +sophism, was too subtle for him, and his safest refuge was silence. +And yet his inability to tear the sophism to tatters was not the sole +cause of the silence. Commines' last question, What is left? though a +mere flourish of rhetoric, had stirred another possible reply. +Reconcilement was left, the union of father and son in love was left. +Inexorable logic as voiced by Commines, if it was logic at all and not +a sophism, might coerce the King to a terrible justice, but would the +father's love not welcome the reconcilement of a son's penitence as a +way of escape from the ultimate horror of the logic? And surely that +love must be a very tender, very yearning, very forgiving love when +even in the midst of just anger it could bend to such gentle thoughts +as lay hidden in those gifts through the hand of a stranger. Surely, +surely, surely. And so La Mothe kept silence. + +"There may be no plot: there is no plot," he said at last, though in +the face of Commines' assertion he had little hope he was right; then +he added, "and what of Mademoiselle de Vesc?" + +"The greater includes the less," replied Commines shortly. + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"If the King may not spare his son can he spare the girl?" + +"There is no plot," repeated La Mothe, more emphatically than before, +"and I shall remain in Amboise." Crossing the room he knelt beside his +saddle-bags, opening and taking from them the package wrapped in a +linen napkin which contained the King's gifts to the Dauphin. "I +suppose I must live upon my knapsack for the present, but this I shall +take with me. Is there anything more to be said?" + +"Not for the present." + +"Then good night." + +The passage was plunged in the same quiet and as deep a gloom as when +he had traversed it an hour before, and La Mothe plumed himself on +regaining his room unseen. But had he paused and turned at the first +angle he would have seen the shadow which lay stretched in the deeper +shadows of the doorway stir itself, and Hugues' white face, a blur upon +the darkness, watching him. Beyond that door slept the Dauphin, and +Villon was right when he said that the guards of Amboise were not pikes +or cross-bows, but eyes that saw and hearts that loved. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY" + +With his overnight's irritation still unallayed, and more than ever +convinced that the prejudice which could so misread Mademoiselle de +Vesc must also wrong Francois Villon, La Mothe was early at the Chien +Noir. Of the Amboise household he had seen nothing, which means that +he had looked in vain for Ursula of the Cupid's bow, and his temper was +not thereby improved. But he had the day before him, and he promised +himself some recompense for his disappointment before it was many hours +old. Meanwhile, he would show Villon that all who came from Valmy were +not sharers in Commines' harsh judgment. He found the poet +contemplative over the remains of his breakfast, but in a mood as +captious as his own. + +"Have you found already that the inn has a warmer welcome than the +Château? I tell you this, my young friend, it will cost you less to +live here than there, though in either case it is the King who pays." + +"To every man his wages," answered La Mothe, but Villon shook his head. +His knowledge of the paying of wages, or at least of the earning of +them, gave the chance phrase a sinister meaning. + +"As to that, we all look for more than our dues in this world and less +in that to come. God's mercy keep us from justice! If our wages were +paid in full where would we be? What is little Charles doing?" + +"Sleeping, I suppose." + +"And Mademoiselle de Vesc?" + +"How should I know!" answered La Mothe crossly. It vexed him that +Villon should speak at all of Ursula de Vesc, and still more that his +answer was so lame. But recognizing the symptoms out of a wide +experience, Villon only laughed softly at the brusque retort. + +"Some peaches hang themselves high," he said, the laugh broadening as +La Mothe's face grew wrathful, "but they are peaches all the same. +Shake the tree, my young friend, shake the tree, and see that you keep +your mouth open when the fruit drops." + +"Monsieur Villon, if we are to be friends----" + +"So young, so very young," said Villon softly. "Friends? most +certainly. If we are not friends, who should be? Are we not both +jackals hunting in the one pack, and jackal does not bite jackal." +Then his mood changed with a swiftness which La Mothe soon found to be +characteristic, a kindliness cast out the jarring banter from his face, +and his luminous eyes grew wistful. "Friends? It is a good word, the +very best word in the world. Friends are more than family or kinship, +and not many care to call old Francois Villon friend nowadays. There +was a time----" He paused, running his hand down the long trail of his +beard reflectively, a slender-fingered supple hand. La Mothe noted it +was, a hand that had a distinct character of its own, just as the +contradictory face had, though the finger-tips were less sensitive than +in the days when their itching acquisitiveness had brought their owner +to the cold shadows of the gallows. "Aye! there was a time. There +were four of us----" + +"The ballad says six," said La Mothe. + +"Four, four: a man--yet, more, a woman--may have many lovers but few +friends, many to tuck an arm in his or throw it across his neck when +the pockets are full. But that's not friendship, and I don't call +every man friend who dips his fingers into the same till with me. Yes, +there were four of us, Montigny, Tabary, Cayeux, poor snows of yester +year sucked down by the cold earth. But while the blood was warm in +our veins we four were as one with one purse. When it was full we +laughed and sang and feasted as no king feasts, because no king has +such spice of appetite nor can snap his fingers at the world and care +as we could: when it was empty, and it was mostly empty, we laughed and +sang the louder and shared our crusts or went gaily hungry. Brave lads +every one, and brave days. Aye, aye." + +"And where are they now?" + +"With the snows of yester year! God knows where! and I fear me the +devil knows too. Montigny was hung in '57, Tabary in '58, and Cayeux, +Cayeux of the light heart and lighter fingers, went by the same path +two years later: I only am left. They said I killed a man and would +have hung me--me! Francois Villon! Certainly a man died or there +would be no Villon now: it was either he or I, and they would have hung +me." The full lips parted in a comfortable laugh and the eyes +twinkled. "I appealed to Parliament in a ballad, and the humour of the +notion moved the good gentlemen to mercy. 'How can we choke the breath +from so sweet a singer?' said they. 'There are ten thousand hangable +rogues in Paris, but only one poet amongst them!' God be praised for +humour. I think it gave Francois Villon his life; but since then +friendship has walked the other side of the street." + +"And yet," La Mothe laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder, letting +it lie there in kindliness, "you who so gibe at your best self are the +Francois Villon of the ballad to Mary the Mother. How is that?" + +"Can I tell you? + + 'Je cognois tout fors que moy mesme.' + +Man is Eden in little: there is the slime of the serpent under the tree +of knowledge, but the Lord God walks through the garden in the cool of +the day. What are we but contradictions, shadows of Montfaucon shot +through by glories from Notre Dame. Perhaps some day a clearer +knowledge than ours will straighten out the tangles," and with a laugh, +which had little joyousness in it, Villon plunged afresh into memories +which seemed to strike the whole gamut of a soul's experience from A to +G. + +La Mothe allowed him to run on without interruption. The alternations +of mood, tender and callous by turns, but never remorseful, never +regretful, except with the regrets for a lost delight, both amused and +repelled him, but at last as Villon sat silent he turned to the window +and flung open the wooden sun-blinds. + +"At last they are awake in the Château," he said. "Horses? hawks? Are +they going hunting, do you suppose?" + +"Saxe will know. Hulloa! Saxe! Saxe! What is little Charles doing +to-day?" + +"I was coming for you both," answered Saxe from the open door. "They +are riding to Château-Renaud, and your worships are so beloved by both +the Dauphin and mademoiselle that you must needs go with them. +Monsieur de Commines and Monsieur La Follette have gone hawking for the +day." + +"Do not go," said Villon. "They know you at Château-Renaud, and how +could you explain if they recognized you?" + +"But we may not go near the inn," answered La Mothe, to whom the ride +meant neither more nor less than a morning with Ursula de Vesc, +therefore a delight not to be denied. "But what of horses?" + +"They are being saddled this very moment," replied Jean Saxe, and then +went on to paint out La Mothe's roseate dreams with the dull brush of +realities. "Always," and he lowered his voice as he spoke, "whether by +day or by night, you will find a horse waiting ready for your ride to +Valmy. It is in the stall facing the door, monsieur. By day the +stable is open and not a soul will ask questions; saddle and bridle for +yourself, then ride like the devil. By night send a stone through the +last window on the left and I will be with you in three seconds. Don't +spare your spurs, that's my advice." + +"God send the man who rides to Valmy nothing redder than a red spur." +Villon had joined La Mothe at the window, and was peering out at the +stir of men and horses in the open space between the inn and the castle +gates. + +"Saxe, what man of yours is that who is bitting Grey Roland? I don't +know his face." + +"A stop-gap," answered Saxe indifferently. "A gipsy fellow I think he +is by his colour. Old Michel is drunk in the barn--how I don't know, +but the Chien Noir is none the better for it--this other is in his +place for the day. I don't know his name, but he can tell a horse from +a mule by more than the ears, and that's name enough for me." + +"Who owns that huge, raw-boned roan?" asked La Mothe. "Surely I have +seen it somewhere." + +"It's as much a stranger to me as Michel's stop-gap," answered Saxe. +"It's not one of the regular Château horses, that's certain. The beast +has power in his legs, rough though he is. Why do you ask, monsieur?" + +But La Mothe had already lost his interest. "There is the Dauphin," he +said. "Come, let us go." + +But his gaze was fixed on the slender figure which followed the boy, +and the eyes of a much greyer age than a lover of twenty-four with the +heart of eighteen might well have lit into a sparkle at the charm of +the picture. He was not learned in women's stuffs, or the hundred +little arts through which an accent, as it were, is put upon a charm +already sufficiently gracious, or a beauty brought into yet clearer +relief for the luring and undoing of the unsuspecting male, and so +could not have told whether Ursula de Vesc was clad in sober grey or +sunny lightness. She was Ursula de Vesc, and that was enough, Ursula +de Vesc, the woman of a single hour of life, and yet the one sweet +woman in the world. + +"A lover's arms ought to be her riding-chair," said Villon, following +La Mothe's gaze. "No, there is no offence meant," he added, as +Stephen's face reddened with the beginnings of umbrage. "She may be a +spitfire and not love Francois Villon, but she is a good girl, and my +four eyes are not blind." + +"Your four eyes?" questioned La Mothe; "most of us have but two." + +"Two in my head and two in my sense, and it is by the two in his sense +a man should marry. The two in the head are the greatest liars and +deceivers in creation." + +The Dauphin had already mounted when La Mothe and Villon crossed the +roadway with their horses following, led by drunken Michel's +substitute, and his greeting to both was of the curtest. The apologue +of the night before was neither forgotten nor forgiven. But with +Ursula de Vesc's grey eyes smiling at him La Mothe cared little for the +boy's dour looks. Hugues, who had mounted his master, still waited by +the horse's head, a spirited, high-bred bay, sleek and well groomed, +which stood shifting its feet with impatience at the delay. The bridle +of the less fiery but no less well-cared-for jennet intended for the +girl was held by a stable-helper, while in a group behind the escort +made ready to mount. Neither Commines nor La Follette was present; +they had gone hawking, as Saxe had said, nor was Hugues booted for +riding. + +"Good morning, Monsieur La Mothe." Ursula de Vesc spoke gaily, +frankly, as if she had not a care in the world, and the greeting in the +soft clear voice stirred La Mothe's heart as the smile in the grey eyes +had stirred it. "We missed you at breakfast: what early risers you +poets are." + +"Mademoiselle," stammered La Mothe, "my day has but now begun." + +"Then you must walk in your sleep," she interrupted laughingly. +"Monseigneur, do you hear? Monsieur La Mothe walks in his sleep. So +do not be frightened if you hear him in the corridor o' nights. He has +been up these three hours and says the day has only now begun." + +"I hear," replied Charles, turning on La Mothe those dull, watchful +eyes which, according to Villon, saw so much more than men supposed. +"And Hugues hears too. While Hugues sleeps at my door I shan't be +frightened. Come, Ursula, mount and let us go. Bertrand is so restive +I can scarcely hold him." + +At that moment La Mothe felt the bridle of Grey Roland pushed into his +hand with a "Hold that a moment, monsieur," and Jean Saxe's stop-gap +crossed to the Dauphin's side. + +"Your pardon, Monseigneur," he said, stooping, "there is a buckle +loose, if your Highness would lift your leg a moment while I fasten it." + +"A buckle? Where?" + +"Below the saddle-flap, Monseigneur: a shift of the leg--thank you, +Monseigneur, that is right," and he drew back toward the Chien Noir, +nor paused until he was lost in the crowd of idlers. For a gipsy he +was singularly unobtrusive. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +FOR LIFE AND A THRONE + +Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin mechanically closed +his knees, as a rider does to renew his grip after it has been relaxed. +But with the tightening of the grip the bay started as if goaded by a +vicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, shaking his head +till the chains rattled, then plunging to right and left he sprang +forward at a gallop. + +"Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins," cried mademoiselle, but the swerve +had sent Hugues staggering, and before he had steadied himself or +regained his wits Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, his +reins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer's. + +"The Dauphin! the Dauphin! Oh! for God's sake--Hugues--Monsieur La +Mothe--is there no one to help? They will be in the Loire--drowned +while you stand there staring. Oh! that I could ride like a man: why +don't you move, some of you, stocks that you are?" + +The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the broken sentences +followed one another, but before the frightened girl could lash them +with the whip of her distress a second time La Mothe had his fingers +knit in Grey Roland's mane and was climbing into the saddle, and the +last he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped blindly for a missing +stirrup, was the girl's deep breath, half sob, half cry. + +Bertrand had a long start, but on Grey Roland's back was a rider who in +his horsemanship had learned not only how to save his beast, so that no +ounce of strength might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knew +how to compel into immediate energy all that reserve force which +endures the trials of a long day's march. + +Bareheaded--his hat was in his hand as he jested with Ursula de Vesc, +and in the stress of the surprise he had flung it aside--La Mothe +crouched low in the saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand so +that he and Grey Roland alike were just conscious of the bit in the +sensitive mouth. For the moment, with that tense grip of the knees, +they were as one flesh; the need was they should be of one spirit. +With a quiet word La Mothe soothed the excitement which might have +plunged them both to sudden destruction on the rounded cobbles of the +paved streets, but once the gates were passed, and the dust of the high +road underfoot, he loosed the light tension and pressed his heels home +into the flanks. There, ahead, a shifting vision in the rising swirl +of dust, was the bay, thundering at top speed. Behind there were +shouts, cries, the clatter of iron shoes upon the stones, but La Mothe +heard only the muffled rhythm of galloping hoof-beats sounding through +the roar of the blood swelling his temples and booming in his ears like +the surf of a far-off sea. Away to the side, with a stretch of +sunburnt grass between, lay the river. Let Bertrand keep to the +winding road and all was well. Gallop how he might Grey Roland would +wear him down, but let him swerve, let the fluttering of a bird startle +him aside, and Ursula de Vesc's prophetic terrors would be justified. + +As the memory of her dread flashed into his mind afresh, there swept +across Stephen La Mothe one of those sudden storms of temptation which +at some time or another beat into every life, even the most sheltered, +and surely prove that the curse of primal sin still dwells inherent in +our best humanity. "He will drown! Well, let him drown!" and in the +instant of the thought, by some instinct of the brain, the loose rein +was drawn in with a jerk, which forced the grey to change his stride. +Let him drown and there was an end to the tangle which made a hell in +the possible heaven of Amboise, an end to the unnatural strife of +father and son, an end to the threatened rending asunder of France, who +was the mistress and mother of them all, whether King, Dauphin, or pawn +in the terrible game of life and death, an end to the danger which hung +over the head of Ursula de Vesc. Let him drown: death would pay all +debts, and the crooked would be made straight. + +Gritting his teeth La Mothe drew a deep breath. With the fuller +realization of the thought the sudden convulsion of his heart choked +him, and while his blood buzzed the louder for the possibility, fate, +chance, or what you will threw the cards in the game his way. Beyond a +bend of the road a waggoner's leisurely wain plodded its way to +Amboise, and next instant the clearer thunder of Bertrand's hoofs came +ringing back from the harder sod which lay between the river and the +road. The bay had headed for the bank where, by the same bend, the +river curved to a line ahead. Death would pay all debts, and the +crooked would be made straight: he would pay Commines all he owed him +and there would be clean hands for them both. Clean hands? "By God! +No!" he cried, and shook the tightened rein loose. Clean hands? Saul, +who consented to Stephen's death, was as red-handed as the man who +hurled the first stone: what better was it to let the boy ride to his +fate unaided? That way there was no cleansing of hands. To permit a +preventable death was murder--murder. + +Stooping lower La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, urging him with +voice and hand, "Faster, boy, faster, faster." That he had no spurs +was a point against him, but drawing his dagger he laid the point +against the wet flank. There was no need to draw blood, no need for +goading. The generous heart of the beast understood the touch, and the +splendid muscles coined their utmost strength, squandering it in a +spendthrift, willing energy. They were gaining now, stride by stride +they were gaining: Bertrand, the half Arab, had the greater endurance, +but English Grey Roland the greater power and the stouter heart. Yes, +they were gaining, and there was hope if only the Dauphin kept the +saddle, and so far he had held his place like a crouched statue, +stooping by instinct as La Mothe had stooped, and clinging to the long +mane with both hands. He was no coward, boy though he was, and not +once had looked back, nor did he now though the following hoofs must +have been loud in his ears as stride by stride the grey gained on the +bay, and the ten lengths of space between them closed to five, to +three, to one, and the glint of the river rose almost at their feet. +Then La Mothe spoke. + +"Monseigneur, keep your nerve, it will be all right. When I say 'Now!' +loose your hold and try to kick your feet free from the stirrups; leave +the rest to me." + +The gap narrowed foot by foot: up to the girth of the bay crept the +straining muzzle of the grey, the eyeballs staring, the teeth bared, +the nostrils wide, the foam flying with every jar of the hoof, up and +up with a scant two yards of river-bank to spare upon the outer side, +up and up till, leaning forward and aside with outstretched arm, La +Mothe could feel the pressing of the Dauphin's back, and the hand +closed in upon the ribs. "Now," he cried, his voice cracked and +hoarse. "Now, Christ help us, now, now," and gripping the boy he +reined back as tightly as he dared, reined back to feel the slender boy +slip from the bay's back, hang helpless in the air an instant, then +fall sprawling across the saddle. On dashed the bay, and as Grey +Roland staggered in his halt the bank caved under the Arab's feet; he +too staggered, rearing back too late, then plunged head foremost +forward. + +As, dropping the reins, La Mothe caught the Dauphin in both his arms to +raise him more fully upon the saddle, he was conscious for the first +time that they were followed. From behind there was a shout and the +noise of hoofs, and looking across his shoulder he saw Hugues mounted +on the roan riding recklessly. Beyond him the rest of the escort +tailed off almost to the city gate, with Ursula de Vesc framed by the +grey arch, her hand upon her breast, as it had been when La Mothe first +saw her, Love the Enemy, whom he so longed to make Love the more than +friend. "Win the girl and you win the boy," said Villon. But what if +he had won the boy, and winning him had won Ursula de Vesc, won her to +friendliness, won her to kindliness, won her to trust, won her to--and +Hugues thundered up breathlessly. + +"Monseigneur?" + +"Safe, unhurt, but I think he has fainted. Here," and lifting the lad +with little effort La Mothe leaned across to Hugues and won his heart +for ever by the act, "take him, you: he will be less fretted when he +comes to himself. The sooner he is in mademoiselle's care the better, +and I must spare Grey Roland." + +"Monsieur, monsieur," stammered the valet, gathering the boy into his +arms as carefully as any tender woman, "how can we thank you--how can +we prove----" + +"Thank Grey Roland," answered La Mothe, speaking more lightly than he +felt. "I did nothing but keep my stirrups." + +"Nothing?" Hugues' eyes turned to the gapped bank and followed the +course of the river, void of any trace of the bay. "Then to save a +king for France is nothing. But you are right, monsieur; the sooner +the Dauphin is in Amboise the better." + +"Was it for this you came to Amboise?" said Villon, as La Mothe, having +given Grey Roland his own time to return, halted at the inn door. The +crowd had been shaken off and the two were alone. "I doubt it myself, +and you should have heard Saxe curse: I give you my word it was +Parisian. But, as I said last night, what you do in Amboise is between +you and the King, and you won't be the first man in the world who could +not see beyond a pair of grey eyes." + +"Come, Villon, no Paris jests." + +"This was pure nature and no jest. I stood near her there in the +shadow of the gate as Roland drew in to the bay on the edge of the +bank, and she forgot Francois Villon, the guard, and everybody, as a +woman does when her soul speaks to her heart. Not a word had she said +till then, not one, but stood breathing deep breaths; there were red +spots on the cheek-bones, with those little white teeth of hers hard on +her lip. But when you leant aside and gripped the boy she cried--but +what matters what she cried?" + +"Is not friend more than family?" said La Mothe. "Tell me, my friend." + +"So you would win old Villon as well as the girl? Well, here it is +then--'Thank God I was wrong, oh, thank God I was wrong: God be thanked +for a good man,' and the tears were tumbling down her cheeks. My +friend," and Villon's voice deepened soberly, "I who am old have been +young, and I tell you this, if a man has any true salt in him at all, +heaven may well open for him when a woman like Ursula de Vesc calls him +good with tears on her cheeks." And La Mothe had the wisdom and humble +grace to answer nothing at all. It was Villon himself who broke the +silence with a whistle. + +"I am forgetting, fool that I am, though I think you too would have +forgotten with a pair of grey eyes weeping at your elbow. What do you +call this?" + +From the cloth pouch which hung from his girdle he drew a small twig +and handed it to La Mothe. It was spray of wild sloe cut from a +thicket and trimmed to the shape of a cross, with one stiff thorn, +broad based and sharp at the point as a needle, projecting at right +angles from the intersection. The marks of the knife were still fresh +upon it, the bark so soft and sappy that it must have been cut from the +living plant within the hour. La Mothe shook his head as he turned it +over on his palm. + +"This? What do you call it?" + +"Many things; the shadow of death for one; revenge, I think, for +another; hate, and a warning certainly, unless I am a fool as well as +all the hard things Monsieur d'Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am a +fool, perhaps I had better have left that lying where I found it. +Almost death, that's just what it is." + +"Villon, what do you mean?" + +"I mean you would find just such another bit of villainous innocence +under Bertrand's saddle-flap. The poor brute was driven mad by it. I +picked this up where Michel's stop-gap dropped it." + +"That hedge-side beggar?" + +"A hedge-side beggar who carries a signet slung round his neck. His +jacket opened as he stooped and the ring swung out. The hedge-side +beggar boasts a crest, Monsieur La Mothe: a martlet with three mullets +in chief. Now do you understand?" + +"No." + +"It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two brothers, the last +of their family, and Guy de Molembrais trusted our revered King--yes, I +see you know the name." + +Know the name? La Mothe knew it as he knew the justice of the King. +Had he not given his satire a loose rein over the safe-conduct which +drew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessness +which brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith? If +Villon was right then this little inch or two of new-cut twig might +indeed be all he said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and a +warning against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. But +was he right? + +"Are you quite sure?" + +"Quite," and Villon nodded. His face was very grave: not for an +instant had he slipped into his sardonic mood of ironical jest. "And, +mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how and +when he can." + +"Does Saxe know?" + +"Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at the +way you pounded his horse." + +La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the grey +where he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to the +stables. But if his intention was to charge Molembrais with his +cowardly attempt on the boy's life it was baulked. At the door Michel +met him, his rheumy eyes still blinking from his drunken sleep. + +"Where is that fellow who took your place?" + +"That's what I want to know, master. Took my place, did he? I'd place +him, I would, making an old man drunk to rob him of his bread." + +"Who was he?" + +"No good, that's all I know. Gipsy scum! rob an old man, would he? +I'll gipsy him if I find hair or hoof of him. Lord, master, how liquor +do make a man thirsty. You must ha' found it so yourself?" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY + +Never was the cynical philosophy of the proverb, Virtue is its own +reward, made more clear than in the indifference with which Amboise +greeted the rescue of the Dauphin. Of course, there are those who +contend that virtue is in itself a sufficient reward, but there is +certainly a second possible reading, and this reading La Mothe found +true. No one said what a fine fellow he was, no one stared in +admiration of his promptitude or in awe of his courage. Amboise was +cold, chillingly cold. + +Hugues, perhaps, was an exception, and if Villon was right Ursula de +Vesc had also been deeply moved. But that, La Mothe told himself as he +wandered disconsolately through the dull and gloomy corridors of the +Château, might have been nothing more than the transitory emotion of an +excited girl moved to an expression repented of when the mood cooled. + +So, as lovers have done ever since this hoar world was young, he gave +himself up to melancholy and found, as more than lovers have found, a +satisfaction in a grievance. Then, while he fumed, three half-grown +spaniel puppies, followed more sedately by a full-grown brother, came +scampering around a corner, and the lover remembered he was a sportsman +who loved dogs as well as little Charles himself. It was almost the +sole hereditary trait in the lad, and the passion for animals was as +strong in the Dauphin as it was in the King. + +Round the corner, full cry, they raced, slipped upon the smooth flags, +tumbled, rolled over, and with a common impulse fell upon one another +as puppies will in the sheer joy of living. But the elder dog, if he +still had the heart of eighteen or younger, did not forget he was +twenty-four with responsibilities and a dignity to maintain. Passing +gravely by the riot of paws and flapping ears he halted a yard away +from La Mothe, pushed out a sensitive, twitching nose, sniffed the hand +held out in greeting and as gravely licked it. Love at first sight is +not confined to humanity, and thanks to the unfailing miracle of +instinct the dog makes fewer mistakes than man. Inside of two minutes +he had adopted La Mothe into the very select circle of his friends. + +"I have heard of you," said La Mothe, pulling the soft ears gently. +"You sleep in the Dauphin's room o' nights as Hugues does at the door, +and now and then you lay your head on her knee, while she strokes and +pets you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not born a dog, tell me +that?" + +At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their play, sat up panting +a moment, and then in a tumultuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe. +Charlemagne vouched for him, Charlemagne who was their oracle as +grown-up brothers so often are, and they could let loose the exuberance +of their puppydom without a fear that a sudden cuff would teach their +youth that wild delights find an end in sorrow. Over each other they +sprawled in their heedless eagerness to get near to this new +playfellow, one, a little weaker than the rest, lagging a half-tail's +length behind, and La Mothe was so busy trying to find a hand for each +to mumble that he never knew how long Ursula de Vesc stood watching him. + +Nor was she in any haste to break the silence. A puzzling factor had +come into her life, and she was impatient of the enigma. The solution +was not a question of curiosity but of safety, and a safety not her +own. On one side was Commines, Louis' devoted adherent, devoted not +alone in service, but in blindness, the blindness which questions +neither means nor purpose; on the other side was Villon, Louis' jackal +and open ears in Amboise. Between these two so profoundly distrusted +stood Stephen La Mothe. Between them, but was he of them? That was +the problem. + +That morning, from Hugues' report of the visit in the darkened quiet of +the Château, and remembering how familiarly Villon had introduced La +Mothe overnight, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy of the +rendezvous with Commines argued some sinister threat. But now she +doubted, and as she watched La Mothe's careless play with the dogs the +doubt grew. Hugues had kept his eyes open: the gapped bank and the +narrow strip of grass between the bay and the river into which the grey +horse had been thrust, without a hesitating thought of the inevitable +result which must follow a slip or a swerve, spoke not alone of +personal courage, but said plainly that La Mothe was ready to risk his +life for the Dauphin. Neither Commines nor Villon would have done +that, they would have let him perish and raised no hand to save him. + +Where, then, was the sinister threat? And had not the devotion which +she had so contemptuously scoffed at the night before already proved +itself to be no empty word? Yes, she had scoffed, and he had answered +her scoff at the risk of his life. How, then, could he be one with +Commines and Villon? The thought that she had so misjudged him flushed +her as with a sudden heat, the grey eyes grew tenderly troubled in her +self-reproach, and unconsciously she drew a deeper breath. Slight as +the sound was the dogs heard it; round they spun from their play, their +mouths open, their tongues hanging, and next moment were leaping upon +her skirts with little yelps of greeting. + +"Mademoiselle!" and La Mothe sprang to his feet. "I did not hear you +coming: how could I have been so deaf?" It was on his tongue to add, +"I, who have been listening for the sound of your feet these hours +past," but he wisely checked himself in time. + +"Are you going to win all Amboise in a single day?" she answered, +stooping so that the jubilant puppies almost scrambled into her lap. +"You do not ask after the Dauphin?" + +"I fear I had forgotten him," he replied, and though there was no +intentional significance in his voice Ursula de Vesc was woman enough +to understand the subtle compliment. "How is he?" + +"If you forget, we do not. He is as well as a nervous boy can be after +such an ordeal. He is looking forward to seeing you this afternoon to +try to say to you what we all feel. Monsieur La Mothe, let me----" + +"Nervous he may be, but he is no coward," interrupted La Mothe hastily. +He foresaw what was coming and had all a shy man's horror of being +thanked. "He sat his horse like a little hero. There is no such +courage as to wait quietly for death." + +"And what of the courage which goes to meet death?" Pushing the dogs +from her Ursula de Vesc looked up, her face very grave and tender in +the shadows, as the spring of tears glistened under the lashes. Life +had brought her so little to be grateful for that the happiness of +gratitude was very great. + +"No, you must let me speak this once, I said hard things to you last +night, and my thoughts were still harder: to-day you have answered me, +and I am ashamed. Devotion? Gratitude? It is we who owe you these, +and we have nothing wherewith to pay. Monsieur La Mothe----" + +But again La Mothe interrupted her. + +"Think kindly sometimes and I am more than paid. Forgive the +presumption, for why should you think of me at all? Forget the hard +thoughts, mademoiselle, and let that pay in full." + +"There can be no more hard thoughts. How could we think hard thoughts +of our friends?" + +"Friends? If that might be." + +With the quick instinct which belongs to well-bred puppydom, and is not +unknown even in children, the dogs had caught the graver note which +changed her voice. By common consent they ceased their restless play +and, seated on their haunches, their sleek heads aslant, watched her +with wistful eyes; here was something their love could not quite +understand. + +"Friends? Amboise has more need of friends than Landless of the Duchy +of Lackeverything." The girl had risen slowly to her feet as she +repeated La Mothe's words, and now as she paused the shadow again broke +in lines of troubled care along her forehead. "Monsieur La Mothe, what +was the end of the story you began last night?" + +"It has no end as yet. The end is here in Amboise, and my hope is we +may find it together. I am sure we will if you will but help me. But +the story is true." + +"How can you say that?" she burst out passionately. "Where do you find +one little, little sign of love in Amboise? I can see none, none at +all. Nothing but neglect, suspicion, even hate. Oh! it is terrible +that a father should so hate his son. And yet you say there is love." + +"I say what I know. Trust me, and give me time to prove it." + +"We do trust you, indeed we do. Love in Amboise? Is it for that you +are here?" + +"Yes," answered La Mothe soberly. "It is for that I am here?" + +"And Monsieur d'Argenton? Is that why he is here too?" + +For a moment La Mothe returned no reply, but stood passing his fingers +through Charlemagne's soft hair. The lie direct or the lie inferential +would parry the question and possibly serve both Commines and the King; +but how could he keep his hands clean in Amboise and lie even by +inference to Ursula de Vesc who had said so simply, "We trust you"? It +was impossible, not to be thought of for a moment, but neither was the +whole truth. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton and I are not upon the same errand," he said at +last. "Some day, when you know me better, and trust me for something +better than a little brute courage which any man in my place would have +shown, I will ask you a question. When you have answered it--and I +know what the answer will be--I will tell you why Monsieur d'Argenton +is in Amboise." + +"Monsieur La Mothe, ask your question now." + +"No, the time has not come. But I will ask this: Help me that the +Dauphin may trust me, and together we will make the end of the story +Love and Peace and Faith." + +"Love and Peace and Faith," she repeated, her eyes filling for the +second time. "They have long been strangers to Amboise. God send our +France such a trinity." + +And again La Mothe had to check himself lest he should reply, "To you +too, mademoiselle." To bring just such a trinity into her life, Love +which worketh Faith, and the Peace which is born of both, was the one +supreme good which the world could offer out of all the gifts in its +treasure-house. But, as he said of his question, the time had not yet +come, so he changed the blunt directness to the more oblique "Not to +France alone," and was rewarded by seeing the serious wistfulness shift +into a gay smile, as she curtsied mockingly with a "Merci, monsieur!" +very different from the same words of the previous night. Then she +added, as the dogs, following her lighter mood, sprung upon her anew: + +"Here I have two of them already, but certainly they give one little +peace. Have they been formally introduced? This is Diane, who will be +a mighty huntress in her day. This we call Lui-même because," she +paused, flashing a mischievous glance at La Mothe, "well, just because +his temper is not very good. He is a bully and uses his teeth on poor +Charlot, who is the weakest of the three and the one we love best. But +Charlot has one bad habit, he is very inquisitive, and it will get you +into trouble some day, Charlot dear": whereat Charlot cocked his ears +and looked wise. + +Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for himself, and said +them with the dignity of a Dauphin of France struggling through the shy +manners of a self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating both +dignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frankness which told +La Mothe that Ursula de Vesc's influence was already at work. The cold +distaste had already disappeared, nor was there any suggestion of a +compelled gratitude. Commines and La Follette had not returned from +their hawking, and only Father John and the girl were with the Dauphin. + +He had been conversing with the priest, but broke off abruptly when La +Mothe was announced. + +"Monsieur," he said, his hand stretched out as he went hastily to meet +him, "there are some services hard to repay. No, I don't mean +services, services is not the word. Services are for servants and I +don't mean that, but perhaps you understand? And perhaps, too, some +day you will teach me to ride as well as you do?" + +"There is little to teach," answered La Mothe. "And as I told Hugues, +it is Grey Roland who should be thanked." + +"What the heir cannot do, being as yet a child," said the priest, "the +grateful father can and surely will." Then he laid his hand on the +Dauphin's shoulder. "Were you greatly afraid, my son? At such a time, +with death so near, fear would not shame a man, much less a boy." + +"When Bertrand swerved I was afraid just for a moment, for I did not +know what was going to happen, but not afterwards." + +"But afterwards, in that awful moment when hope was gone and the world +slipped from you, when there was nothing real but God and your own +soul, what were your thoughts then?" + +The boy made no reply, but shifted uneasily under the hand which still +rested upon him. The heavy eyes which had brightened while he spoke to +La Mothe grew dull and peevishly sullen again as, according to habit, +he glanced towards Ursula de Vesc. Following the glance La Mothe saw +the girl shake her head warningly, apprehensively even: but Charles had +not the obstinate Valois chin for nothing. + +"Perhaps you have forgotten? At such times the mind is not very clear. +Or perhaps it was like a dream? Dreams, you know, are forgotten when +we wake." + +"I remember very well. Yes, Ursula, I shall tell him since he asks. I +wondered whether a son who hated his father, or a father who hated his +son, would be most certainly damned." + +"My son, my son," cried the priest, horrified. "How could you allow +such a terrible thought?" + +"Oh!" And the boy shook off the restraining hand impatiently. "You +come from Valmy and are like all the rest of them. Monsieur La Mothe, +let us go and thank Grey Roland." + +But as he followed the Dauphin out of the room La Mothe asked himself +whether, even with Ursula de Vesc's help, the end of the story could +possibly be Love, Peace, and Faith. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST + +"I told you at the first you were not going the right way about it." + +"And you were wrong," answered La Mothe. "I am only ten days in +Amboise, ten days which seem like so many hours, and already Charles +trusts me as he trusts Mademoiselle de Vesc." + +Pushing out his loose-hung under lip Villon eyed his companion +quizzically, but with a little pity through the banter. They were +alone in the common room of the Chien Noir, and on the table by which +they sat were two bottles of the famous '63 wine, one empty, the other +with its tide at a low ebb, but La Mothe's horn mug was still unemptied +after its first filling. With some men this would have been an +offence, but not with Francois Villon. "Good-fellowship is not in wine +but in words, or surer still, in silence," he would say, "and another +man's drinking neither warms my heart nor cools my thirst. Besides, +there is the more left for the wiser man." + +"Ten days of opportunity, and you are content that a boy trusts you! +Lovers were not so coldly contented in the good old days of the Paris +pavements. Soul of the world! but there is no talk like Paris talk. +La Mothe, you will never be a man till you hear it. Cling-clang go the +feet, and cling-clang sing the flags under them, cling-clang, +cling-clang, and I'll never hear it again--never. Content, d'you say? +I'll not believe it. I'll not think so little of you. The Good God +never meant man to be content. How would the world move?" + +"I'm winning what I came to Amboise to win." + +"A snap of the finger," and Villon filliped his own noisily, "for what +you came to Amboise to win. The garden grows more flowers than +fleurs-de-lis, and better worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? I +think there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily----" + +"No Paris jests, Villon." + +"Trust Francois Villon! Jest?" His eyes twinkled humorously over the +edge of his tilted horn cup as he finished the second bottle. "In all +divine creation there is nothing so solemn as the heart of youth in its +first love. It is the first, is it not, La Mothe? Gods of Olympus! +was I ever as young as you? I think Paris aged me before I was +breeched. But to go back to my garden. Do you dislike the simile--a +Madonna lily?" + +"The subject is distasteful." + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc distasteful? Monsieur La Mothe, I apologize. In +all my Paris days I was never such a hypocrite as to make love to a +woman who was distasteful. But then, is any woman distasteful if a man +be only in the right mood?" + +"Villon, that is untrue------" + +"My friend, I know my past better than you do. Distasteful? Pah! it +is an ugly word." + +"What you say of me is untrue. I honour Madedoiselle de Vesc----" + +"Much she cares for that! 'No, thank you!' said the cat, when they +gave her frozen milk. Honouring is cold love-making. And now you have +proved that you don't go the right way about it. 'Mademoiselle,'"; and +Villon minced a melancholy falsetto, "'I respect you deeply; +mademoiselle, I honour you humbly from a distance; you are the highest +star in the heavens, and I a worm of the earth! Permit me to kiss your +venerated finger-tips.' Honour! Bah! get nearer to them, man; nearer +to them; the closer the better; honour is too far off. Listen, now, +while I teach you a better way." + +"Thank you for nothing," said La Mothe drily, but unoffended. In these +ten days he had learned which of Villon's jests were innocent of +intention to hurt, and which carried a poisoned barb. "Love may be +bought in Paris, but not in Amboise." + +"But it costs more," retorted Villon. "In Amboise it costs a man's +whole life, whereas in Paris," he paused, shrugged his shoulders, +turned the drinking mug upside down and shook it whimsically, +"emptiness ended all: emptiness of pocket, emptiness of--but there are +seven separate emptinesses and any one was enough. Now listen and do +not interrupt again. There be many ways of gathering peaches, but your +way of kneeling at the foot of the tree with your hands folded like a +saint in stained glass is the worst of all. It is only in theory that +women, even lily Madonnas, love men to be saints; when it comes to +practice----" + +He broke off, chuckling the soft complacent chuckle La Mothe so greatly +disliked, and putting the empty mug to his nose drew in the perfume of +the wine with a deep breath. The lids drooped slowly over his shining +eyes, and in the backward groping along the crooked byways which had +led from Paris pavements to the mercy of Louis by way of an escaped +gallows he forgot both La Mothe and Amboise. The voice of Paris the +beloved, Paris the ever mourned for, was in his ears; the jargon of the +Rue Maubert, the tinkle of the glasses through the doubtful but merry +songs of the Pet du Deable, whispers of gay voices which had long +passed beyond these voices, and the leering face, part satyr and part +poet, grew wholly poet in its remembrance. It is the blessing of +nature, and one of its most divine gifts, that memory brings back the +best from the past and leaves the worst covered. Even our snows of +yester year are roseate with the glow of imagination. + +"The Madonna lily! Blessed is the man who gathers one and finds warm +blood in its pure veins. The gift of a good woman who loves and is +loved. Aye, aye, God send us all heaven while we're young. The +Madonna lily! Once there was such a one in the garden of life, pure, +sweet, and beloved. But the perfume was not for Francois Villon, and +the swine in him turned to the husks of the trough. Catherine de +Vaucelles; Catherine, dead these many years, dead but never forgotten, +a saint with the saints of God, and the rest--damned." He spoke to +himself rather than to La Mothe, but after a little spell of silence he +looked up, gravely in earnest. "You go too slowly. Any day the King +may crook his finger. What if he calls you to Valmy, then sends you +God knows where, God knows for how long, and you return to Amboise to +find some one else has gathered your lily while you lagged? That would +be a chilly winter in the garden of life where you left young spring." + +La Mothe sat silent. What reply was possible? That the advice was +well meant he knew, but he had never before realized that a peremptory +recall might come any moment from Valmy. And it was not impossible. +Louis, aged and ailing, spurred, too, by the desire for the comfort of +his son's love while life was still good to the taste, would be +impatient of delay. These ten days which had passed with the swiftness +of a summer's morning would be long as a wintry month to the lonely +father. But to the devout lover, in him haste savoured of presumption. +Ursula de Vesc was his good friend and comrade; could he hope for more +than that in so short a time? In making haste might he not lose all he +had gained? Besides, in the service and worship of the one dear woman +in the world, a man is his own High Priest, and none save himself may +enter into the Holy of Holies. And what could this peach-picker of +Paris pavements know of such a Holy of Holies? Nothing, absolutely +nothing. So he sat silent, doubly tongue-tied by doubt and reverence. + +But for these, Villon, who read his face with disconcerting ease, had +no great respect. + +"Eh!" he said briskly, "is the advice good?" + +"Is good advice easy to follow?" + +"Yes, when it is palatable, which is not often: commonly it has a +bitter taste in the swallowing. Or do you think it will be all the +same fifty years hence? By all the Muses, there's an idea! I must +write the 'Ballad of Fifty Years to Come.' Let me see--let me see--'m +yes, the first verse might run like this: + + "Where is La Mothe, that lover gay, + Or Francois Villon, poet splendid! + Madonna of the eyes of grey, + Or Charles whom Bertrand nearly ended? + D'Argenton, are his manners mended? + Or wisest Louis, swift to pardon + Though so grievously offended? + Ask of the Scents of Amboise garden! + + +"There!" and he drummed the empty mug on the flat of the table in mock +applause which was not all unreal, "what do you think of that for the +first draft? It does justice to me and to you, chronicles little +Charles' escape, kicks your Monsieur d'Argenton in passing, and takes +off its hat to the King all in a breath." + +"Tear it up," answered La Mothe. "Will the King thank you for hinting +he will be dead and forgotten fifty years hence? When you speak of +Louis, you should always say, 'O King, live for ever!'" + +The drumming ceased, the gay laugh died out of Villon's eyes, and he +sat ruefully silent. To hint at death to Louis, even remotely, was an +unpardonable sin. + +"You are right," he said at last, and said it with a sigh. "All the +same, the idea is a good one, and ideas are scarcer than poetry and +always will be. I have heard your verses, my young friend. Here is +Saxe. Saxe, have you brought that third bottle? To drink less than +his average is a crime against a man's thirst." + +But Saxe was empty-handed. + +"Monsieur de Commines desires speech with Monsieur La Mothe in the +Château garden." + +"Monsieur de Commines? Bah! Go and be birched," said Villon +peevishly. The failure of his ballad had vexed him, and he was ready +to vent his spleen on what lay nearest. "You deserve it for your +milk-and-water love-me-a-little-to-morrow. Had it been the old Paris +days the Madonna lily would have said 'Come!' to Francois Villon in +less than a week." + +"Paris flowers do not grow in Amboise garden," answered La Mothe, and +added "Thank God!" in his heart. + +Commines was standing at the entrance to an arch of roses which, +pergola fashion, covered a sunny walk. On three sides rose the +Château, grey and sullen, on the fourth was an enclosing wall. In +shaded corners a few belated gillyflowers, straggling and overgrown, +filled the air with perfume, but La Mothe's gaze was caught by a group +of Madonna lilies, slim and graceful, rising from a bed of purple +fleurs-de-lis, their ivory buds new opened, and the recollection of +Villon's comparison thrilled his imagination with its aptness. Grace +for grace, beauty for beauty, in fulfilment and promise, they were +Ursula de Vesc herself. + +But almost with his first sentence Commines proved that Villon had +shrewd forethought as well as a poet's eye for a fitting simile. + +"If it is not Mademoiselle de Vesc it is Francois Villon; if it is not +philandering it is wine-bibbing," he said harshly. "Stephen, the King +thinks you are wasting your time in Amboise and I think so too. What +have you discovered in your ten days?" + +"All that there is to learn, Uncle." + +"I see. That Ursula de Vesc has a pretty face? Stephen, Stephen, you +are not in Amboise to play the fool." + +La Mothe flushed and was about to answer angrily, but remembering that +Commines spoke for the King rather than for himself he restrained his +impatience. + +"Uncle, is that just?" + +"Well, what have you discovered?" + +"That there is no such vile scheme as the King imagines." + +"Can you prove that?" + +"To me there is proof. Ten days ago, when the boy thanked me for +pulling him off Bertrand's back, he as much as said he had nothing to +pay me with. Now if this lie of a plot against the King were the +truth, would not a self-willed boy like the Dauphin, boastful as boys +are, proud and galled by the debt he thought he owed me, have hinted +that the day would come when he could pay in full, and sooner than some +expected? He surely would. His pride would have run away with his +discretion. Besides, Uncle, what have you discovered in your ten days?" + +But Commines returned no answer, and to La Mothe his gloomy face was +inscrutable. He knew his master; knew, without being told in so many +words, that it was the King's purpose to set Charles aside; knew that +the King believed justification for such a course was to be found at +Amboise; knew above all, knew with the knowledge of other men's bitter +experience, that there were no thanks for the man who failed, even +though that failure proved a son innocent of crime against a father. +It was not innocence the King desired but guilt. + +And yet, now that La Mothe had brought him face to face with the +question, what had he discovered? Little or nothing. Using all the +arts and artifices which ten years' service under such a master of +subtle craftiness as the eleventh Louis had taught him, he had cajoled +and bribed, probed and sifted, even covertly threatened at times. But +all to no purpose. An indignant sarcasm from Ursula de Vesc, a +politic--and wise--regret for the estrangement from La Follette, a +petulant outburst from Charles, childish and pathetically cynical by +turns, the vague whispers inseparable from such a household as was +gathered together in Amboise were all his reward. But the King +demanded proof; the King demanded articles of conviction which would, +if necessary, satisfy an incredulous world that the terrible tragedy +which followed proof was the justice of the highest law. + +"Disaffection is everywhere," he said at last; "disloyalty which only +lacks the spur of opportunity to drive desire into action. If these +things are on the surface, worse lies hidden. You know the proverb of +Smoke and Fire? I see the fire laid, I smell the smoke: it was for you +to find the spark, you who have had a free hand in Amboise. But you +play nonsense games with Charles, hanging upon the skirts of the +unscrupulous woman who tutors him to revolt, or drink in taverns with a +scurrilous thief turned spy to save his neck from a deserved hanging. +Do you think you serve the King by philandering in a rose garden, or +playing at French and English in the Burnt Mill? Francois Villon! +Ursula de Vesc! Stephen, you make yourself too much one with them--an +unhung footpad who prostitutes the powers of mind God gave him to the +devil's use, and a woman----" + +"Uncle, if even your father had spoken evil of Suzanne would you have +listened to him?" + +"Suzanne? What has Suzanne in common with Ursula de Vesc?" + +"Only that I love her as you loved Suzanne," answered La Mothe. + +"Ursula de Vesc? Stephen, at the least she is the King's enemy." + +"Yes, he told me so himself." + +"And at the worst----" + +"There is no worst," said La Mothe doggedly. "There is no plot against +the King, no plot at all." + +"And your proof is that when a clever woman bade a boy control his +tongue he obeyed her! Will that convince Louis? Would it convince +yourself but for this calf-love of yours? Stephen, Stephen, you do not +know the gulf on which you stand. What answer am I to return to the +King?" + +"Uncle, is it my fault that I am living a lie in Amboise?" + +"Grey Roland changed all that for you ten days ago. There was the game +in your hands, and you threw it away! A touch of the heel, a single +twitch of the bridle--there, there, say nothing: perhaps at your age I +would have had the same scruples. But what answer am I to return to +the King?" + +"That I will do all he bade me; do it with all my heart to the very +letter," answered La Mothe. And with that Commines had to be content. + +"You go too slow," said Villon. "You go too fast," said Commines. +Between such cross fires what was a poor lover to do? There was once, +La Mothe remembered, a man who had an only son and an ass. But the +problem is older than the imagination of any fabulist, and as new as +the newest day in the world. "Thou shalt die," said the Lord God. +"Thou shalt not surely die," said the devil. + +"I will take my own way," he said. "It is my life I have to live, not +theirs." And that afternoon came his opportunity to prove that a man +knows best how his own life should be shaped. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION + +Only the very foolish or the very weak man seeks to hide from his own +soul the full, naked, unpalatable truth about himself. The fool +follows the principle which governs the libel upon the intelligence of +the ostrich, and vainly tries to persuade himself that what he does not +see does not exist, while the weak man dares not open the doors of the +cupboard hidden in every life for shivering terror of the secrets he +knows are there. Wiser wickedness deliberately airs his skeleton now +and then, and thereby the grisly presence grows less grisly, and the +hollow rattle of the bones less threatening. The articulation remains +the same, but the tone, so to speak, is more subdued. + +And Stephen La Mothe, being neither a fool nor altogether weak, was not +afraid to admit to himself that Commines' angry contempt had described +the day-by-day life at Amboise with sufficient accuracy, at least so +far as the Dauphin and Ursula de Vesc were concerned. The bitter fling +at his friendship for Villon did not trouble him. It was simply the +high light added to the picture to bring out its general truth. + +Yes, he had played games of make-believe with the boy, such as Louis +had spoken of half in tolerance and half with the vexation of a clever +father who resents that his only son is not as clever as himself. He +had--no, he had not philandered in the rose garden. The associations +of the word stirred him to revolt. Dairy-maids might philander, +kitchen wenches and such-like common flesh might philander, but never +Ursula of the grey eyes, Ursula of the tender, firm mouth. Ursula +philander? Never! never! The thought was desecration. What was it +Louis had said? All women are the same under the skin. It was a +cynic's lie, and Louis had never known Ursula de Vesc. + +Lifting a lute he touched the strings lightly. He was in one of the +smaller rooms of the Château, one the girl used more, almost, than any +other, and little suggestions of her were scattered about it. On a +bench was a piece of woman's work with the threaded needle pushed +through the stuff as when she laid it aside, flowers she had gathered +were on the table, the portière masking the door was her embroidery. +Perhaps all these forced an association of ideas. Picking the strings +out one by one half unconsciously, the air of the love song followed +the shift of the hand, and equally unconsciously his voice took up the +rhythm, first in an undertone, then louder and louder: + + "Heigh-ho! Love is my sun, + Love is my moon and the stars by night. + Heigh-ho! hour there is none, + Love of my heart, but thou art my light; + Never forsaking, + Noon or day-breaking, + Midnights of sorrow thy comforts make bright. + Heigh-ho! Love is my life, + Live I in loving and love I to live: + Heigh-ho!----" + + +"Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, have you deceived us all these +days?" + +Down went the lute with a clang which jarred its every string into +discord, and La Mothe sprang to his feet. + +"Deceived you, mademoiselle! How?" + +"That first night--I do not like to remember it even now, but Monsieur +Villon told us you were both poet and singer, but you denied it. And +now I hear you singing----" + +"Not singing, mademoiselle." + +"Singing," she persisted, with a pretty emphasis which La Mothe found +very pleasant. "We shall have a new play to-night. A Court of High +Justice, and Monsieur La Mothe arraigned for defrauding Amboise of a +pleasure these ten days. I shall prosecute, Charles must be judge, and +your sentence will be to sing every song you know." + +"Then I shall escape lightly; I know so few." + +"There! You have confessed, and your punishment must begin at once. +Villon was right: Amboise is dull; sing for me, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"But," protested La Mothe, "Villon was wrong as well as right in what +he told you that night." + +"What? A minstrel who wanders France with his knapsack and his lute +and yet cannot sing?" If the raillery yet remained in the gay voice, +it was a raillery which shifted its significance from pleasant badinage +to something deeper, and the tender mouth which La Mothe was so sure +could never lend itself to philandering lost its tenderness. More than +once he had caught just such expression when the perilous ground of the +relationships between father and son had been trodden upon in an +attempt to justify the King. Then it had been impersonal, now he was +reminded of his first night in Amboise, when her cold suspicion had +been frankly unveiled. But the hardening of the face was only for a +moment. "Truly, now," she went on, "have you never made verses?" + +"Very bad ones, mademoiselle." + +"A poet tells the truth! The skies will fall! But perhaps it is not +the truth; perhaps you are as unjust to your verses as you are to your +singing." Seating herself in a low chair, she looked up at him with a +dangerous but unconscious kindness in her eyes. "Now sit there in that +window-seat and let me judge. With the sun behind you you will look +like Apollo with his lyre. No, not Apollo. Apollo was the sun itself. +Why are men so much more difficult to duplicate in simile than women?" + +"Not all women. I know one for whom there is no duplicate." + +"A poet's divine imagination!" + +"A man's reverent thankfulness." + +The grey eyes kindled, and as the unconscious kindliness grew yet more +kindly La Mothe told himself he had surely advanced a siege trench +towards the defences. As to Ursula, she could not have told why these +last days had been the pleasantest of her life, and would have +indignantly denied that Stephen La Mothe was in any way the cause. +Women do not admit such truths as openly as men, not even to +themselves. But Amboise was no longer dull, the rose garden no longer +a mere relief from the greyness of the hours spent behind the grim +walls which circled it. The sunshine was the same, the budding flowers +were the same, the glorious shift from winter to summer, but they were +the same with a difference, a difference she never paused to analyze. +Spring--the spring of her life--had come upon her unawares. + +But a more acknowledged element in the pleasant comfort of these days +had been a sense of support. One of the most corroding sorrows of life +is to be lonely, alienated from sympathy and guidance, and in Amboise +Ursula de Vesc had been very solitary. La Follette was politic, +cautiously non-committal; Hugues of a class apart; Commines an avowed +opponent; Charles too young for companionship; Villon a contempt, and +at times a loathing. Into this solitariness had come Stephen La Mothe, +and the very reaction from acute suspicion had drawn her towards him. +Repentance for an unmerited blame is much nearer akin to love than any +depths of pity. Then to repentance was added gratitude, to gratitude +admiration, and to all three propinquity. Blessed be propinquity! If +Hymen ever raises an altar to his most devoted hand-maid it will be to +the dear goddess Propinquity! Yes! these days had been very pleasant +days. + +But an unfailing charm in a charming woman is that one can never tell +what she will do next. Though the grey eyes kindled and the kindliness +in them grew yet more kindly, though the soft embroideries in the +delicate lawn were ruffled by a quicker breath, the natural perversity +of her sex must needs answer perversely, and Ursula de Vesc blew up his +siege trench with a bombshell. + +"Monsieur La Mothe, were you ever at Valmy?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." There was no shadow of hesitation in the reply, +though the abrupt change of subject was as startling as the question +itself. + +"Of course. Music opens all doors. Monsieur La Mothe, I congratulate +you." + +"That having been in Valmy I am now in Amboise?" + +"Upon better than that. Some day I may tell you." + +"But this is the best possible, and I congratulate myself. No! Good +as this is, there is a better than the best! Mademoiselle----" + +"But you sing as well as make verses, do you not--you, whose music +opened the gates even of Valmy? Indeed, I heard you just now. You are +another Orpheus, and Valmy a very similar interior. You don't like me +to say so? Very well, my lute is in your hand, and I am waiting. Did +they teach you in Poitou to keep ladies waiting?" + +"Poitou?" repeated La Mothe; "but I never said I had been in Poitou." + +"Oh! but as a minstrel you wander everywhere, or--what was it?--as a +poor gentleman seeing France, and so to Poitou. Anjou, Guienne, +anywhere would do as well--except Flanders, where Monsieur de Commines +comes from, and where I wish Monsieur de Commines had remained," she +added. + +"You dislike Monsieur de Commines? Mademoiselle, if you knew him +better; how I wish you did. There was once a friendless boy--" + +"Is this another fairy tale?" Though she interrupted him with so +little ceremony, there was no asperity in the voice. It was as if she +said, "Even good women have their limitations. I may forgive Philip de +Commines, but you cannot expect me to praise him." + +"As true a story as the other." + +"And you believe in that other?" + +"With all my heart." + +"Then why does the father not show himself fatherly?" + +"Is it not the part of the son to say, 'Father, I have sinned'?" + +"I see," she said, some of the old bitterness creeping into her tone, +"the prodigal of twelve years old who is rioting in Amboise--you see +how he riots--should ask forgiveness," and as she spoke Stephen La +Mothe, with a sudden sense of chill, remembered that other prodigal of +twelve years old who was hung on the Valmy gallows that the roads of +France might be safe. If Commines was right, the parallel was +complete--horribly complete. But she gave him no time to dwell upon +the coincidence. "You put a heavy charge upon me," she went on, the +furrows deepening on her forehead. "Would to God I could see what is +best, what is right. I must think. I must think. Play to me, +Monsieur La Mothe, but not too loudly, and do not call me rude if I do +not listen. I know that must sound strange, but at times music helps +me to think. Is it not so with you?" + +The question was apologetic, and as such La Mothe understood it. He +understood, too, the straits in which she found herself. So powerful +was her influence over Charles, the boy would certainly act on her +advice. Her knowledge of Stephen La Mothe was greater than he +supposed. If he was right, and she held her peace, this breach between +father and son would not only remain unhealed but would be widened by +Louis' natural resentment at the rejection of his covert overtures; but +if La Mothe was mistaken she knew the old King well enough to be +certain that he would use the boy's unwelcome advances against him in +some cunning fashion. Which way lay wisdom? Or, as she had put +it--raising the question to a higher plane--which was the right? + +"If you please," she said imperiously. "Yes, I mean it. Play David to +the evil spirit of my doubt," and with a laugh to cover his sense of +embarrassment La Mothe obeyed, touching the instrument very softly. + +But she could not have told whether he played a drinking-song or a +Miserere. With her, as with many, the quiet rhythm of the music +stimulated thought, and gradually the perplexity cleared from her mind. +Stephen La Mothe was not a fool, that counted for much. He was honest, +that counted for much more. The King was notoriously ailing and, being +superstitious, might well repent; no high motive, but a probable one. +Philip de Commines' visit to Amboise was not by chance, and nothing +less than his master's orders would have kept him so long from Valmy. +If Stephen La Mothe was right, then these orders must surely have a +connection with the King's changed disposition towards the Dauphin. +She would watch Commines, doing nothing hastily, and by his actions +would shape her course. + +With the relaxation from concentrated thought the swing of the music's +rise and fall caught her ear. It was a ballad air, and new to her. +Shifting her chair, she looked up at La Mothe as he bent over his +instrument. Streaming through the windows behind him the cunning +sunshine lit the brown of his hair to a red-gold. She had never seen +just such a colour in a man, and the Apollo simile was not so unapt. + +"Sing," she said suddenly, and again La Mothe obeyed, catching up the +air almost unconsciously. + + "Lilies White and Roses Red, + Gracious sweetness past compare, + Beauty's self to thee hath fled, + Lilies White and Roses Red: + Lover's service bows its head, + Awed by witchery so fair, + Lilies White and Roses Red, + Gracious sweetness past compare." + + +"Are they your own verses?" + +"No, I wish they were. I only think them." + +Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked aside and there was +silence. Her thoughts, or that brief glance--Apollo was a god, good to +look upon--had so warmed her cheeks that the refrain of the Triolet was +almost justified. The lines of anxious care were smoothed from the +forehead, and the half-smile of the new-drawn Cupid's bow was a little +tremulous. A sudden determination moved La Mothe. Never had he seen +her so gracious, so womanly, so completely the one sweet woman in all +the world. Pushing the lute aside, he leaned forward. + +"Mademoiselle," he began earnestly, "do you remember ten days ago I +said there was a question I would dare to ask you when you knew me +better?" + +"I remember," she said, turning a little from him that the light might +not fall upon her face to betray her. She said she remembered, but the +truth was that in the tumult of her thoughts the recollection was +vague. "Yes, I think I know you better." + +"It is a very bold question, and one which might well offend. And yet +you know I would not willingly offend you?" + +"Yes, I am sure of that." The rustling of the lawn and laces on her +breast was a little more tempestuous, but the voice was very level, +very quiet. As to Stephen La Mothe, he felt that earth and sun and +stars had disappeared and they two alone were left out of all the world. + +"So bold, so presumptuous," he went on, "that it is hard to find words +at all. But you forgive me in advance?" + +At that she smiled a little. She did not think there would be much +need for pardon. Was there any question Apollo--Stephen La Mothe, that +is--might not ask? She knew now why these ten days had been the +happiest of her life. + +"Yes, Monsieur La Mothe, you are forgiven beforehand." + +"Then--is there any plot in Amboise against the King? From you a +simple 'no' is enough. I ask no proof, a simple word, nothing more." + +Unconsciously he had forced a pleading into his voice, an urging, as if +it was not so much the truth he sought as a denial at all costs; but as +she turned in her chair, rising as she turned so that she looked down +upon him, he broke off. It would have taken a much bolder man than +Stephen La Mothe to have maintained his covert accusation--and what +else was it?--in the face of the angry surprise which needed no +expression in words. + +"Was that your question? You have spied upon us all these +days--suspected us--accused us in your thoughts? You have pretended +friendship, devotion--God knows what monstrous lie--and all the while +you spied--spied. But you shall have your answer in your single word. +No, Monsieur La Mothe; such women as I am do not plot against their +King, nor teach sons to revolt against their fathers." + +"Mademoiselle----" he began. + +But not even the scornful indignation vouchsafed him a second glance as +she swept past him without a word. At the door she paused and, half +turning, looked back across her shoulder, a spot of scarlet on either +cheek. + +"I had forgotten my message. I had already told Jean Saxe, in case I +failed to find you. The Dauphin bids you join him at the Burnt Mill at +three o'clock; but if it were not that the Dauphin's word is a command, +even to you I would say be otherwise engaged, Monsieur La Mothe, since +I must be of the party." + +"But, Mademoiselle----" + +He spoke to an empty room, and if Ursula de Vesc closed the door +between them with a greater vigour than the politeness strict +deportment demanded she may surely be excused. It may be that even the +angels lose their tempers at times over the follies of a blind humanity. + +As to Stephen La Mothe, he stood staring at the closed door as if he +were not only alone in the room but in the very world itself; or, +rather, as if the world had suddenly dropped from under his feet and +the shock bewildered him. She had been so gracious, so very sweet and +gracious. He had been forgiven in advance; why such bitter offence? A +single word was all he had asked--one little word. Then he flushed all +over with a peculiar pricking sensation down the spine. Could it be +that she expected a very different question; one whose answer might +have been a Yes? If that were so--but it was absurd, and he called +himself many hard names for having such an idea a single moment. To +have thought such a thought of Ursula de Vesc was as preposterous as +saying she would philander in a rose garden. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +FRENCH AND ENGLISH + +Before the coming of the Maid, that is to say more than fifty years +before Stephen La Mothe gave himself the heartache over his misreadings +of the most read chapter in the book of nature, there stood upon the +banks of the Loire, about a mile from Amboise, the flour mill of one +Jean Calvet. For six generations it had passed from a Calvet to a +Calvet, son succeeding father as Amurath an Amurath, and the Moulin +Flèche d'Or was as well known to the countryside as Amboise itself. +The kirkyard or the grinding stones; humanity must needs find its way +to both. + +When harvests were fat, and corn plentiful, its stones hummed from +daylight to dark to the blent music of the creaking wheel and the +splash-splash of the water which drove it. In lean years, when war or +famine was abroad, and thanks to England these years were not few, the +sluice was lifted, and in place of the hoarse murmur and complaint of +the grinding stones and lumbering wheel there was the soft purr of the +millrace, and the Calvet of his generation lived, like a turtle, on his +own fat, waiting for better days. And sooner or later these always +came, and with their coming grew the prosperity of the Golden Arrow. +Corn and the human heart must needs be ground while the world lasts, +and perhaps it is as much out of the grinding of the latter as the +former that life is strengthened. Then came a day which brought an end +to more than the prosperity of Jean Calvet the sixth. + +Some clocks wear out, running down with little spurts of life and +longer intervals of dumbness; others end with a sudden crashing of the +pendulum while in its full swing, and a wild, convulsive whirr of the +jarred wheels. One moment the sober tick tells that all is well, the +next--silence. So was it with Calvet's mill. + +In the fortune, or misfortune, of war an Englishman, one Sir John +Stone, riding that way with his band of marauders, little better than +licensed brigands, found Amboise too tough a nut for his teeth, and +harried the Calvets in pure wantonness. Over the tree-tops the +garrison of Amboise could see the smoke of the burning, but they were +too weak to venture succour. + +Calvet must fend for himself lest Calvet and Amboise both end in the +one ruin. There was little defence, but that little was grimly in +earnest and yet more grim the revenge of the attack. For that +generation both pity and mercy had fled France. Jean Calvet the +younger, he who should have been the seventh of his line, was coursed +in the open like a hare, but turned at the last and died at bay as a +wolf dies. Behind the barred door were Jean the sixth, his two younger +sons, and the dead man's wife. The woman, grey-faced but tearless, +fought as the men fought, using her Jean's cross-bow from the narrow +upper windows. All that rage, desperation, and hate could do was done, +and when the door fell in with a crash Jean the younger had been +avenged four times over. John Stone took as little by his wantonness +as he deserved. + +Then came the end. There was a rush up the stone stairway, a brief +struggle to gain the upper level, a minute's surging back and forth, a +briefer, fiercer fury of strife among the cranks and meal-bags, a few +rough oaths, a woman's scream, and then silence, or what by contrast +passed for silence, since the sudden quiet was only broken by deep +breathing and the sucking of air into dry throats. England had gained +an ignoble victory. + +Fire followed as naturally as the spark follows the jar of flint and +steel, and with a hundred and fifty years to dry its beams, its +cobwebbed walls hung with mouldy dust from the grinding of as many +harvests, its complex wooden troughs and grain-shoots parched to +tinder, the old mill was a ready prey. All that could burn burnt like +a pile of dry shavings. But the walls, the stairway, and the upper +floor were of stone, and stood; and but for one thing the peace which +followed the coming of the Maid might have set the waterwheel creaking +afresh. That one thing, typical of the times, forbade the thought. +When the men of Amboise cleared away the rubbish they found the bones +of Jean Calvet the sixth piled in a grim derision upon his own +millstones, and so these stones never turned again. Who could eat +bread of their making? + +But the blackened shell was one of the Dauphin's favourite haunts, nor +could a better stage for one of those plays of make-believe which had +called down the old King's bitter irony have been well devised. So far +as possible the mill had been restored to its old condition. The +rubbish had been cleared from the ancient watercourse; the tough old +wheel, freed from the weeds and soil which bound it, was set running as +in the past, and a palisade of stout pickets erected to fence out the +curious. The side furthest from the roadway, with its clumps of +hazels, alder thicket, and chestnut wood in the distance was left open. +Here, amid surroundings which lent a sombre realism to the pretence, +Charlemagne could carve out a kingdom, Roland sound the horn of +Roncesvalles, or the Maid herself win back to France the crown the +boy's forefather had lost. + +But, dearer even than these, he best loved to reproduce in little the +tragedy which had laid the mill desolate, and it was La Mothe's +participation in that mock combat which had aroused Commines' contempt. +What boy of imagination has not revelled in such sport, living a +glorious hour beyond his age? And not a few of every nation have, in +their turn, made the glory real at the call of the country that the +blood of new generations may take fire. And Stephen La Mothe saw no +shame in such a play; saw, rather, a stimulus and an uplifting whose +effects might not altogether pass away when the play ended. So he was +France or England as the Dauphin bade him, and by turns died valiantly +or fought victoriously. + +But chiefly, and to La Mothe it had its significance, the Dauphin +played the part of Jean Calvet. All children, and not children only, +love to be upon the winning side, and it told something of the trend of +the boy's deeper nature that he would rather die for France than live +for England. So would it have been the afternoon of the day La Mothe +had followed his own course to his own disaster had not Charles once +more proved the truth of Villon's observation. The dull eyes saw more +than men supposed. + +"You and Ursula have quarrelled," he said, with all a boy's blunt power +of making the truth a terror. "All the way from Amboise you have not +spoken a word to each other; and you will quarrel still more if I shut +you up in the mill together. Do you be Stone, with Blaise and Marcel, +while I and Monsieur La Follette and Hugues will keep the stairs." +Then a gleam of unaccustomed humour flickered across his face; a sense +of humour was rarely a Valois characteristic. "No, I am wrong. Do you +be Calvet; I want a real battle to-day, and you will fight all the +better with Ursula looking on." As for Ursula de Vesc, she drew her +skirts together and ran up the unprotected flight of stairs humming an +air--not Stephen La Mothe's triolet, you may be sure--as if she had not +a care in the world. + +So the forces arrayed themselves, Charles and the two lads from the +stables behind the clump of bushes which always served as an ambush, +and La Mothe at the doorless entrance to the mill, where he was to give +the alarm and then retreat to the upper floor where La Follette and +Hugues were posted. La Follette, who had been a lover in his day, +would have kept watch below and taken Hugues with him, but Ursula de +Vesc, in the upper room, told them tartly that the Dauphin would be +displeased if the usual plan were departed from, and so, in no very +playful humour any of them, they waited the attack. + +Presently it came. Out from his ambush, a hundred yards away, raced +the Dauphin, Marcel and Blaise at his heels, their stout wooden swords +bared for the grim work of slaughter. "The English! the English!" +shouted La Mothe. "Frenchmen, the enemy are upon us!" But as he +turned to gain the upper floor there came a cry which was not part of +the play, a cry of fear and despairing rage, "The Dauphin! the Dauphin! +Monsieur La Mothe, save the Dauphin," and midway on the stairs Hugues +dashed past him. + +"Hugues, what is it?" + +"An ambush. The Dauphin; they will murder the Dauphin----" and Hugues +was through the doorway with La Mothe and La Follette following, and +Ursula de Vesc, white and trembling, at the stair-head, more in +surprise than any realization of danger. But only for an instant, then +she ran to the narrow window where Hugues had waited, watching. + +Midway from their hiding-place, confused by the sudden outcry, stood +the Dauphin and the two lads, and towards them ran Hugues with all his +speed, La Mothe not far behind. La Follette waited at the door, +uncertain and bewildered. But from a further covert, the thicket of +more distant alder, a troop of ten or a dozen horsemen had burst, +galloping at the charge, nor could there be any doubt of their sinister +purpose. It was a race for the boy, with the greater distance to +neutralize the greater speed, but they rode desperately, recklessly, as +men who ride for their lives. + +"Run, Monseigneur, run," cried Hugues, panting. "See, behind--behind," +and almost as he shouted the words he and La Mothe, younger and more +active, reached the group. "Out of the way, fools," he gasped, +shouldering the stable lads aside; then to La Mothe, "Take the other +arm," and again there was a race of desperation, but this time with the +mill as the goal. Nearer and nearer thundered the hoofs, out from his +scattered following forged their leader, his spurs red to the heel, his +teeth set hard in the shadow of the mask which hid his face. "Faster, +for God's sake faster," groaned Hugues, "Faster, faster," shouted La +Follette from the doorway, and Ursula de Vesc, at her point of vantage, +hardly dared to breathe as she knit her hands so closely the one into +the other that the fingers cramped. Then the chase passed out of +sight, and she ran to the stair-head, waiting for she knew not what. +It was just there that Calvet the younger had died, and now there was +as little mockery in the tragedy. Beyond the doorway she heard a +"Thank God!" from La Follette, then shadows darkened it, and the +Dauphin was thrust in, staggering. On the instant La Follette +followed, paused, glancing backward as if in hesitation. But one duty +was imperative. Catching the boy in his arms, he half carried, half +forced him up the stairway, while in the open space below La Mothe and +Hugues, letting Blaise and Marcel slip between them, turned side by +side to face whatever was without. What that was she knew, and as she +watched him in the gap an instant, before hastening to the Dauphin's +aid, the girl's heart went out to Stephen La Mothe in the agony of a +bitter repentance. If death pays all debts surely the darkening of the +shadows brings forgiveness for all offences? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN + +But meanwhile there was a pause. Below, in the defenceless doorway, +Hugues and La Mothe stood shoulder to shoulder for one of those fiery +instants which try a man's nerve rather than his courage. For the +moment the Dauphin was saved. But they had no illusions. It was only +for the moment, and both knew that in the moment to follow the danger +would not be for the Dauphin alone. But only one, Stephen La Mothe, +gave that a thought, and it was not for himself. Ursula de Vesc? The +masked scoundrel who, panting with the rage of disappointment, faced +them three yards away, one hand still gripping the reins of the horse +by whose head he stood, the other a naked sword, had his half-score of +cut-throats behind him, and could afford to leave no witness to his +outrage. There would be no pity for Ursula de Vesc. + +"Damnation," cried La Mothe almost in a sob, and, forgetting that he, +too, wore a sword, he would have sprung upon him barehanded in his +despair had not Hugues forced him to keep his place. + +"Not yet," he whispered. "Wait; perhaps--later----" and the moment of +possibility had passed. The troop was upon them. + +But their leader held them back. + +"Wait," he said in his turn. "We may save time. Be wise, and give us +the Dauphin. We are a dozen, you only three or four. We are sure to +have him in the end." + +"On what terms?" It was Hugues who answered. + +"Terms?" cried La Mothe. "Hugues, there can be no terms." + +"Your pardon, Monsieur La Mothe," said Hugues. "You are a gentleman, +but I am only a servant," and in his excitement La Mothe never paused +to ask himself why Hugues should so classify a hedge minstrel of the +Duchy of Lackeverything. "It is a fine thing, no doubt, to die for +your honour, but what have I to do with honour? Life is life. The +boy, on what terms?" + +"Your lives. And you gain nothing by refusing. The boy is ours in any +case." + +"Never," said La Mothe, struggling to shake off the restraining hand +that pinned him, helpless, half behind the doorpost. "Never while I +live." + +"Just so," answered Hugues, tightening his grasp; "not while you live. +But afterwards? and what better are we then, or the Dauphin either? +Give me three minutes, monsieur, to persuade him, just three minutes," +and in La Mothe's ear he whispered, "For God's sake be quiet or you +will ruin us all." + +"Three minutes? Play me no tricks, my man." + +"But, monsieur," and Hugues' voice was a whine as he spoke. "What +trick is possible? You are a dozen, we three or four. And are we not +caught like rats in a pit?" + +"Like rats! You have said the word! Take your three minutes, rat, and +don't forget that like rats we'll kill you." + +Urging his point vehemently, pleadingly, and with every plausible +argument at his command, but never slackening his grip, Hugues drew La +Mothe a yard or two into the blackened ruin. There he held him with a +wary eye to a possible surprise. Blaise and Marcel were on the upper +floor and only La Follette was in sight, standing guard at the +stair-head. + +"Listen," he said. "Monseigneur is dearer to me than to you. Do you +think I would give up one hair of him while I live, I, who sleep at his +door of nights? Never, not one hair! But between us we may save him +yet. Shake your head, curse me for a coward, for a scoundrel, try to +throw me off, strike me if you like. Yes, yes," he insisted, raising +his voice, "it is our lives; why lose our lives for nothing?" Then, in +a whisper, "They will give the alarm from the fields; it is only a mile +to Amboise----" + +"But it is a mile--a mile to go, a mile to come back----" + +"It is the one chance," answered Hugues loudly, fawning on La Mothe +with a hand which aped persuasion. The words had a double meaning and +held La Follette quiet, La Follette who might have ruined all through +incomprehension. "You know the bench where Mademoiselle sits to watch +the play? When I cry Now! rush up and fling it across the gap of the +stair-head. It will hold them back for a time. Then, for God's sake, +Monsieur La Mothe, fight, fight, fight. Fight to the last. It is for +life, it is for France, it is for Mademoiselle." + +"And you?" + +"I will hold the door." + +"But that is death." + +"It will give you a minute, or two, or three." + +"Then it is my place; I have a sword." + +"I love him best," answered Hugues. To him was the one unanswerable +argument; he loved him best, and love had the right to die for love's +sake. "You understand? When I cry Now! run--run." + +"Hugues, Hugues, let me----" + +"Do you think a valet cannot love?" + +"It is time," said a voice from without. "Are you ready, rats?" + +"Yes, monsieur, yes, yes. I have him persuaded Just one little moment. +Monsieur La Mothe, NOW! Now!" + +"No, Hugues, no, let me----" + +"Damn you, man, would you murder the Dauphin for a scruple? Now! I +say, Now!" + +"I have a sword----" + +But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel dropped by Marcel in his +flight for the stairs and was already in the doorway. + +"If you want the Dauphin, come and take him. God save the Dauphin! +France! France!" and drawing a deep breath he stood on guard, one +wooden sword against a dozen of steel. + +"Bravo, Hugues," cried La Follette from above. "Hold the scoundrels +while you can, and God be with you. Come, La Mothe, come, come." + +And what could La Mothe do but obey? For a moment he glanced this way +and that, uncertain, drawn to the one man who stood alone against such +odds, yet knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make Hugues' +sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the stairs; but not before +the doorway was darkened; not before he heard the dull clash of steel +upon wood; not before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that the +offering up of the sacrifice had begun. + +And as it began so it ended. But how desperately the breach was held, +how desperately Hugues fought with his mockery of a sword, with his +bare hands, with his very breast, they could only guess when he was +found later with the staff in splinters, his palms and arms hacked and +gashed, his bosom agape with dumb mouths which told their tale of love +and splendid courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all his +wounds in front; he died for loyalty, for love's sake, giving his life +without a grudge. Could a Roland or a Charlemagne have done more? + +Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, dragging him up the last +three stairs, "Draw, man, draw, we will fight them here." But La Mothe +shook him off. + +"This first," he said, and catching up the broad, unbacked bench which +day by day had served Ursula de Vesc as a resting-place he flung it, +flat downwards, across the railless stair-head. "It's done, Hugues, +and never fear but we'll fight," he cried, offering the only comfort he +could to the man who, down below, gave his life for them all. "Now, +Follette, I am ready." + +But Hugues still held the door, and for the first time La Mothe had +leisure to look round him. In the background were Blaise and +Marcel--barehanded, silent, helpless. The younger, Marcel, was crying +openly but dumbly, the tears running unheeded and unwiped down his +cheeks; the other, dogged and dour, with teeth and fists clenched, was +of braver stuff, a fighter, but without a weapon. Midway, still +exhausted from his flight, Charles lay on his elbow, propped against +Ursula de Vesc, who stooped above him with one arm round his shoulders +as support. The boy's long narrow face was paler beyond his natural +pallor, but his mouth was firm-set, his eyes bright and dry. The +girl's features were hidden, and Stephen La Mothe was not sure whether +he was glad or sorry. To have read coldness or reproach in her eyes at +such a time would have been bitter indeed. + +It was but a glance, then La Follette touched his arm. Down below +there was no longer the rasp of steel on wood. Hugues was fighting now +barehanded, but he had been better than his word--the three minutes had +been prolonged to four. Then came a cry, "Ah, God!" and La Mothe heard +Ursula de Vesc sob. For a moment she looked up and their glances met, +but there was little time to read her message, little time to see +anything but the pain in the grey eyes. A rush of feet on the stairs +called him, and side by side with La Follette he bent across the well. +The bench half covered the opening, but there were slits of a foot or +more wide at either edge, opening the way for attack. + +But the rush ceased almost as soon as it began. This new obstacle was +unlooked for, and between the slits those above could see the savagely +passionate faces of the besiegers staring up at them. Then one, bolder +or more enterprising than the rest, crept up cautiously step by step, +measuring his distance as he advanced. + +"Cover me," he said to the next lower. "Strike at whatever shows +itself," and thrust blindly upwards. It was their first sight of bare +steel, and Ursula de Vesc drew in her breath with a shiver as she saw +the red smear upon its flat. "Oh! Hugues, Hugues," she moaned, and +the Dauphin, catching at her hand with both his, shrank closer. + +"Damnation!" cried La Mothe, striking fiercely at the blade as it +darted from side to side or sawed back and forth. But when he would +have struck a second time La Follette curtly forbade him. + +"You may break your sword, and he can do no harm from where he is." + +So they discovered for themselves, and the foremost crept yet a step +higher. But when he struck afresh La Follette, lunging aslant and +downwards, caught him below the wrist. With a curse he let the blade +fall clattering, and there was a pause. But if he were bolder, those +behind had not been idle. A voice from the background cried out to +clear the steps, and before those above understood the altered tactics +a picket, drawn from the palisade, was thrust between the bench and the +wall. It was La Follette who first grasped the danger. + +"Blaise--Marcel!" he cried. "Here on the bench both of you and hold it +down." + +But only one answered the call. Marcel was on his knees in the corner +praying for the miracle which should be his own handiwork, not the +first man nor the last who has called on God to bear the burden his own +shoulder refuses. Blaise was of better stuff. "Here I am, monsieur," +he cried, but before he could bring his weight to bear a second picket, +sharpened at the point, was rammed up and forward with two men's +strength, driving the bench aslant till its end dipped and it fell with +a crash, scattering those below, but with little hurt. The way was +open, but Hugues' foresight had added five minutes to the four. + +"For the Lord's sake," cried Blaise, staring into the welter below, +"give me something in my bare hand. Rats, he called us, rats, and I +won't die like a rat, I won't, I won't." It was the cry of primitive +nature and the Dauphin answered it. + +"Here," said he, rising on his knees as he unbuckled his own small +sword. "You are stronger than I am. Be a man, Blaise." + +"You'll see, Monseigneur, you'll see. Come up, you curs, come up. +Rats, you said? Come up and meet a man." + +"Three men," said Mademoiselle. "Monsieur La Mothe, is there nothing I +can do?" + +"Nothing, mademoiselle," he answered, and turning met her eyes with a +smile. He knew he was forgiven, and thanked Hugues in his heart that +he had lived so long. But for Hugues he would have died at the door, +died in ignorance. The comfort was the dead man's gift to him, and +now, in the paradox of nature, because of that comfort it would not be +so hard to follow him. + +But if to die comforted would be less hard, there was something much +more than comfort to live for, and to La Mothe the odds did not seem +utterly hopeless. Three resolute men could surely hold the well hole +till succour came. Resolute? Much more than resolute--desperate. +Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. Had he not the best cause +the world holds to be resolute to desperation? Hugues had died for +love's sake, please God he would live for it. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE LAST STAND + +Below the attack halted, but up the stairway came the noise of rough +laughter and rougher words, words which made Stephen La Mothe's blood +grow hot and his nerves tingle as, gritting his teeth, he stamped his +feet so that the girl might not hear them also. Resolute? Desperate? +Yes, much more than resolute, much more than desperate, and with much +more than a man's life to be lost. And all were of one mind. Follette +he was sure of, and at his right Blaise, the stable-lad, panted in +short breaths, swinging his unaccustomed weapon softly. "Damn them!" +La Mothe heard him say. "Will they never come?" and when the nine +minutes had crawled to twelve they came. + +But not with a rush, not as those above had reckoned. The siege had +grown cautious. This time there was a system. Up, on the very edge of +the steps, broad, wide, and shallow for the easier carrying of heavy +loads upon the back, came the two with the palisades, up, until the +pickets were a full yard through the well-hole, but with those who held +them out of reach, and with a shout, the wood rasping the ancient +flagging, each swept a quarter circle. It was the work of an instant. +As the pickets crashed against the wall the voice from behind cried, +"Now lads!" and the rush came. There was the clang of iron-shod feet +on the stones, a glimmer in the half obscurity, and behind the pickets +the stairway bristled with steel. + +"Praises be!" cried Blaise, and crouched on his heels. Down he leaned, +down, forward, and lunged clumsily. That, too, was the work of an +instant, an act concurrent with his cry, but when he straightened +himself a picket had dropped into the gloom, and he who held it lay +upon it, coughing and choking. "Rats!" said Blaise, slashing viciously +at the blade nearest him. "Dieu! but the rat bit the cur dog that +time! Come on, you curs." + +And the rats had need to bite. The well-hole was double-lined; those +in front fought upward, while those behind protected them and stole a +step higher if the defence slackened. Nice play of fence there was +none. In such a packed confusion the brute strength of Blaise the +stableman counted for more than the finest skill of fence in the world. +And with the brute's strength he seemed to have the brute's +indifference to pain. Twice, stooping low, he parried with his arm, +taking the slash with a gasp but thrusting as he took it, and each +thrust struck home. But those behind filled the gaps, those below +pressed upward stair by stair, and La Mothe, breathless, but without a +scratch, knew what it was to be blood-drunken as the din of steel +filled his ears and he saw the flushed and staring faces opposite rise +minute by minute more level with his own. The three were doing all men +could dare or do, but the end was nearer and nearer with every breath. +The end! God in heaven! No! not that--not that; and in his +drunkenness he dashed a thrust aside as Blaise had done, stabbed as +Blaise had stabbed, and laughed drunkenly that he had sent a soul to +its Maker with all the passions of lust and murder hot upon it; but +happier than Blaise he took no hurt. + +"Mademoiselle," said La Follette without turning his head, and speaking +softly to save his breath, "go you and Monseigneur to the corner behind +me," and La Mothe knew that he too saw the coming of the end. There in +the corner, with Love and France behind them, they would make their +last stand. + +"I have Monseigneur's dagger," she answered. Again La Mothe understood +the inference left unspoken, understood that she as well as he had +heard the brutal jests which had set his blood boiling. That she had +the dagger was a comfort; but what a splendid courage was hers. Marcel +had even ceased to pray. + +For very life's sake La Mothe dared abate the vigilance of neither eye +nor hand, and yet by instinct--there was no sound--he knew they had +risen to obey. By instinct, too, he knew that Ursula de Vesc had drawn +nearer, and it was no surprise to hear her voice behind him. But it +was not to him she spoke. + +"Now, Blaise, thrust, thrust!" + +There was a rip of torn cloth, a flutter in the air--the flutter as of +a bird on the wing--an upturned point was caught in a tangle of white +linen, and through the tangle Blaise rammed his sword-blade almost to +the hilt and laughed, panting. + +"Rats!" he cried, tugging his arm backwards with a horrible jerk. "Go +to your hole, cur!" and more blood-drunken even than La Mothe he broke +into a village song. + + "'Rosalie was soft and sweet; + Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss: + Hair and month and cheek and feet, + Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss.' + + +"Mademoiselle, fling in that praying lout from the corner and make some +use of him; it's all he's fit for." + +But the gap was filled; there were two on the top-most step, and La +Follette, not only wounded in the thigh but slashed across the ribs, +was giving ground. + +"Be ready, La Mothe," he said. His teeth were clenched and his chest +laboured heavily. "Be ready, Blaise." + +"Ready," answered La Mothe, saving his breath. His heart was very +bitter. The twelve minutes were seventeen, succour could not be far +off, but the end had come. "Do you hear, Blaise?" + +But Blaise was past hearing. While he fought with his right his maimed +left hand, cut to the bones, had torn his smock open from the throat, +and the hairy chest, smeared with his blood, glistened in broad drops +from the sweat of his labours. In such a hilt-to-hilt struggle his +ignorance was almost an advantage. He had nothing to unlearn, no rules +of fence to disregard, and his peasant's strength of arm whirled aside +an attack with a paralyzing power impossible to any skill. Right, +left, downward swept the blade, his knees and hips half bent as he +leaned forward, crouching, his left arm swinging as he swayed. Right, +left, downward, his blood-drunkenness growing in savage abandonment +with every minute. Yes, he was ready--ready in his own way--but past +hearing. + +"Damn the English," was his answer to La Mothe, his mind back in the +fifty-year-old tragedy. The play was no make-believe, and he was +Michel Calvet, son to Jean the sixth, the Michel whose elder brother +had been coursed like a hare and killed in the open. Then his song +rose afresh, but gaspingly, raucously, as if the notes tore his chest. + + "'Rosalie, I love you true; + Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet. + Lov'st thou me as I love you? + Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet.' + + +"Rats," said he! "Come up, y' cur dogs, come up." + +"La Mothe," breathed La Follette, "when I say Now!" + +Yes, the end had come. + +"Damn the English," cried Blaise hoarsely. With a mighty stroke he +swept aside the opposing points, drew a choking breath, crouched lower, +and, with the Dauphin's sword at the charge, he flung himself into the +gap breast-forward, missed his thrust, splintered the blade against the +wall, and with a wild clutch drew all within reach into his grip. For +an instant they hung upon a stair-edge, then, in a writhing, +floundering mass, breast to breast, breathless, half dead or dying, +they rolled to the floor. From behind La Mothe heard Ursula de Vesc +cry, "Oh God! pity him!" in a sob. But he dared not turn, his own +blood-drunkenness fired him to the finger-tips and he lunged furiously, +getting home a stroke above a point lowered in the surprise. Again +there was a rush of iron-shod feet upon the stones, but a rush +downward, a moment's pause below, a crossing babel of passionate, +clamouring voices, insistence, denial, and yet more denial, then a +silence--or what seemed a silence--a few hoarse whispers and a cry or +two of pain. Yes, the end had come. In the corner stood the Dauphin +and, half in front, Ursula de Vesc, her arm stretched out across his +breast in the old attitude of protection. Marcel lay beside them in a +faint. + +"Hugues?" There was a question and a cry in the boy's one word. + +"Charles, Charles, have you nothing to say to the brave men who almost +died for you?" + +"Hugues loved me," he answered, and at the bitter pathos of the reply +La Mothe forgot the ingratitude. There were so few who loved him. But +the girl could not forget. + +"Monsieur La Follette, Monsieur La Mothe," she began, but broke off +with a cry. "Oh, Monsieur La Follette, you are wounded? What can I +do? Words can come afterwards, and all my life I will remember, all my +life. Are you dreadfully hurt? Can I not do something?" But though +she spoke to La Follette her eyes, after the first glance, were busy +searching Stephen La Mothe for just such an ominous stain as showed in +brown patches upon La Follette. But there was none. Breathless, +dishevelled, his clothing slashed, he was without a scratch, and the +strained anxiety faded from her face. + +"I can wait," answered La Follette, "we must get the Dauphin to the +Château. La Mothe, see if they are gone," and he glanced significantly +down the stairway. La Follette knew something of war, and there must +be sights below it were better Ursula de Vesc should not see lest they +haunt her all her life, sleeping or waking. + +But the Dauphin, his nerves strained and raw, had grown petulant. + +"It is safe enough. I heard them ride off. I want Hugues. I want +Hugues." + +"And Blaise?" + +"Oh! Blaise!" He broke into a discordant laugh. "I told him to be a +man and, my faith! he was one. Do you think, Ursula, that Father John +will ask my thoughts a second time?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +DENOUNCED + +"It was an epic," said Villon, "a veritable epic, and if you were truly +the Homer I called you half the towns in France would claim you for a +citizen. As it is you have only been born twice, once in--where was +it? No matter, it is of very little importance; it is the second that +really counts, and that second birthplace is--Amboise. A man's soul is +born of a woman just as his body is. And a man's soul is love. Until +love comes he is a lumpish mass of so much flesh without even a spark +of the divine." + +"Then you," said La Mothe gravely, "have seen many incarnations?" + +"Many!"--and Villon's eyes twinkled--"but with each one the pangs of +birth grew less violent. You will find it so yourself. But our epic. +Though I cannot write it I will sketch it in outline for you. Book the +First: Hugues!" He broke off, shaking his head soberly, every trace of +his humorous mood gone. "Poor devil of a Hugues! Francois Villon, who +made verses, will be remembered, and Hugues, who made history, +forgotten. Why cannot I write epics that we might both be remembered +together? But no! a tinkle of rhyme leavened with human nature and +salted by much bitter experience--that is Francois Villon! I know my +limitations. A man can give out nothing better than is put into him. +Well, so long as we give our best I don't believe the good God will be +hard upon us. Now, then. Book the Second: Martlets and +Mullets--there's alliteration for you." + +"Martlets and Mullets? Villon, what do you mean?" + +"Have you forgotten our friend of the spiked thorn?" + +"But the Dauphin swears these were Tristan's men." + +"Tristan? Impossible! Tristan is too sure, too careful an artist to +spoil his work. Heaven knows I do not love Tristan, but I will give +him this credit: when he sets out on a piece of scoundrelly work he +carries it through. No, no, I'll wager my Grand Testament to the +epic--which will never be written--that it was Molembrais' second cast +of the net, and when he drags Amboise a third time there will be fish +caught. What's more, La Mothe, there is a traitor in Amboise--a +traitor to the boy. First there was Bertrand, then the Burnt Mill: +these don't come by accident. But Tristan? Tristan botches no jobs. +But to come back to our epic. Book the Third: Blaise! How many dead +were there?" + +"Four." + +"And Blaise, the stableman, has two at the least, if not three, to his +credit. When Charles is king--pray heaven Louis does not hear me at +Valmy--he should make Blaise, the stableman, a Marshal of France, or +perhaps Master of the Horse would suit him better," and Villon chuckled +gleefully. He had always a huge appreciation of his own wit, however +slender. "There's a lucky dog for you, to grip death round the neck, +hugging him to the breast with both arms, and yet get nothing worse +than a scratched wrist, a slashed palm, and a dent in a thick skull. +Book the Fourth: but here is Monsieur d'Argenton and I had better---- +No! I'll stand my ground. The rose garden of Amboise is free to all +king's jackals." + +"Villon, Villon, why are you so bitter-tongued?" + +"Listen to Monsieur de Commines for five minutes and you will know why. +And it is not I who am bitter, but the truth. Jackals both, I say." + +They were, as Villon had said, in the rose garden. Dusk, the dusk of +the day on which Hugues had made history to be forgotten, was +thickening fast, but the air was still warm with all the sultriness of +noon. To that confined space, with the grey walls towering on three +sides, coolness came slowly. The solid masonry held the heat like the +living rock itself, and no current of the night wind blowing overhead +eddied downward in refreshment. + +But solid as was the masonry, and mighty the walls in their frowning +strength, there is but little of them left, and of the rose garden not +a trace. Time, the great iconoclast, has touched them with his finger +and they have passed away like the humble maker of history, while +Francois Villon's tinkle of rhyme, leavened with human nature, still +leaves its imprint on a whole nation. Perhaps the reason is that the +makers of history could have been done without. In these generations +the world would be little the worse, little changed had they never been +born, and have lost nothing of the joy or brightness of life. In his +own generation the patriot is more necessary than the poet, but let +four centuries pass and the poet will wield a larger influence than the +patriot. + +But thick as was the dusk, a dusk thicker than the actual degree of +night because of the prevailing shadow, La Mothe saw that Commines was +disturbed by an unwonted excitement. Not from his face. It was deeply +lined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, the mouth +harsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man breathes who has outrun his +lung power, and his uneasy fingers clenched and unclenched incessantly. +Those who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs and grew +watchful. But it was upon Villon that the storm fell. + +"For an hour I have been searching for you--in the Château, in the +Chien Noir, in every tavern in Amboise----" + +"And you find me amongst the roses! How little you know my nature, +Monsieur d'Argenton!" + +"I know it better than I like it," answered Commines grimly. "You +lodge at the Chien Noir?" + +"It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and I can commend to you +its wine of '63. Monsieur La Mothe drinks nothing else." + +"As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make many. But I am not +here to talk of Monsieur La Mothe's drinking bouts, though they explain +much. You are in the King's service?" + +"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes." + +"No quibble; you are paid to be faithful?" + +"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes." + +"Villon, curb your impertinences. I'll not endure them." + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, there is a proverb which says, 'Physician, cure +thyself.' What did I tell you, Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutes +are not up yet." But Stephen La Mothe discreetly answered nothing. +One of the first lessons a man learns in the ways of the world is to +keep his fingers from between other men's millstones. + +"You lodge at the Chien Noir," went on Commines, ignoring the retort; +"you are in the King's service and have been paid with your life. Why +are you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme is +hatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grown +besotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free hand +in Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child's +play--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand across +La Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, and +the cold severity passed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don't +think I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank God +you are safe, I thank God he has given me back my son Stephen; but what +am I to say to the King?" + +"Ho! ho!" said Villon; "so it is son Stephen nowadays? Then the play +is almost played out?" + +"Most of all I blame you," and Commines, his arm still round La Mothe's +shoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of passion. "How is it +you are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure the +King shall hear the truth." + +But Villon was unabashed. "What is the truth, Monsieur d'Argenton? +Even your friend Tristan would not hang a man without first telling him +what for. What is this truth of yours?" + +"There is a plot against the King's life." + +"In Amboise?" + +"In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de Vesc, Hugues----" + +"It's a lie," cried La Mothe, shaking himself free from Commines' arm. +"A lie, a lie. I have Mademoiselle de Vesc's own word for it that it +is a lie." + +"And I have proof that it is true." + +"Proof? Whose proof?" + +Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had overstepped his purpose. +Before making his disclosure to La Mothe he had searched for Villon in +the hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mind +willing to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexed +anger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error, +first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen La +Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened. + +"Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interest +have I but the King's service?" + +"Uncle, you said proofs--whose proofs?" + +"What is that to you? Do you forget that you are to obey my orders?" + +"Proofs, Monsieur d'Argenton, whose proofs?" + +"All do not blind themselves as you do." Round he swung upon Villon, +shaking a stretched-out finger at him viciously. "Drinking himself +drunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for +her own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprang +forward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs you +would cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she +has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songs +till the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint." + +"A saint," answered La Mothe hoarsely, "a saint. I say so--I say so. +A saint as good, as sweet, as pure----" He paused, looking round him +in the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch +of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good as +these lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieur +d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc." + +"Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat at +the feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could not +have said it better myself." + +But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this very +unreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation. +Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, a +word or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, a +little sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a damning +reality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such an +amplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel would +serve no good purpose. + +"Words, Stephen," he said more gently, "mere words, and what are +rhetoric and declamation against proofs?" + +"Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly. + +Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the ground +slipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "So +far it is you who have answered with rhetoric and declamation." + +"Word-of-mouth proofs." + +"Here in the Château?" + +"No," answered Commines reluctantly, "not just in the Château but at +its very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeks +ago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It was +the very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. The +King is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In his +sick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judging +afterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for no +cause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances, +and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follow +next. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some one +must act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle de +Vesc. That was weeks ago, and you," again Commines turned upon Villon +in denunciation, "you must have known." + +"Lies, all damnable lies," said La Mothe, choking. "Who is the liar? +You won't tell me? But I must know; I must and shall. Not in the +Château, but at its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it Jean +Saxe, Uncle, is it Jean Saxe? It is! it is! Jean Saxe the--the---- +Villon, you said there was a traitor to the Dauphin in Amboise, was +that Jean Saxe? A traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who else +could it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave Molembrais his chance +ten days ago, Jean Saxe who knew of the play in the Burnt Mill to-day, +Mademoiselle told him----" + +"More proof," said Commines. "She and Jean Saxe are in collusion." + +"Collusion to kidnap the Dauphin? Mademoiselle de Vesc and Jean Saxe +in league against the boy? Uncle, you are mad and your proof proves +too much. If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursula +de Vesc's No! against him." + +"Good boy," repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, to the world at +large. "The very first time I saw him I said he was the image of +myself. Monsieur d'Argenton, what is Jean Saxe's story?" + +"That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalf +of the Dauphin, but vaguely at first. There was great discontent, said +Hugues, and greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteed +though he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking who was secure +if once the King had determined on his destruction. Even loyalty was +no safeguard. In the King's sick suspicion his most faithful servants +might be the first to suffer. Not a day passed but there was a +hanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both high and low. For a +man to keep his own life at all cost was no murder." + +"True," said Villon. "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! Yes, monsieur?" + +"That was the gist of it; vague as you see, but significant. Then, two +days ago, Hugues spoke a second time, urging Saxe to a decision. If +the Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, all France +would say, Thank God! The generous nature of the boy was well known. +There would be rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him to +promise----" + +But La Mothe could control himself no longer. Through Commines' +indictment, coldly, almost phlegmatically delivered, he stood +motionless and silent, his hands clenched, every muscle tense with +restraint. It was the fighting attitude, the attitude of a man who +waits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but a blow which will +surely come. Now the restraint snapped. + +"Villon, for God's sake, do you believe this lie?" + +It was an exceeding bitter cry, and the pain of it pierced through even +Commines' armour of calmness. But Villon, though he shivered a little, +only shook his head. His face, dimly seen, was full of a grave concern. + +"Some one has spoken to Saxe," he said. "Hugues or another. I know +Saxe well, he has not brains enough to imagine so great a truth." + +"A truth!" cried Commines, catching at the phrase he waited for. +"Stephen, Stephen, all along I warned you she was dangerous." + +"Very dangerous," said Villon, "I have felt it myself. No man is safe. +In '57--or was it '58?--there was just such another. Her mother kept +the little wine shop at the corner of----" + +"Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxe +had told the truth." + +"That the King and France are both sick; yes, Monsieur d'Argenton." + +"No, no, but that Saxe had been approached." + +"By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that." + +"You hear, Stephen? Does that satisfy you?" + +"But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added a little on his +own account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken. + +"Then what is the truth?" + +"You ask that of a poet? As well ask it of a courtier--or a king's +minister," he added, and turned to La Mothe. "Were I you I would set +them face to face this very night." + +"But she has already denied it." + +"All the more reason. A truth will wait till morning, but a lie should +be killed overnight. Lies breed fast and die hard." + +"But she may refuse." + +"If I know women," said Villon, "Mademoiselle de Vesc will refuse you +nothing." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +"WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER" + +But while Stephen La Mothe still hesitated Commines took action. He +recognized that sooner or later there must be a confronting. Ursula de +Vesc, however deeply implicated, was no patient Griselda to accept +judgment without a protest. Tacit admission would condemn the Dauphin +equally with herself, and she might be trusted to fight for the Dauphin +with every wile and subterfuge open to a desperate woman. In her +natural attitude of indignation she would certainly force a crisis. +The sooner the crisis came the better, and amongst those for whom that +was better Philip de Commines was not the least. With all his heart he +loathed the part he was compelled to play, even while determined to +play it to its ghastly end. But to some men, Commines amongst them, +the irrevocable brings a drugging of the sensibilities. When that +which must be done could not be undone he would be at peace. + +The sooner the crisis came the better, too, for Stephen La Mothe, and +Commines' sympathies went out to him with an unwonted tenderness. The +lad's nerves were flayed raw, and for him also there could be no peace +until the inevitable end had come. But just what that end would be, +and how it was to be reached, Commines feared to discuss even with +himself. + +But the first necessity was that Ursula de Vesc's complicity should be +brought home to her. Let that be done, and La Mothe's despair might +clear aside all difficulties, though, without doubt, the poor boy would +suffer. There is no such pain as when love dies in the full glory of +its strength. But then would come the ministrations of Time, the +healer. Mother Nature of the rough hand and tender heart would scar +the hurt, and little by little its agony would numb into a passive +submission. + +It was a truth he had proved. Suzanne's death had been as the plucking +out of the very roots of life. In that first tremendous realization of +loss there had been no place left for even God Himself. But that had +passed. The All-Merciful has placed bounds on the tide of human +suffering: Thus far shalt thou go, and no further. The maimed roots of +life had budded afresh, and if no flower of love had shed its fragrance +to bless the days, there had been peace. So would it be with Stephen +La Mothe. But the Valley of Tribulation must first be crossed, and it +would be the mercy of kindness to shorten the passage, even though the +plunge into its shadows was the more swift. For that there must be +conviction, and for the conviction a confronting. Villon was right, +Ursula de Vesc and Jean Saxe should be set face to face within the hour. + +"Monsieur Villon," he said with unaccustomed courtesy, "I agree with +you. Hugues is dead, the Dauphin too high above us, but Mademoiselle +de Vesc has the right to know the peril she stands in. Will you do us +all a kindness and bring Jean Saxe to the Château? Monsieur La Mothe +and I will----" he paused, searching for a word which would be +conclusive and yet without offence, "will summon Mademoiselle de Vesc." + +"It is an outrage," said La Mothe stubbornly, "and I protest against +it, protest utterly." + +"Stephen, try and understand," and Commines laid his hand upon the +younger man's shoulder with something more than the persuasive appeal +of the father who, to his sorrow, is at variance with the son of his +love. It was the gesture of the friend, the equal, the elder in +authority who might command but elects to reason. "Consider my +position a moment. By the King's command I stand in his place in +Amboise. If he were here----" + +"God forbid!" said Villon. "The King is like heaven--dearly loved afar +off." + +"But his justice is here----" + +"And his mercy?" + +"And his mercy," repeated Commines coldly, "the mercy that gave you +life when justice would have hung you as a rogue and a thief. Of all +men you are the last who should sneer at the King's mercy. And now +will you call Jean Saxe, or must I go myself?" + +"As my friend La Mothe decides," answered Villon. "I advise it myself. +Give a lie a night's start and you will never catch it up." + +"Stephen, son, be wise." + +With a gesture of despair La Mothe would have turned away, but Commines +held him fast. His faith was unshaken, but the natural reaction from +the day's tense emotion had sapped its buoyancy, leaving it negative +and inert rather than positive and aggressive. The half-hour's +slackless concentration of nerve and muscle in the defence of the +stairway had drained him of strength and energy like the crisis of a +fever. For him Ursula de Vesc's curt No! stood against the world; but +Philip de Commines was the King's justice in Amboise, and against Jean +Saxe's accusation her denial would carry no weight--no weight at all. +But, though the gesture was one of helplessness, Villon chose to +construe it into consent. + +"Good!" he said cordially, "it is best, much the best. In half an hour +I will bring Saxe to--let me see, the Hercules room, I think, Monsieur +d'Argenton? It is small, but large enough for the purpose, and as it +has only one door it can be easily guarded." + +"No guards," said Commines harshly. "There must be no publicity." + +Villon laughed unpleasantly. His shifting mood had, almost for the +first time in his life, felt kindly disposed towards Commines as he saw +his evident solicitude for La Mothe, but that was forgotten in the +contemptuous recall of a past he held should no longer rise against +him. What the King forgave the King's minister should forget. The +thrust had wounded his vanity, and now, as he saw his opening, he +promptly thrust back in return. + +"You are the King's justice in Amboise and would have no man know it! +That is true modesty, Monsieur d'Argenton! No, don't fear, there will +be no publicity. Monsieur La Mothe, he calls you son; but friend is +more than kin, more than family, remember that Francois Villon says so." + +Commines' answer was an upward shake of the head, a lifting of the +shoulders hardly perceptible in the darkness. + +"It is the nature of curs to snarl," he said. "But his impertinence +grows insufferable and must be muzzled." Linking his arm into La +Mothe's he drew him slowly along the garden path. Both were +preoccupied by the same desire, to win the other to his own way of +thinking, but it was the more cautious elder who spoke first. He would +appeal to the very affection Villon had gibed at. + +"Stephen, dear lad, with all my heart I grieve for you. Would to God +it were anything but this. Mademoiselle de Vesc has always opposed me, +but that is nothing; has always striven to thwart me, but for your sake +that could be forgotten; has always flouted and belittled me, but for +your sake that could be forgiven. You are as the son of my love, and +what is there that love will not forgive--will not forget? These weigh +nothing, nothing at all. In the face of this--this--tremendous crime +against the King, against all France, I count them nothing, less than +nothing. Dear lad, you must be brave. This worthless woman----" + +"No, Uncle, no, not that, never that!" La Mothe's voice was as level +and quiet as Commines' own, and the elder knew thereby that his +difficulty was the greater. Quietness is always strong, always assured +of itself. "I do not believe Saxe speaks the truth." + +"Saxe is the spark, and I told you I smelt smoke. Even Villon admits, +much against his will, that some one has approached Saxe." + +"But not Hugues, and if that is untrue then all is untrue." + +"No: there is no logic in that. Hugues or another, it matters little +who it was. It is the fact that damns, and Saxe is explicit. And how +can Villon be sure it was not Hugues?" + +"Uncle, Uncle, you can't believe it, in your heart you can't believe +it. All these days you have seen her, so gracious, so gentle, so +womanly. It can't be true, it can't. There is some horrible mistake." + +"Saxe is explicit, and Villon agrees with him," repeated Commines, +driving home the inexorable point. "Nor can I help myself; the King +has left me no alternative." + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc has denied it to me, and I believe her." + +"You believe her because you love her." + +"No," answered La Mothe simply, "I believe her because I have faith in +her, but even though she were all Saxe says, and more, I would stand by +her because I love her." + +Commines paused in his slow walk, slipped his hand from La Mothe's arm, +and they stood silent side by side. Then in his perplexity he moved a +few paces away, halted, turned again and faced La Mothe. + +"Poor lad, and I have no alternative. The King and my duty alike allow +me none. Stephen, in self-defence I must be frank with you. It is my +firm belief that the King has evidence he cannot show openly----" + +"And so a pretext will be enough? God in heaven! is that justice?" + +"No, there must be something more than a pretext, something more than a +lie; but Saxe will be enough." + +"It will be enough if Saxe's lies cannot be disproved?" + +"If Saxe cannot be disproved," corrected Commines. "I cannot admit +that Saxe lies." + +"And what then?" + +Again Commines turned away. Humanity's Iron Age was as stern, as +selfish, as callous, as cruel as in the days of Attila the Hun. +Christianity, after its almost fifteen centuries, had no more than, as +it were, warmed it through with its gentle fires. There was as yet no +softening. It was true that some increasing flowers of civilization +obscured the brutality, some decorations of art glorified it, but +underneath the beauty and the art the native ruthlessness remained +unchanged. Might founded a throne upon the ruin of weaker nations, +cemented its strength with the blood of innocence, set the crown upon +its own head, and reigned in arrogant defiance of right or justice. + +From the barbarous Muscovite in the north to the polished Spaniard in +the south the conditions scarcely varied. Everywhere there was the +same spirit. A Louis pushed wide the borders of France by theft and +the law of the stronger arm, a Ferdinand offered up his holocaust to +the greater glory of God, a Philip yet to come would steep the +Netherlands in blood to the very dikes that the same God might be +worshipped in violation of the worshipper's conscience, in England a +Crookback Richard had neither pity nor scruple when a crown was the +reward of ruthlessness and murder. + +Nor in the high places of religion was there a nobler law. A Sixtus, +at that very moment, was letting loose the horrors of an unjust war +upon Florence and Ferrara in the name of the Prince of Peace, while the +sinister figure of Alexander Borgia sat upon the steps of the Papal +throne biding its time. If the meek inherited the earth, it was +commonly a territory six feet long and two in breadth. Everywhere the +ancient rule was still the modern plan: those took who had the power, +and those kept who could. There were exceptions, but exceptions were +rare. Even at the Round Table there was only one Galahad. + +Commines did not differ greatly from his age, or he would have been no +fit minister for Louis. A tool is no longer a tool if it is not +obedient to the hand which guides it. Let it fail in the work set it +to do and it is cast aside into forgottenness or broken up as waste. +He had no liking, he had even a loathing, for the part allotted to him, +and he played it unwillingly; left to himself, he would not have played +it at all. Ursula de Vesc might have lived out her life in peace so +far as he was concerned; but Ursula de Vesc stood in his master's path, +and however distasteful it might be she must be swept aside, now that +Saxe made it possible so to do, and yet hold a semblance of justice. +Only through her could the Dauphin be reached, therefore Commines +steeled his nerves. + +But to Stephen, partly for his own sake, and yet more for the memory of +the dear dead woman, his heart went out in a greater tenderness than +that of cold sympathy. Human love in the individual has been the salt +which has kept the body politic from utter rottenness. How to soften +the blow to Stephen was his thought as he paced slowly through the cool +darkness of the night: how to do more than that, how to link Stephen to +his own fortunes, which would surely rise after the successful +execution of this commission of tragedy. Slowly he paced into the +darkness, turned, and paced as slowly back again, to find Stephen +standing motionless where he had left him, his hands linked behind his +back, his shoulders squared, his face very sternly set. + +"And if Jean Saxe's lies cannot be disproved? What follows then?" + +"Stephen, we must save her together." He paused, but La Mothe made no +reply. What could he answer? To continue protesting her innocence +with nothing but his own word and hers to back the assertion was but +beating the air; to ask, How shall we save her? would, he thought, +tacitly admit her guilt. So there was silence until Commines went on +slowly and with an evident difficulty; he would need all his diplomacy, +he realized, all his powers of sophistry and persuasion if he was to +carry Stephen La Mothe with him along the path he proposed to follow. + +"Let us face facts," he began, almost roughly. "Saxe will leave me no +alternative. No! say nothing, I know it all beforehand, and with all +my soul I wish this had not fallen to my lot. And yet, Stephen, it is +better I should be here than Tristan; Tristan has a rough way with +women. Poor lad, that hurts you, does it? Yes, I am better than +Tristan, even though Saxe leaves me no alternative. But we shall save +her together," and this time Stephen La Mothe, out of the horror of the +thought of Ursula de Vesc given over to the mercies of such a man as +Tristan, found it in his heart to ask, "How?" The answer came +promptly, but with grave deliberation. + +"By the King's mercy." + +"What mercy had the King on Molembrais? Will he be more merciful to a +woman?" + +"Then by his gratitude. Stephen, for her sake we must win the King's +gratitude together." + +"I do not understand." + +"Behind the girl, but joined with her, stands----" + +"The Dauphin? My God, Uncle, not that way." + +La Mothe's voice was strange even to his own ears, so harsh and dry was +it, the voice of age rather than of youth, and, indeed, he felt as if +in this last hour he had suddenly grown so old that the world was a +weariness. + +"There were three in this plot," answered Commines, unmoved from his +slow gravity, "Hugues, the Dauphin, and Mademoiselle de Vesc. Hugues +is dead, but two still remain." + +"His own son, his own, his one son? No, no, it cannot be, it cannot." + +"I grant that it is incredible, but Saxe leaves no loophole for doubt." + +"I do not mean that. I meant it could not be that the King--I cannot +say it; his one son." + +"He has no son but France. Do you remember what I told you that night +in my room? Better the one should suffer than the many. And now there +is a double reason, a double incentive to us both. Mademoiselle de +Vesc's life hangs upon it. Follow the chain of reasoning, and, for +God's sake, Stephen, follow closely. There is more than the life of a +girl in all this. Jean Saxe cannot be suppressed even if we dared +attempt it; Francois Villon, the King's jackal, who holds his life by a +thread, knows everything. Of all men he dares not keep silence, of all +men he would not keep silence if he dared, scum that he is. Within two +days the King will know all Saxe's accusations, and if we do not act +for ourselves another--Tristan or another--will come in our place. We +will have destroyed ourselves for nothing, and there will be no hope +for the girl, none. Can you not guess Tristan's methods with women? +But, Stephen, if we act, if we return to Valmy and say, 'Sire, we have +done our duty to the nation, with heavy hearts and in bitter sorrow we +have done it: even though we have laid love itself on the altar of +sacrifice, we have done it, give us this one life in return'--can the +King refuse? Remember, if it is not we it will be another, and if we +have no claim to ask, there will be no life given. Nor can we have any +claim but obedience. I see no other way, no other hope." + +The touch upon his arm was half appeal, half admonition, wholly +friendly, but La Mothe winced as he shrank from it. There are times +when human sympathy is the very salvation of the reason and the one +comfort possible to the bruised spirit, but now the solitary instinct +of the sick animal was upon him and he longed to be alone. Some +sorrows are so personal they cannot be shared. Nor was it all sorrow. +There was the passion of a fierce resentment, the bitter protest of +helpless nature against a wanton and callous outrage. + +As plainly as if Commines had said it in so many words he understood +that, sinless or sinning, Ursula de Vesc was to be sacrificed to some +state advantage; he understood, too, that neither Commines nor the King +cared greatly whether she was innocent or guilty, and that but for his +sake Commines would have given her hardly a second thought. Saxe lies! +What matter? The state must progress. Saxe lies! What matter? +Better one suffer than the many. Saxe lies! What matter? We will +save her together by the one way possible. + +Did he remember that first night in Amboise? Had he ever forgotten? +Even in his plays of make-believe had he ever forgotten? The mind has +a way of laying aside the unpalatable in some pigeon-hole of memory; it +is out of sight, not forgotten. Yes, he remembered. Then it had been +obedience to the King, service to the man to whom he owed everything +and a duty to France. Now, more tremendous than all, Ursula de Vesc's +life was thrown suddenly into the scale. That was Commines' plain +statement. Nor was he conscious of any resentment against Commines. +If Jean Saxe held to his story Commines could have no alternative, and +if not Commines, it would be another, another less kindly. + +No? His rebellion, the bitter upheaval of spirit, was against the +conspiracy of iron circumstances which hedged him round on every side, +a rebellion such as a man might feel who finds himself in silent +darkness bound hand and foot with grave-clothes, while his brain is +still quick and every nerve quivering with the passionate desire for +life. "I see no hope," said Commines, "no hope but the one way," and +Stephen La Mothe knew that one way was murder. Abruptly he turned upon +his heel. + +"The half-hour must be almost up," he said; "let us go to her." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT + +"Say to Mademoiselle de Vesc that Monsieur d'Argenton requires to speak +with her in the Hercules room." It was the Judge who spoke. Already +Commines stood in Louis' place to search, sift, find, and his tone was +as cold and curt as the words were brusque. Then, as an afterthought, +he added, "You can say, too, that Monsieur La Mothe is with him." + +"No," said La Mothe; "omit that part of it." + +For a moment Commines hesitated, annoyed by a tone curter and colder +than his own, but after a glance at La Mothe's set face he motioned to +the servant to go. That was not the moment to precipitate a conflict. + +"Stephen, why not? It is the truth." + +"Great heavens! do we want the truth?" answered La Mothe. + +"But we are not friendly, she and I, and she may not come; you said so +yourself. Remember, we must have no scandal, no publicity." + +"Yes, what you have to do will be best done in the dark." + +"Stephen, be just. You know I mean that Saxe's story is not one to be +blazed abroad. Besides, nothing will be done to-night." + +"But to-morrow, or next day?" + +"It was not for the Dauphin's sake you risked your life this afternoon." + +"That is quite true. It was for Mademoiselle de Vesc, and it may be +risked again." + +"Stephen, what do you mean?" But La Mothe, striding ahead as if +impatient to face the issue and have done with uncertainties, returned +no answer. There could be no answer until he saw how events fell out. + +The Hercules chamber was named after the tapestry which hid the dull +grey plaster of its walls. From the one door--and that there should be +but one was unusual in an age when to provide for the strategy of +retreat was common prudence--where the infant Hero strangled with +chubby hands the twin serpents sent for his destruction, the story of +his labours told itself with all the direct simplicity of medieval art. + +No chronology was followed, the embroiderer having chosen her scenes at +pleasure or as the exigencies of space demanded. Here, Samson-like, he +tore the Numean lion jaw from jaw, his knee sunk in the shaggy chest, +his shoulders ripped to the bone as the hooked claws gripped the +muscles, his mighty torso a dripping crimson in the scheme of colour. +There he cleansed the Augean stable in a faithfulness of detail more +admirable in its approach to nature than its appeal to the +sensibilities, the artist having left nothing to the imagination; +beyond was the more human note, and Omphale bound him to her by a +single thread stronger than all the chains ever riveted in Vulcan's +forge. Next, with perhaps a significance of symbolism, the shirt of +Nessus tortured him to madness with its scorching fires till the huge +limbs writhed and the broad, kindly face was all a-sweat with agony, +but--and now it was the door again--the benediction of peace crowned +the end. The labours, the sorrows, the fiery trials were behind the +back for ever, the faults and failures were forgiven or atoned for; +after the stress of toil, the weariness of struggle, came the +blessedness of rest; after humanity, divinity and the imperishable +glory of high Olympus. Crude in its art, angular in its execution, +there still was something of the soul of the worker stitched with the +canvas. To Stephen La Mothe, touched at times by a poet's +comprehension, it seemed not altogether a myth,--a type, perhaps; only, +being very human, he hungered with a bitter hunger for the crowning of +the peace and the divinity of love while life was life. It requires a +robust faith to believe that Olympus can bring anything better than the +best of earth. + +A carved oak bench, black with age, stood beneath the centre of the +three narrow windows piercing the outer wall; a four-branched copper +lamp gave light from the polished table in the middle of the room; here +and there, flanking the oaken bench, at the ends of the room, and at +either side of the wide fireplace, were chairs and stools. A few +wolfskin rugs dotted the floor. Villon and Saxe had not yet arrived. + +"Mademoiselle begs that she may be excused to-night; she is very tired." + +"But she cannot be excused," began Commines, when La Mothe intervened. + +"Say that Monsieur La Mothe very greatly regrets she should be +disturbed when so weary, but as it is of importance to Monseigneur he +trusts she will excuse Monsieur d'Argenton's importunity." + +"I told you how it would be," said Commines as the servant left the +room, "you might as well have given your name first as last." + +But La Mothe shook his head. "There is a difference, and she will +understand." Then the restraint he had put upon himself with so much +difficulty snapped for a moment: "Uncle, for God's sake, be gentle with +her." + +"I will be all I dare, but I trust neither Saxe nor Villon," and as he +spoke the two entered the room. + +In spite of a strong effort at self-control the inn-keeper was visibly +ill at ease, while Villon, on his part, was complacently, almost +offensively, cheerful. In a characteristic Puckish humour he had +played alternately on Saxe's hopes and fears, but refusing all definite +information beyond the bare statement that Monsieur d'Argenton had sent +for him peremptorily. Why? How could Francois Villon say why? He was +no confidant of the Lord High Jackal of all the King's jackals. Saxe, +who was so friendly with couriers from Valmy, should know why. +Perhaps, humble though he, Jean Saxe, was, he had rendered the King +some service of late? and at the hint Saxe glowed, with expectation. +Who was so generous a paymaster as Louis! Perhaps, on the other +hand,--and the wrinkles of Villon's many wrinkled face deepened into +puckers,--Jean Saxe knew too much. That was dangerous. Amboise was +like Valmy, more entered than came out. Louis had many ways of paying +debts. There was Guy de Molembrais, for instance----, but Saxe was +frankly sweating and Villon broke off. The second hint was clearer +even than the first, and Saxe felt that both were true. + +But when he would have spoken Commines impatiently motioned him to be +quiet, flinging a "Wait!" at him as one might a command to a restless +dog, and at the evil augury the drops gathered anew round the edge of +his close-cropped hair; gathered and swelled until they trickled down +the cunning, stupid face. Villon, he noticed, and found another evil +significance in the act, drew away from him, leaving him solitary just +when the warm nearness of human kind would have been a comfort. + +They had not long to wait. Hearing a movement in the passage Villon +threw open the door, closing it again behind Ursula de Vesc. Then he +leaned against it like one interested but indifferent in his interest. +The girl was pitifully pale. Double lines of care creased the +smoothness of the forehead; the weariness she had plead had been no +pretence, but was written plainly in the languid gait, the drooped +lids, and the dark patches beneath the eyes. By her side walked +Charlemagne, and half a yard behind the three puppies trotted sleepily, +Charlot lagging last; even in his anxious preoccupation La Mothe +noticed it was Charlot, the best beloved of the three because it was +the weakest. + +Her first glance was for La Mothe, her second, and this time she bowed +slightly, was towards Commines, then it fell upon Saxe, and the brows +were raised in a mute interrogation, but there was neither apprehension +nor dismay. Stepping forward La Mothe placed a chair beside the table, +and, crossing the room, she sat down with a murmur of thanks, then she +turned to Commines. Drawing back a step La Mothe, half behind her, +rested, his hand on the chair-back, and the stage was set. + +"Mademoiselle," began Commines, "Saxe, whom you know, told me a strange +story to-day, and it seemed to us it was your right to hear it as soon +as possible." + +"Us? Who are us, Monsieur d'Argenton?" + +"Monsieur La Mothe and myself." + +"I agree with Monsieur d'Argenton that it is your right to hear it," +said La Mothe, "but in everything else I disagree. For me your one +word to-day was enough." + +"So that is why Monsieur d'Argenton is in Amboise?" + +"The story is this," went on Commines, studiously ignoring the cold +contempt in her voice. But she interrupted him. + +"Let Saxe tell his own story; why else is he here? It is always safer +to get such things first-hand. Now, Saxe?" + +Turning her shoulder on Commines she confronted Saxe. She knew she +was, somehow, on her defence, but not the offence alleged against her. +All day La Mothe's unexpected question had troubled her, and vaguely +she had connected it with the attempt upon the Dauphin at the Burnt +Mill, though how she, the Dauphin's almost one friend in Amboise, could +have knowledge of the attempt she could not understand. With the +failure of the attack she had thought the incident closed, but now Jean +Saxe had a story to tell, a story in some way linked to Stephen La +Mothe's question, a question which flushed the pallor of even her +weariness when she remembered how widely it had differed from what her +thought had been. + +But Jean Saxe was in no haste with his tale. Jean Saxe shuffled his +feet, licked his dry lips, and caught at his breath. His throat was +drier than Villon's had ever been, and Villon's was the driest throat +in Amboise. A modest man, though an innkeeper, Jean Saxe did not know +which way to look now that he was, for the moment, the centre of the +world. Either the grey eyes, their lids no longer drooping, searched +him out, or Commines' stern gaze stared him down, or, worst of all, he +met the sardonic light with which Villon beamed his satisfaction at a +scene quite to his humour, and so Jean Saxe was dumb, remembering that +Louis had many ways of paying his debts, and more went into Amboise +than came out again. For the trusted servant of so generous a King +Jean Saxe was not happy. + +"Come, Saxe, come. Tell me what you told me this afternoon, neither +more nor less. There is nothing in it to your discredit." + +"Yes, monseigneur, certainly. I have nothing to hide. I have always +been the King's most humble, faithful, devoted----" + +"Leave that aside. Come to your tale and tell the whole truth." + +"Of course, monseigneur. Hugues came to me----" + +"When did Hugues go to you?" It was Ursula de Vesc who spoke. From +his place behind her La Mothe could see the upward defiant tilt of the +head as she asked the question. + +"Let him tell his story his own way," said Commines, "or you will +confuse him." + +"As you will, but Hugues is dead and cannot defend himself," and the +defiance passed as, with a sigh, the girl sank wearily into her chair, +felt La Mothe's hand where it rested upon the back, and leaned hastily +forward, then settled slowly into her place again. As for Stephen La +Mothe, the beating of his heart quickened, but he stood unmoved. The +touch comforted them both. + +"Hugues came two days ago----" + +"That was the second time. When did he come first?" + +"Three weeks ago, monseigneur." + +"Are you sure?" + +"It was a week before your lordship came to Amboise. I remember it +perfectly because----" + +"Never mind why; that you remember and are sure of the day is enough. +I want you to be exact. It was a week before Monsieur La Mothe and I +arrived?" + +"Yes, monseigneur." Saxe had thrown off his nervousness. He no longer +shuffled his feet but stood breast square to the world. Commines' +questions had loosened the thread of his story, and he was ready to run +it off the reel without a tangle. "He said the King was very sick in +Valmy, so sick and full of suffering that every hour of life was an +hour of misery. It would be pure happiness, said he, pure charity and +a blessing if such a life were ended. He was sure the King himself had +no wish to live." + +"That," said Ursula de Vesc, her eyes fixed on vacancy, "is so very +like what we all know of His Majesty." + +"Yes, mademoiselle. Then he went on to say that those who helped the +poor suffering King to relief would be his best friends, and it ought +to be no surprise if there were such friends." + +"Were there names mentioned?" + +"No, monseigneur, not then." + +"But this afternoon you told me----" + +"I thought Saxe was to tell his story his own way?" broke in Ursula de +Vesc, tartly. + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc, you cannot know the peril you stand in." + +"Peril from what, Monsieur d'Argenton?" + +"from the justice of the King." + +"If it be only from his justice then I stand in no peril. But I, and +all who love the Dauphin, know well how the King's justice deals with +Amboise. Saxe, go on with your story your own way. No names were +mentioned that day? What then?" + +"Hugues said the King's sickness made him peevish and suspicious, so +that he doubted even his own friends. No one was safe, neither high +nor low, and no one could tell who would follow the same road as +Monsieur de Molembrais, whose safe-conduct couldn't save him. 'Even +you, Saxe,' he said, 'faithful as you have been and true servant to the +King, not even you are safe, and you know a man's first duty is to +himself.'" + +Francois Villon could not forgo the favourite tag of philosophy whereby +he had shaped his own career, "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! and that was +the first time, Saxe?" + +"The first time," repeated Saxe. "I think that was all he said then, +monseigneur, or the gist of it, for he repeated it over and over again." + +"Then come to the second. When was it?" + +"Two days ago, monseigneur." + +"Tell it your own way; or, stay a moment. Mademoiselle de Vesc," and +Commines turned to the girl, his face both grave and troubled, "help us +to be your friends, help us to save you from yourself before it is too +late. Much can be forgiven to a generous devotion however misplaced. +The King, I am sure, will see it in that light. I beg, I pray you, +pray you to speak before Saxe speaks. If not for your own sake, then +for the Dauphin's, for----" he paused, and, lifting his eyes, glanced +at Stephen La Mothe bolt upright within touch of her, "for the +happiness of a life help us to help you." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR + +At the appeal La Mothe's grip upon the chair grew more tense, and his +hand so shook that the whole chair was shaken as he felt the girl +stiffen against his knuckles. What his hopes were he did not dare +admit, though the foundations of his faith were never shaken. Better +even than the girl he understood how great was the issue Commines +played for in his effort to move her from her silence. Was it an +honest appeal or was it a trap? Would the love of a father accept a +hinted repentance, a veiled regret as sufficient? or did Commines, +astute and unscrupulous in his master's service, invite a contrition +that he might triumphantly declare, Here is proof? A single word +spoken in reversal of her afternoon's denial would justify---- But +swiftly as thought grew from thought Ursula de Vesc was yet swifter in +her reply. + +"I think you mean to be kind, Monsieur d'Argenton, and for that I am +grateful. Saxe, we are waiting." + +"Two days ago Hugues came to me again. I was in the stables----" + +"Where Hugues flung you into the horse-trough last month for speaking +disrespectfully of the Dauphin?" + +"Mademoiselle, you must not interrupt; later you can question Saxe if +you wish." + +"I wished to show you what good friends they were, these two. Hugues +cannot speak for himself." + +"He had need of me," said Saxe sullenly, "and that was the reason he +came to me as I say. I was grooming Grey Roland. 'He saved a King for +France,' said Hugues, with his hand on his neck, 'and what a King he +will make, so grateful, so generous. Not a man who helps him will be +forgotten. And it won't be long now. Saxe,' he said, 'you should join +us while there is time.' 'Who are us?' said I. But he wouldn't answer +that. 'You could hang us all if you knew,' he said. So I told him +that unless I had at least one name I wouldn't listen to him. What was +he but a servant? So he stood rubbing his chin awhile, then he said, +'We need you, Saxe, for you have the horses we want and you know Valmy, +so I'll tell you who is the brain of it all and the keenest next to the +Dauphin himself--Mademoiselle de Vesc.'" + +"A lie," said La Mothe, "the damnedest lie that ever came out of hell. +Finish your lies, Saxe." + +Sternly Commines turned upon him. "You are here only on sufferance; +either leave the room or be silent." + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, it is every man's right----" began La Mothe; but +Ursula de Vesc, turning in her chair, laid a hand upon his arm. + +"Wait," she said, smiling up at him bravely; "but I am grateful to you +all the same. So I am the brain of it all, Saxe?" + +"I only know what Hugues told me," answered Saxe, looking straight +before him. Of the two he was the more disturbed. His scalp tingled, +and again the little points of perspiration were glistening on his +forehead. Her quietness frightened him. To have shouted down a +passion of protest, a passion of terrified, angry denial, would have +been more natural. "He said you sent him on both days, you and +Monseigneur. You were both afraid the King would suspect the truth----" + +"The truth!" repeated the girl, and for the first time her voice shook; +"but it is all a lie, as Monsieur La Mothe says, a clumsy lie, and yet +I see that it may serve its purpose. It is not the truth the King +requires. Monsieur d'Argenton, I tell you formally that what Saxe has +said is absolutely untrue." + +"Saxe is explicit, you can question him when he has finished," answered +Commines coldly. For him the King stood behind Jean Saxe, and no mere +denial would content Louis or set his fears at rest. "Go on, Saxe. +The King would suspect the truth?" + +"So he said, monseigneur, and so there was need for haste," said Saxe. + +"Then why wait two days before telling Monsieur d'Argenton? Why wait +two days before warning the King? Why wait until Hugues was dead?" + +"There was a courier from Valmy to-day," said Villon, speaking for the +first time, and, as it seemed, irrelevantly. + +Commines turned upon him sharply. "What has that to do with it? He +brought letters from the King addressed to me. Monsieur La Mothe knows +their contents." + +"And for Jean Saxe," retorted Villon; "letters from the King for Jean +Saxe and Monsieur d'Argenton!" + +"Ah!" said mademoiselle the second time, "so that is why Monsieur +d'Argenton is in Amboise." + +"That is why," answered Commines, his hand stretched out in +denunciation. "At Valmy we more than guessed your treason. But it was +hard to believe that a woman could so corrupt a boy, that a son could +so conspire against a father, and I came to Amboise probing the truth. +And every day proof has piled upon proof, presumptive proof I grant, +but proof damning and conclusive nevertheless. Every day the King has +been held up to loathing and contempt. Every day the woman--you, +Mademoiselle de Vesc, you--egged on the boy to worse than disaffection. +Every day the son reviled the father, even to telling God's own priest +that his one thought was hate--everlasting hate. The spirit to hurt +and the accursed will were there, more shameless every day, more +shameless and more insolent; but until to-day, until Jean Saxe spoke, +there was no proof that the courage to act, the courage to carry out +the evident ill desire was callously plotting to set France shuddering +with horror. But Saxe has spoken. That he should have spoken earlier +is beside the point. He has spoken at last and the truth is stripped +bare." + +"No truth," said mademoiselle, "no truth; before God, no truth." She +was rigidly upright in her chair, her eyes blazing like cold stars, her +face very pale. Every limb, every muscle, was trembling, her hand +pressed under her breast as when La Mothe had seen her for the first +time. "No truth except that the Dauphin has said unwise things at +times and I also. To that I confess." + +"You confess because you cannot deny," answered Commines, "and had +Hugues not tampered with Saxe the truth might never have been known +until all France stood aghast at the tragedy. That Hugues is dead +matters nothing. His death does not affect the issue. He would have +denied it had he lived. But now we know without a doubt that you and +he, and that unhappy boy, the Dauphin--Villon, who is that fumbling at +the latch? Let no one in, and bid whoever knocks begone whence he +came." + +But instead of obeying Villon flung the door wide. The Dauphin was on +the threshold, half dressed, his shoes unbuckled, his laces awry, his +face cadaverous in its pallor. He had been crying, and the traces of +the unwiped tears lined his cheeks. Underneath the dull eyes, duller +than common, were livid hollows, and he shook from head to foot in a +nervous terror. + +"Hugues," he said, his voice a-quaver. "How am I to do without Hugues? +He always slept at my door, and now I have no one--no one at all. +Ursula, what has happened? What are they saying to you?" + +Mechanically obedient to the dominant power of custom rather than to +any conscious will, Ursula de Vesc had risen at the boy's entrance. +But the strain of an enforced calmness is greater than that of any +passionate outburst, and only the support of the table kept her on her +feet. Against this she leaned, her open hand flat upon it. + +"Monseigneur--Charles--oh! why did you come just now?" Her voice broke +as it had not broken when confronting Saxe or braving the bitter +denunciation Commines had poured upon her. But the boy's presence +fretted her realization to the quick. It was not she alone before +whose feet the gulf had opened so suddenly. "Go back to your room. +Some one will take Hugues' place,--good, brave, loyal Hugues." + +"Sleep in peace, Monseigneur," said La Mothe, "I will take Hugues' +place to-night." + +But Commines thought he saw his way to end a scene which had grown +embarrassing, and at the same time take the first step along a path +which could have but one end. + +"There is no need for that. One of my men will guard the Dauphin." + +"Your man? A man from Valmy sleep at my door? Thank you, Monseigneur +d'Argenton, but I do not wish to sleep so soundly as that." + +"And yet you wished your father to sleep sound?" + +"My quarrel with my father is between the King and the Dauphin," +answered the boy with one of those sudden accessions of dignity which +were as characteristic as they were disconcerting. "Do you, sir, know +your place and keep it. Ursula, what is Saxe doing here at this time +of night?" + +Though he addressed Mademoiselle de Vesc by name, Charles looked round +him as he spoke. The question was for the room at large. But no one +answered him. It was no part of Commines' plan to make a public charge +against the Dauphin. There was no need to make such a charge, it could +only provoke a scene of violence, of denial, of protest, of +recrimination, and raise a storm whose echoes might pass beyond the +walls of Amboise. Not that way would he earn the King's thanks, so he +held his peace. But the Dauphin was not to be cowed by silence. + +"Ursula, what have they been saying to you? All these men against one +woman is cowardly. If I were a man like Monsieur La Mothe----" + +"Hush, Charles; Monsieur La Mothe is our friend." + +"I know. He saved us both to-day, me for the second time. Monsieur La +Mothe, when I am king, I won't forget. But why is Saxe here? Villon, +you are his friend, why is Saxe here?" + +Villon had closed the door behind the Dauphin, resting his back against +it as before. His shrewd clear eyes had watched every phase of the +scene from its beginning. Twice he had spoken, twice or thrice he had +laughed his soft unctuous chuckle as if his thoughts pleased him. Now, +directly addressed, he came forward a step, and his bearing was that of +the actor who hears his cue. + +"No friend, Monseigneur; the honour would be too great. Who am I to +call myself the friend of a prophet? Or perhaps it was Hugues who was +the prophet; Hugues who is dead and cannot speak for himself." + +"Speak no evil of Hugues," said Charles, "he--he----" and the boy's +lips quivered, the tears starting afresh under his swollen lids as the +memory of his loss came home to him, "he loved me, he died for me, and +oh, Ursula! will they take you from me too?" + +"No, Charles; surely not. But I think Monsieur Villon has something +more to say. Why do you call Hugues a prophet?" + +"Because he foretold Guy de Molembrais' death three days before it +occurred--or was it four? You should know, Saxe?" + +"I only know what he told me," answered Saxe doggedly, but the fresh +ruddiness of his face had faded, and he sucked at his lips as if they +had grown suddenly dry. He knew Villon and Villon's ways of old, knew +his bitter tongue, knew his shrewdness, and feared both. + +"Just so," said Villon cheerfully, "and a week before Monsieur +d'Argenton came to Amboise he told you no one was safe from the King's +sick suspicions, not even if he carried a safe-conduct, and +instanced----" + +"Villon is right!" cried La Mothe. "Monsieur d'Argenton--Uncle--thank +God, Villon is right. Guy de Molembrais was alive a week before we +left Valmy. Saxe has lied, lied, lied. Do you see it, Uncle? I knew +he lied. Oh, you hound! you hound! And you had a letter from Valmy +this afternoon? That accounts----" + +"Hush, Monsieur La Mothe, hush." Rising from her chair Ursula de Vesc +almost put her hand over La Mothe's mouth in her efforts to silence +him. "You have said enough; do not say too much--too much for +yourself. Charles, Charles, let us thank God together," and, turning +from La Mothe, she caught the boy in her arms, drawing him to her +breast in a passion of relief. It was not difficult to see what her +chief anxiety had been. "Monsieur d'Argenton, surely you are satisfied +now?" + +Was he satisfied? By no means. But Commines was spared the +embarrassment of an immediate reply. The door, which Villon had just +quitted, was thrown hastily open and a servant entered, a sealed +envelope in his hand. Ignoring the Dauphin utterly--and it was +indicative of the estimate in which the boy was held--he turned to +Commines. + +"From Valmy, for Monsieur d'Argenton, in great haste. The messenger +has left a horse foundered on the road." + +"From Valmy? But this is not the King's--there! you can go. See that +the messenger is well cared for." + +With his thumb under the silk thread which, passing through the seal, +secured the envelope, Commines paused and, in spite of all his trained +self-control, his face changed. Of all the emotions, fear is, perhaps, +the most difficult to conceal because of its widely varied shades of +expression. With some it is a tightening of the nostrils, with others +a compression of the lips, a change of colour, or a line between the +brows. It may even be the laugh of an assumed carelessness, a pretence +at jest, but upon one and all it leaves some sign. The seal was not +the King's seal, and the handwriting was strange to him. + +"Saxe, if you have lied, it will go hard with you, understand that. +No, I can hear nothing now; tomorrow, perhaps, or next day. Monsieur +Villon, place him in safety for to-night, he must not be allowed to +leave the Château." + +"But, monsieur--monseigneur, I mean--it was the King--" + +"Hold your tongue, you fool," said Villon, hustling him through the +doorway; "would you make bad worse, or do you want to hang twice over?" + +But even when the door was shut behind them Commines stood irresolute. +There are times when to be alone is the instinct of nature, and this +was one of them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, some +reverse, a disaster even. Louis' last letter, received that very day, +had been harsh in tone, curt to severity, its few words full of a +personal complaint which his pride had concealed from Stephen La Mothe. +It had been more than a rebuke, it had been a warning, almost a threat. +Now upon its heels came this, and he knew that of the three who watched +him curiously two were his open enemies. If it was his dismissal, his +downfall, there would be no pity. But to be alone was impossible. The +situation had to be faced there and then. "With your permission. +Monseigneur?" he said, and tore the envelope open. + +It was a short letter, as many fateful letters are, and Commines read +it in a glance, then a second time. "My God!" they heard him say twice +over, drawing in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him suddenly. +Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the paper, then as +unconsciously smoothed it out again. The instinct to be alone had +possessed him like a prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick of +finding an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitariness he +desired had come upon him. He forgot he was not alone, and the truest +solitude is the isolation of the spirit when the material world slips +from us, and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to face +with his own soul. So he stood, the paper shaking in his shaking +hands, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he shifted his eyes, and as +they fell upon the Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc's arms, the skirt +of the white robe half wrapped round him, his head almost upon her +breast, he straightened himself with an effort. + +"Monseigneur," he began, "the King----" but the words choked in his +throat. His coarse, healthy face had gone wan and grey, now it flushed +and a rush of tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of the +head he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe saw him struggling for +self-control. "The King is dead," he said hoarsely. "God have mercy +on us all; the King is dead--dead." + +From the boy his eyes had travelled upwards, following the protecting +arm which lay across the slender shoulders, and it was Ursula de Vesc +who answered. Charles had caught her hand in both his and held it +pressed against his breast. It was clear that he did not understand, +but the full meaning of the tragedy of death is not comprehensible in a +single moment, nor was the girl's answer much more than an exclamation. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton! The King? The King dead?" + +"Dead," he said dully, "the greatest King that France has ever known, +the greatest mind that was alive in France. In France? In Europe! +There was none like him--none. A great King, great in his foresight, +great in his wisdom, great in his love for France; a great King, and he +is dead. But yesterday, this very day even, he held the peace of +nations in the hollow of his hand, now---- Why, how poor a thing is +man. Dead! dead! But his monument is a great nation, a new France; +and who shall hold France in her pride of place amongst the nations +where his dead hand raised her? Dead; the Great King and my friend." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +"IT IS A TRAP" + +This time no one broke the silence, and for a little space the quiet +was like the reverent stillness of a death-chamber. The awe +inseparable from sudden death possessed them. And yet, after the first +shock of natural horror, La Mothe was conscious of a great relief. Not +till then did he realize how tense the strain had been, how acute the +fear. But at the slow dropping of Commines' bitter-hearted words there +came a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to find a gladness in +such a cause of grief. For the loss to France he cared little. To him +Louis had been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not Louis, then +another, and France would still be France. But as Commines turned away +and, following that other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal, +hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he leaned against +the wall, the lad's heart went out in sympathy to the man who had lost +his friend. And surely over and above his greatness of mind there must +have been some deep heart of goodness in the dead man when he moved +affection to such a grief. But at last the silence came to an end, and +again it was Ursula de Vesc who spoke. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, you will, of course, go to Valmy at once?" + +"To Valmy?" Commines brushed his hand across his forehead with a +characteristic gesture and paused, hesitating. "Why--I--Monseigneur, +have you nothing to say?" + +"What is there to say?" answered the boy. "Do you think he loves me +any better than he did? Why are you in Amboise at all?" + +It was only a bow at a venture, the ill-tempered fling of a petulant +boy, but the shaft struck home. Why was he in Amboise? His hope was +that the full purpose of his lengthened stay at the castle would never +be known, the truth would ruin him with the new King, ruin him utterly. +Hastily he searched his memory how far he had committed himself. Not +too deeply, he thought, so far as Charles was concerned. Ursula de +Vesc was of less consequence, and Saxe could always be made a +scapegoat. Saxe had lied, Saxe had deceived him, and, except Stephen +La Mothe, no one knew how ready he had been to be deceived. Perhaps +Saxe had also deceived the father? Yes, he would take that line, if +necessary; Saxe was the evil genius of them all, but the first +essential was to placate the boy with a generality. Liars and +successful diplomatists are rapid thinkers, and no too obvious a +silence followed Charles' blunt question. + +"Monseigneur, for ten years I have been your father's trusted and +faithful servant----" + +"Ursula, I am tired and shall go to bed. Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe, +but I do not think you need sleep at my door. To-night I shall be +safe. All the same, I would be Dauphin again if it could bring Hugues +back. I don't understand what it means to be King; perhaps in time I +shall see the difference. Good night, Ursula. I do not know what they +were saying to you, but they had better leave you in peace. Good +night, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"The King is dead; long live the King! and service to the dead is soon +forgotten," said Commines bitterly as the door closed. The significant +ignoring of his presence had stung him to the quick. It might be said +it was only the rudeness of an ill-taught boy, but the boy was King of +France, and the suggestive omission was an evil augury to the hopes of +his unsatisfied ambition. + +"Can you blame him? He is a very loyal boy, and was quite honest when +he said he would be the Dauphin again if that would bring Hugues back, +and as Dauphin he has been miserably unhappy." + +"He is very fortunate in your love, mademoiselle." Commines had never +heard Villon's opinion, but it was his own, and he acted upon it +promptly. Win the girl and the boy will follow. + +"I loved him for himself and for his unhappiness," she answered simply. +"But will you not return to Valmy at once? Surely death does not end +all service!" + +"My duty and service are to the living," replied Commines shortly. "I +shall remain in Amboise. The dead take no offence." + +"You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Monsieur d'Argenton, but +the King was so jealous and, may I add, so generous, it would vex his +ghost to think he was so soon forgotten." + +"Mademoiselle, I serve France, and to-night France is in Amboise." + +"Is the letter from Coictier, his doctor, Uncle?" Hitherto La Mothe +had kept silence. He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found +himself in a difficulty. In spite of his gratitude and reverence for +Commines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounder +judgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned a +dead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of a +moment. Surely the grave should first shut out all that was mortal of +the old obedience? And yet, because of that unfailing gratitude and +profound faith, he could not join with the girl in her open +condemnation. But crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his head +as if the question was distasteful. + +"No." + +"From the King's son-in-law, Monsieur de Beaujeu, then? He would, of +course, send you word immediately. Or Leslie? or Saint-Pierre?" + +But after each name Commines made a gesture of dissent, pushing the +paper into his pocket at the last to end the questioning. + +"Not from any of these?" said mademoiselle. "Who, then, has written? +Surely the Dauphin has a right to know?" + +"Tristan," answered Commines, and, turning, he looked her full in the +face. + +"Tristan?" she said icily, drawing herself back with a movement which +La Mothe recognized by an unhappy experience. "You choose your friends +strangely." + +"But he is no friend," protested La Mothe, full of scorn and +indignation for Commines' sake at the shame of the suggestion. "It +would be impossible with such a man. And Monsieur de Commines has told +me more than once that Tristan is jealous of his influence with the +King, and is his bitterest enemy." + +"And yet out of all Valmy it is Tristan--and Tristan only--who is +friend enough to send the terrible news to Monsieur d'Argenton? Is +that not strange? Monsieur d'Argenton, you are a learned man; is there +not some proverb about distrusting the Greeks when they bring presents?" + +"Tristan would never dare to spread such a report never, never." + +"But Tristan's master might. You don't think so? Forgive me if I am +suspicious, but can you wonder, you of all men? In Amboise we have +learned to doubt everything, even the friends who are ready to die for +us," and, with a sudden impulse, as natural and gracious as it was +touching, she held out her hand to La Mothe, a wistful, kindly +tenderness, deeper than the emotion of gratitude, moistening her eyes. +Very gravely he stooped and kissed it with a "Thank God, mademoiselle!" +To say more was unnecessary, for in the three words he said everything. +It was the formal wiping out of the day's misunderstanding, the +knitting together of life-threads torn apart, and where there is such a +knitting the union is firmer, closer, stronger, more indissoluble than +before the rent. "Monsieur d'Argenton," she went on, the voice a +little tremulous and yet with a clearer ring, "once before, when the +King doubted the loyalty of Paris, did he not spread abroad such a +rumour that he might test the spirit of the people?" + +"Yes, but there was a deep policy in that." + +"And is there no deep policy now! Is it for a shallow reason you have +spent two weeks in Amboise, or that Jean Saxe has coined his lies with +such carefulness of detail? May we hear Tristan's letter?" + +For a moment Commines hesitated. He had regained his full +self-control, and it was with a growing surprise that La Mothe heard +him debate the situation with Ursula de Vesc as with an equal. But not +only was he impressed in spite of his prejudice against her, but he was +too shrewd a politician to put aside any suggestion which commended +itself to his reason just because he despised its source. And the girl +was right. If there had been a deep policy in setting afloat the Paris +rumour, there was a yet deeper policy now, a policy more subtle, +darker, and pregnant with tragedy. Belief in the King's death might +well loosen the tongues of those who had plotted against him, and their +unguarded triumph furnish the very confirmation which had been vainly +sought in Amboise these ten days. While he hesitated Ursula de Vesc +urged her point afresh. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, in the Dauphin's name I might claim to see the +letter, I might even demand and compel it as a right; but there will be +no need for that?" + +"No need at all," he answered. "This is the letter. As you see, it is +very short: + + +"'MONSIEUR,--A great misfortune has overtaken us, the greatest +possible. The King is dead. It is being kept secret, but I send you +the warning that you may make yourself secure in Amboise. Note +carefully how the Dauphin takes it. I commend you to the keeping of +God.--TRISTAN.' + + +You see it is explicit." + +"And Saxe was explicit, but he lied." She was too much of a woman to +spare him the thrust, but it was the only revenge she took, and having +taken it, she sat silent, her brows knit, her fingers playing +unconsciously with Charlemagne's soft ears. The dog's head was on her +lap, motionless, the gentle brown eyes fixed upon her face. Charlot +lay asleep at her feet, breathing little heavy breaths of contentment, +as if enough of his brain was awake to enjoy the sleep of the remainder. + +"Yes," she said slowly, "I agree that the King's Provost-Marshal is +explicit, but I do not read his letter as you do. Perhaps it is +because Amboise has made me so suspicious. It is a sorrowful thing to +say, but we have been taught that safety lies in distrust of Valmy. It +is horrible, but it is not our fault, and I distrust now. Tristan is +your enemy and ours. The King, the great King, is not above setting a +trap. I think I see a double snare; a snare to catch the Dauphin, to +catch all who are his friends in Amboise, and a snare to catch the +great King's minister himself. Perhaps it is foolish, I know it is +presumptuous, but let me read the letter my own way; you can show me +afterwards where I am wrong. It is clever, but it is the cleverness of +the man who thinks only of his own interests, who makes no allowance +for love, loyalty, or single-hearted duty, and judges others by +himself. Is that your great King, Monsieur d'Argenton?" and Commines, +answering nothing, recognized the life-likeness of the portrait. + +"But no!" she went on, "your great King is dead, the letter says so, +and this is your friend Tristan who sends you the warning that you may +make yourself secure in Amboise! What does that mean? You know that +better than I, but I suppose it means that, first in the field, you may +win the Dauphin's confidence and govern France through the boy. That +is a great gift from an enemy, Monsieur d'Argenton, and what would the +King say if he were alive? But the King is dead! Then why are you to +note carefully how the Dauphin takes the news? For whose benefit are +you to note it? For your own? But you are to make yourself secure in +Amboise! For Tristan's? But how does it touch Tristan? For the King, +who is dead? That is absurd. For the King, who is alive? for the +King, who dictates the letter that he may lay hold of some chance word +and torture it into God knows what vile use against the boy? Bear +witness, gentlemen, both of you, there was no such word. And what is +the ending of the letter? He commends you to the keeping of God! +Tristan, the hangman, commends Monsieur d'Argenton to the keeping of +God. There will be much need for His keeping if you make yourself +secure in Amboise while the King lives. Do you not smell the King's +unctuous, perverted religiosity in that sentence, Monsieur d'Argenton? +It is a snare, a snare for us all, and if I were you I would ride to +Valmy this very hour, though I foundered a dozen horses on the road. +Monsieur La Mothe, am I not right?" + +"Entirely right," said La Mothe heartily. He might have gone further +and, following the precedent set by Adam in Eden, have said, "Eternally +right!" for what lover ever thought his mistress in the wrong? But +this time there was more than a lover's agreement. "Uncle, surely you +see that Mademoiselle de Vesc is right, right every way? If that +scoundrel has lied, then there is a trap set, but if it is the truth, +surely your place is at Valmy?" + +"Why?" asked Commines, but as he spoke he read the letter afresh, +weighing each sentence separately. "Why not at Amboise?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +COMMINES TAKES ADVICE + +Respect kept La Mothe silent. How could he say bluntly, 'You owe +everything you possess in the world to the man who is dead--position, +title, office, wealth. Are these forgotten?' In his embarrassment he +glanced at Ursula de Vesc. Owing Commines neither respect nor +gratitude, she had no such scruple. + +"Death is always terrible," she said softly, "or we make it terrible by +our own terrors, but there will be a new terror added if love and the +loyalty of gratitude die with the life. Is eaten bread so soon +forgotten, Monsieur d'Argenton?" + +Almost abstractedly Commines looked up from the paper in his hand. If +he heard her, he gave no sign of having heard; certainly he showed no +resentment at the implied censure. His mind was busy balancing +prospects and possibilities. If Charles were king, Ursula de Vesc +would be a power behind the throne. If, as she said, Louis--and not +for the first time--played one of his grim jests full of a sinister +possibility, to remain at Amboise would be fatal both to himself and to +the boy. The King might say the Dauphin grasped at the crown while the +father lived, and Philip de Commines abetted him. After all, Valmy was +safest. Not many days before, Louis had told him with brutal frankness +that the hand which pulled him from the gutter could fling him back +again. Yes, Valmy was safest. But what account was he to give of his +mission? The letter, whether false in its news or true, was a +sufficient reason for his return. It was most natural, human, and +loving that the faithful servant should stand by the bier of his dead +master. It would even be a point in his favour if the King lived. No +doubt Tristan had said, 'Test him and he will go over to the Dauphin.' +Well, he would give Tristan the lie and prove that Louis came first, +living or dead. Yes, Valmy was safest. + +But his mission? For the time it had failed. Saxe, as Stephen had +said, had proved too much. He must make Saxe the scapegoat. The +obvious lie damned him. It was crass stupidity to put into Hugues' +mouth a lie which carried its own disproof with it. To force an +accusation based upon the remainder of the story would be unpolitic. +His best course would be to relieve the King of all his fears at +Amboise. There was no plot, the Dauphin was loyal and obedient: not +affectionate, that would be proving too much like the fool Saxe, and +Louis would never believe it. Then there was the King's letter to +Saxe. It must not be forgotten. That shrewd rascal, Villon, was right +when he said some one had sounded Saxe, only the some one was not +Hugues the valet. The letter must be ignored, or, better still, it +might even help to make his--Commines'--position more secure than ever. +It was Louis' habit to disavow his failures. He would, of course, +repudiate Saxe and disavow the mission to Amboise, and because of the +disavowal he would, openly at least, welcome the Dauphin's loyalty. +That was Louis' way. Yes, Valmy was safest. + +"I must leave Amboise at once," he said at last, and speaking as if the +intention had always been in his mind. "If this misfortune has +overtaken us all, which God forbid, we must meet it with courage and +resignation. May He who alone is able comfort the bereaved son of so +good and so great a father. My hope and prayer, mademoiselle, is that +you are right and the King is making trial of our love and loyalty. In +either case my place is at Valmy. La Mothe, order a horse to be +saddled without delay." + +"There is one ready in Saxe's stable," answered La Mothe. Then, lest +he should be asked the unpleasant question how he came by that +knowledge and for what purpose the horse was in readiness, he added +hastily, "What shall we do with Saxe?" + +"Keep Saxe safe until you hear from Valmy; let no one but Villon or +yourself have speech with him. Such a liar would calumniate the King +himself. Now, Stephen, the horses in ten minutes." + +"Horses?" said La Mothe blankly. Was he also to leave Amboise now that +a new dawn was breaking? + +"Yes, tell two of my men to be ready. I do not trust Tristan, and will +take no risks. An accident might happen to a lonely man on an +all-night's ride." + +"And yet," said the girl as La Mothe left the room, "you were ready to +trust Tristan ten minutes ago?" + +"But you have opened my eyes. Why? That is the one thing I cannot +understand. We have always been opposed, always at enmity, and never +more bitterly than to-night. Mademoiselle de Vesc, why did you not +take your revenge and let me ruin myself?" + +"I might give you a woman's reason and say, Because!" she answered, +speaking more lightly than she had yet spoken; then as she paused a +moment the pale face flushed, and the beginnings of a smile played +about the mouth, only to die away in a tender gravity. "And yet, to +tell the truth, it was a woman's reason: it was because there was once +a friendless, helpless boy, and Philip de Commines--you were neither +Argenton nor Talmont then, monsieur--opened his heart to him." + +"But, mademoiselle, to be honest, that was for a woman's sake." + +"And," she answered, the flush deepening and the gentle tenderness of +mouth and eyes growing yet more tender, "to be honest, this is for a +man's sake." + +Again there was silence, and in the quiet the two who had been enemies, +and might be again for the same cause, drew into a closer, better +comprehension upon a common ground. At heart they were akin--the +politic unscrupulous opportunist vowed to the compulsion of his +ambitions, and the girl who through all her threat of danger had given +no thought to herself. For the sake of the man; for the sake of the +woman: they are the twin cogwheels, working the one into the other, +which keep this great machine of life, this sordid material world, upon +a sure, if slow, ascent from the baser to the nobler, from the kingdoms +of this world to the glory of the Kingdom which is to come. + +"A good lad," said Commines at last, speaking as a man speaks who is +moved in his depths. "Simple in his faith, simple in his reverence for +the best as he understands it, simple in his simpleness of heart: a lad +so loyal that he can see no disloyalty in others. God bless him for a +good lad. He came here a boy, but Amboise has made a man of +him--Amboise and you together." It was Francois Villon's second birth +over again, but in different words. "Mademoiselle, it will be my +charge to commend him to the King." + +"For God's sake, no!" she burst out. "Leave him the man he is, +Monsieur d'Argenton, leave him his simplicity of faith. Commend him to +the King? I would rather he ploughed the fields for bread than served +your King. Here he is. Good-bye, Monsieur d'Argenton, may you find +all well at Valmy; good night, Monsieur La Mothe, we shall meet again +in the morning, or is it already the new day?" and with a smiling +curtsy to each she was gone. To Stephen La Mothe it seemed a cold good +night after all that had come and gone between them that day, the +misunderstood question in her work-room, the shadow of death in the +Burnt Mill, and, above all, their nearness as he had stood behind her +chair. But she had her purpose. She might spare Philip de Commines, +she might even forgive him, but she would not touch his hand in +friendship. + +In silence Commines returned to his room, La Mothe following; in +silence made himself ready for the road; in silence they both went +together to the great gate and passed without. Perhaps it was that +each felt the need of quiet to adjust his thoughts. But once the heavy +door, bolted and studded with iron, had clanged behind them, and the +stars were clear overhead, Commines linked his arm with La Mothe's, +drawing him close with the affectionate equality and confidence of the +old days when they were father and son, brother and brother, friend and +friend in one. Let their union in blood be what it may, it is the most +perfect relationship man and man can know, and differs from the +sweeter, more tender relationship of man and woman in that nothing is +sought, nothing granted. + +"Stephen, lad, we have been at odds, you and I, and it has hurt us +both, but that's over. I think we were both to blame. Perhaps I have +grown old, and so forgot that youth must have its day; perhaps you +could not understand my duty to the King, or how, when a man is ridden +by a dominant purpose, he must go straight forward and make or break a +way to the end. And yet you were doing something of the same yourself. +With you it was love in duty; with me, duty in love. For, Stephen, +make no mistake. Notwithstanding what it shames me to remember, I love +and reverence the King as the truest friend France has. May God spare +him to France until the boy has grown to be a man. Woe to thee, O +land, when thy King is a child. Henceforward I think the Dauphin has +nothing to fear; all that man can do to draw father to son and son to +father I will do. Stephen, your mission here is ended." + +But in the darkness La Mothe shook his head; this was the real Philip +de Commines, the Commines he had known and loved. The crust of +selfishness which overlies the heart of every man given overmuch to one +purpose, even the most honourable, had broken up, and the generous +warmth of the kindly nature within asserted itself. To such an one La +Mothe could speak as he could not speak to the shrewd politician, or +the leader of men. + +"Not ended yet, Uncle. With you I pray the King still lives, and that +is more than I could honestly have said in the Hercules room yonder +with Saxe spinning his lies. Tell him that within twelve hours I shall +have fulfilled to the very letter the orders he gave me. Watch him as +you tell him, you who are so shrewd a judge of men, and I think you +will say that to draw the father to the son will not be difficult." + +"You believe that, Stephen?" + +"I know it, Uncle; but here are the horses." With no more words La +Mothe assisted Commines to mount, standing by his knee as he settled +himself in the saddle. Then Commines stooped and the two men clasped +hands. + +"God keep you, Stephen." + +"And you, too, and may all be well at Valmy," answered La Mothe +earnestly, and added impulsively, "Uncle, have you nothing to say to +me?" + +"Only this, Stephen, thank God for a good woman," and with a last +pressure of the hand Commines rode on into the darkness, his two guards +a length behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE + +For once in his career Phillip de Commines, ambassador and diplomatist, +was well pleased to have failed, or rather, paradoxically, he told +himself that failure was his true success. The King--he had come to +the conclusion that Louis had played one of those grim jests which were +not all a jest and at times had tragic consequences--the King, no +doubt, had been deceived, possibly by Saxe, and to have Saxe proved a +liar beyond question could not but be a relief. So all was well; the +King's fears could be set at rest, and he himself was freed from an +odious duty. Against his expectation he had quitted Amboise with clean +hands. + +Nor even as regards the Dauphin, and the future the Dauphin +represented, was there much to regret. There was even, he believed, +much to hope. Ursula de Vesc controlled the boy, Stephen La Mothe +would influence the girl, and Stephen owed him everything. These were +all so many links in a chain, and the chain bound him not only to +safety but to continuance in his present offices, perhaps even to +advancement. Even though the King had died there was no need to remain +in Amboise to secure himself; La Mothe would do that for him. But the +King was living, the King would welcome his failure, would be touched +by his prompt return to Valmy, and the world was a very good world for +those who knew how to use its hazards and chances rightly. + +The stern justice of the King had swept the highways clear of violence. +According to a grim jest of Villon's, thieves and thievery were alike +in suspense from Burgundy to the sea. Except the ruts of the road, +deep in places as the axles of a cart, or the turbid waters of the +Loire, treacherous in the darkness and swollen by heavy rains in the +upper reaches, travelling was as safe by night as by day, and Commines +met with no delays but those at all times inseparable from such a +journey. Tristan's forethought, as it proved, had provided no +accident. This time there was no halt at the Château-Renaud. Through +the little straggling village they rode at a hand-gallop, and except to +bait or breathe the horses on a hill-crest, no rein was drawn until the +dawn had slipped from grey to glory and a new day lay broad upon the +fields. When that hour broke, they had made such progress that they +had reached the place whence Commines had shown La Mothe the three good +reasons why his men would keep their counsel. + +"Dismount and ease the saddles," he said, slipping a foot from the +stirrup as he spoke, "the gates will not be opened for two or three +hours at least. Lead the horses on slowly, I will follow you." + +But he was in no haste. In the small hours of the morning the currents +of enthusiasm, like those of life, run slow. It is then that the +spirit of a man is at its weakest. Or perhaps it was the sight of +Valmy that cooled his optimism. There it lay, grey and forbidding even +with the yellow sunlight of dawn full upon it, and there, stark and +clear, an offence against the sweetness of the new day, were the three +royal gibbets. Their sinister hint was emphatic. The justice of the +King was without mercy, and sombrely he asked himself, Was he so sure +that in his failure he had no need of forgiveness? Was it not rather +true that with Louis failure had always need of forgiveness and was +never forgiven? He was not so certain, now that his blood was sluggish +in the vapoury chill of dawn, but that he had been hasty in quitting +Amboise at all; and yet, what if Tristan, playing on the jealous +suspicions of the King, had set a trap? And even as he speculated with +dull eyes whether there was a trap or no, whether the King lived at +all, and what course was the most politic to follow, a stir of life +woke at Valmy: a small troop passed out from the grey arch facing the +river and took the Tours road. The distance was too great to +distinguish who comprised it. But Valmy was awake, and with Valmy +awake the sooner he faced his doubts the better--doubts grow by +nursing, and given time enough their weight will kill. + +Walking briskly forward he mounted and urged his tired horse to its +best speed. That it should reach Valmy in its last extremity, +foam-flecked and caked with sweat, would appeal to the King's sick +suspicions. It was a petty trick, mean and contemptible, but had the +King not played a still more mean and contemptible trick on him? +Commines knew with whom he had to deal; it was the vulgar cunning his +master had taught him, and any apparent absence of anxious haste would +be a point lost in the game: so their spurs were red, and their beasts +utterly blown, utterly weary from their last climb up the river's bank +when they drew rein before the outer guard-house. The Tours troop was +already out of sight. + +Lessaix himself was on duty, and as he came forward with outstretched +hand Commines required no second glance to tell himself that Ursula de +Vesc had construed Tristan's letter aright. Not so frankly would he +have been greeted if Valmy's master lay dead in Valmy. + +"The King expects you," he said, "and by your horses' looks you have +lost no time on the road." As he spoke he ran his finger-tips up the +hot neck, leaving tracks of roughened, sweaty hair behind the pressure. + +"When did you leave Amboise?" + +"The King expects me? How can that be?" + +Then as Lessaix, scenting a mystery, looked up curiously Commines made +haste to cover his slip, "Or rather, how did you know I was coming?" + +"Tristan told me as he rode out half an hour ago. He said you were on +the way and might arrive any moment. You are to go to the King at +once." + +"So Tristan left half an hour ago?" + +Try as he would Commines could not quite control his voice. He owed +more to Mademoiselle de Vesc than he had supposed. The trap had, as it +were, snapped before his face and he had escaped by a hair-breadth. +Tristan's cunning was as deep as simplicity. His forethought must have +run somewhat thus. Lessaix knows that Monsieur de Commines is expected +any moment and is to go at once to the King, who waits for him; +Monsieur de Commines does not appear, but remains paying his court to +the Dauphin at Amboise. The inference would be clear to all men, and +Monsieur de Commines would be ruined outright and utterly discredited. +Yes, Ursula de Vesc had saved him from downfall, or worse. + +Lessaix, watchful as every man was who called Louis master, caught the +change of tone and again looked up, but this time with something more +than curiosity--an anxious wariness, a fear lest some current of events +he failed to discover might catch him in its flood and drag him down +with its undertow unawares. + +"Monsieur de Commines," he said earnestly, laying a hand on Commines' +bridle-rein as they passed at a foot's pace under the archway, "we have +always been friends, always good comrades, is there--" he hesitated, +uncertain how far he dared commit himself with his good friend and +comrade, "is there anything wrong--astray--here, or at Amboise?" + +"The Dauphin is well, and it is you who should have the news of Valmy. +I know nothing but that the King sent for me in haste. Some question +of new taxation, perhaps; or it may be that England threatens to break +the peace. What did Tristan say?" + +"Nothing but what I tell you, but he laughed as he said it. If I were +you, I would not delay, but would go to the King booted and spurred and +dusty as you are." + +Commines nodded. The advice was welcome, not only because it was meant +kindly but for what it inferred. If disgrace threatened, Lessaix at +least had no knowledge of it. + +"The messenger who left two days ago, has he returned?" + +"Not yet; there was another yesterday." + +"I know. Who is on guard?" + +"Beaufoy, and the password is Amboise." + +Again Commines nodded. Beaufoy? That, too, was all in his favour. +Beaufoy was one of the younger men and not at all in the King's +confidence. If Louis had any sinister coup in his mind, Leslie, or +Saint-Pierre, or Lessaix himself would have been on duty. + +With an alert, quick step, that had in it none of the stiffness or +fatigue of a long night's ride, Commines mounted the stairs, answering +friendly salutes at every turn. As at all times with the King in +residence, the halls, corridors, and ante-rooms were like those of a +barrack rather than of a royal chateau. Here and there he was +challenged and his way barred by a lowered halbert, but it was more or +less perfunctory, and at the password the way was cleared. That +Beaufoy was unfeignedly glad to see him was another satisfaction. Ever +since he had come in sight of Valmy an uncomfortable sense of +friendlessness had haunted him with the unreasoning horror of a +nightmare, and Beaufoy's welcoming smile was like the wakening into +sunshine. + +"_Dieu merci_! but I am thankful you have come," he said, but speaking +softly so that no sounds passed through the curtained door at his back. +"Four times within the hour the King has sent asking for you. It is +like the cry of one of his own parrots, 'Commines! Where is Commines?'" + +"Who have seen him this morning?" + +"His two janitors of the eternal, if it be no sin to say so--the priest +and Tristan. Fortune keep their last ministrations far from me!" + +"Then the King is awake?" said Commines, unbuckling his sword-belt and +handing it to Beaufoy. + +"Awake, but in bed as a good Christian ought to be at this time of day. +Faith! Monsieur d'Argenton, you are in fortune's pocket; four times +within the hour he has asked for you--four times, as I'm a starving +sinner without a hope of breakfast." + +"The better appetite later!" Letting the curtains fall behind him +Commines pushed the door open softly, closed it softly at his back, and +advanced a step. But in spite of the caution of his quiet Louis heard +him. + +"What's that? Who's there? Beaufoy--Beaufoy----" + +"Sire, it is I--Commines." + +"Commines!" he repeated, the sharpness of his frightened voice +dwindling breathlessly. "Commines, Philip, what--what news from +Amboise?" + +"The very best, Sire." + +"The very best! Ah, God, my son! my son! The very best? Oh, France! +France! Philip, tell me--tell me your news. But is the door +shut--shut fast?" + +Through a prolonged life Commines never forgot that scene and never +answered, never dared to answer, even in the secret of his own mind, +the question, What news from Amboise was the very best? + +A single shutter had been drawn half aside, and in the semi-obscurity +the chalk-grey face of the King showed ghost-like against the vaulted +darkness of the curtained bed. The fret of spirit through these ten or +twelve days had sapped him, worn him like so many days of consuming +fever. With one hand, the elbow propped upon the coverlid, he pushed +the draperies aside, the other was fumbling with its finger-tips at his +convulsed mouth. In impatience, or that he might breathe the freer, +the ribbons which knotted his woollen nightrobe at the throat had been +unfastened, leaving the lean, parchment-coloured chest and throat, +corded with starting sinews, nakedly open. As he leant aslant, the +curtains arching overhead, his eyes roundly open in the shadows of +their sockets, he was like a corpse new risen from its tomb and full of +horror from the dreams which had dogged its sleep. + +"The very best! Tell me everything, Philip. Or, no!" The shaking +hand ceased plucking at the lip, and the shrunken arm, bare to the +elbow where the gown had slipped, was thrust out, beating the air as if +to push aside some terror. "Tell me the one--the essential----God's +name, man! can you not understand?" + +"The best news possible, Sire." Commines' eyes were growing accustomed +to the gloom and no detail escaped him. "The Dauphin is innocent, is +loving--loyal." + +The King shrank as if he had been struck and the cadaverous face grew +yet more ghastly. Shifting uneasily on his elbow he pushed the +curtains wide apart, rasping the rings sharply on the rod, and drawing +back his hand fumbled anew at his mouth. + +"Loving, loyal--living." There was a perceptible pause, and the third +word was harsher, drier than the others, and spoken with a jerk as if +forced from the throat under compulsion. "You received my letter +written two days ago?" + +"Yes, Sire, and a second last night. Thank God, with all my heart, +it----" + +"Let it wait. The messenger of two days ago, has he come back?" + +"Not yet. I asked Lessaix." + +"Why?" + +"Idle curiosity, Sire." + +"Only fools are curious for nothing, and you are no fool, or were not +when you left to go to Amboise." He paused, and in the silence +Commines searched his wit for some plausible reason for the question he +had put to Lessaix. But Louis probed no further. To hear the truth +would have suited his purpose no better than it would have suited +Commines to tell it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST + +Commines broke the silence with a bold stroke. "He carried more +letters than yours, Sire. A man named Saxe----" + +"Saxe?" said Louis, drawling the word. "Who is Saxe?" + +"An innkeeper in Amboise. Yesterday, an hour or two after I had +received Your Majesty's letter, he came to me with a lying tale." + +"What sort of reputation has this Saxe?" + +"He is an innkeeper." + +"An innkeeper? Innkeepers are decent folk. Travellers trust them +nightly with their property, with their lives even. There is no +discredit in innkeeping. You know, Monsieur d'Argenton, I do not hold +that honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. This +Saxe, now, what was his tale?" + +"One, Sire, that if true would have plunged all France into sorrow, and +you into the deepest grief of all. He accused the Dauphin, a girl +named Ursula de Vesc, and one Hugues, the Dauphin's valet, of plotting +against Your Majesty." + +"Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you understood when you +left Valmy. Did I not tell you to sift, and search, and find? Now +comes this Saxe, a decent, reputable man----" + +"Sire, Saxe lied." + +"Lied?" Loosing the curtain Louis slipped back upon his pillows, +huddled in a shapeless heap, his hands clenched upon his breast, his +chin sunk upon their clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only the +eyes, dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed alive. "Who +says Saxe lies?" + +"All who heard him, Sire." + +"What? There were witnesses?" + +"There was need of witnesses for the sake of the publicity afterwards." + +"Um! I do not say you were wrong, but it has turned out badly. Well?" + +"Saxe proved too much. He swore the Dauphin quoted Molembrais' death +as a reason why all France was----" Commines paused, fearing to offend +by an unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for him. + +"Why France was afraid. Well, that was probable. I see no lie in +that." + +"No, Sire; but Saxe fixed the day definitely, and Molembrais was alive +at the time." + +The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into the +pillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Commines +knew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and because +Coictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violent +emotion might be fatal. + +"Oh, the fool! the--the--the--I must be calm. May all the devils--no, +I must be calm, I must control myself; my miserable, wretched +heart--but to be cursed with such a fool, such a fool!" + +"A scoundrel, Sire, rather than a fool; a villainous, lying scoundrel, +who would traduce the Dauphin himself. Let us thank God he overreached +himself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince your +son is innocent of all blame, is loving and loyal. Let us publicly, +promptly stamp Saxe for the liar he has proved himself to be, lest he +malign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now the +one course possible." + +"Eh, Philip? What was that? Accuse the King himself? Accuse me--me? +Of what, Philip, of what? Where is this Saxe? In whose keeping? +Monsieur d'Argenton, have you been imprudent--careless? By God! you +shall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me--at +me. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he has +lied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of his +loving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news. +Yes, we rejoice--we rejoice--God knows how we rejoice! Philip, the +cordial--there, on the table--that crystal flask. This joyful emotion +is killing me." + +Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a hand +which faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless on +the bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to his +mouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly. +As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of the +chest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblance +of life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for a +moment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst, +been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closed +his eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest the +easier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes still +closed he beckoned to Commines to stoop lower. + +"Saxe--where is Saxe?" + +"In safe keeping, Sire." + +"Safe? He cannot talk?" + +"Quite safe. Only La Mothe and Villon visit him. + +"La Mothe? Faugh! another fool. There is no end to the breed. I +think God made them as He made flies, to be the fret and plague of +life. You vouched for the fool, Philip, remember that." + +"And I still vouch for La Mothe," answered Commines. He felt that he +was now safe, so safe that he might even venture to plead for Stephen. +"Consider, Sire, you who are so just, is it the boy's fault that we +failed to discover what does not exist? Remember, Saxe lied, lied +throughout, and has always lied." He paused, but if he expected to +draw some further comment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent, +his face void of expression, and Commines went on: "That cruel jest the +Provost-Marshal played upon us all cut me to the heart. Sire, Sire, +how could you permit it? All night long I have ridden from Amboise in +despair and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved of so +good and true a friend, so great a King. The awful shock----" + +"There, there, no more of that," said Louis harshly. The reminder of +the grim, inevitable certainty which had lately been so significantly +near was more than he could bear. With an effort he struggled on his +elbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I am +strong--stronger than for years. Coictier says so; but he says, too, +that I should rest, so I will lie back again. Yes, yes, a jest--and +yet not all a jest." From under his drooped lids he looked up at +Commines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what did +Charles say? Charles, who is so loving and loyal. Laughed and thanked +God--eh, Philip?" + +"No, Sire, no. For the moment he seemed struck dumb, as we all were. +True grief is silent. When sorrow is at its sorest, words do not come +easily, and never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin's last +night." Which was true, for Hugues, who had loved him, lay dead. And +Hugues' death gave Commines another inspiration, which, because of the +end in view, he seized upon without a scruple. "But when at last words +came they were worthy of him, worthy of his loyalty both as son and +subject. 'I would be Dauphin again,' said he, 'if I could but bring +him back.'" + +Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis caught Commines by the +arm with a greater strength than had seemed possible in one so frail, +caught him and held him, and if the hand shook, it was not from +weakness. + +"He said that? Charles said that? Who prompted him?" + +"No one, Sire. He spoke his own thought frankly, and every word he +said came from his heart." + +"Philip, as God lives, is that true?" + +"As God lives," said Commines deliberately, "these were the Dauphin's +very words, and he spoke them from his heart. No one prompted him, no +one led him; they were his own thoughts, his only." + +With a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis lay +back. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lips +were firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at this +or that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence at +animation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forced +himself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But the +outcome of the thought surprised and disappointed the watcher. + +"La Mothe?" + +"Sire, I vouch for La Mothe." + +"God's name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for himself?" + +"I had forgotten. To-day's blessed relief drove it from my head. Can +you blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, as +I left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell him +that within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me.'" + +"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you told +me the truth to-day? Charles? My son? That he said those things? +More hangs on it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as I +have made you what you are, do not deceive me." + +"Most true, Sire; I would plead for the Dauphin----" + +"Plead? What need have you to plead, you or any man? Plead? Your +officiousness goes too far. Is he not my son? Who is on duty?" + +"Beaufoy, Sire." + +"Pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy to me--now, this very instant. +Go, man, go! Why do you stand staring there like a wax image? Oh! +pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy--do you not hear? Send Beaufoy, +send Beaufoy this instant! Beaufoy! Beaufoy! And, Philip, have the +fastest horse in Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make haste, +for the love of Heaven, make haste! Beaufoy! Beaufoy!" + +Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden outburst which filled +Louis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. He +thought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agony +of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him. +Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken down +finally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to +draw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why such +anxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond the +door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled. + +"The King--go to him." + +"Ill? Dying?" + +"No, he needs you. Go at once--at once," answered Commines, with a +jerk of his head, and was gone. + +"You called me, Sire?" + +"Pen--ink--paper. There, on the table. Quicker, dolt, quicker!" + +But with the quill between his fingers and the paper flattened on a pad +against his knee, Louis was in no haste to write. Gnawing with +unconscious savagery at his under-lip he stared into vacancy, +searching, searching, searching for the precise words to express his +thought. But they eluded him. It was not so simple to be precise, so +clear that even a fool like Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yet +be so cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of the order, +would not betray him. Commines' voice was clanging in his ears like +the clapper of a bell, and would not let him think coherently. Twelve +hours! Twelve hours! Even now--no, not yet, but soon, very soon, it +might be too late. "Perdition!" he cried, striking his hand upon the +woollen coverlid--he was chilly even in May--"will they never come?" + +And at last they came, not what satisfied him, but what perforce must +suffice, and with a hand marvellously steady under the compulsion of +the iron will he dashed off two or three sentences at white heat, added +his signature in the bold, angular characters which had so often +vouched a lie as the truth, and flung the paper across to Beaufoy. + +"There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your horse is waiting you in +the courtyard. Read your orders as you go, but let no man see them, +not even Argenton. The moment they are executed return to Valmy." + +"Go where, Sire?" + +"To Amboise--Amboise, and ride as if all hell clattered at your back. +Go, man! Go, go!" + +Until Beaufoy had dropped the curtain behind him Louis sat rigidly +upright; then, as if the very springs of life were sapped to their +utmost limit, he sank back in collapse upon the pillows. From the +half-opened shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table, +flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver Christ upon the +cross, propped amongst the litter, and drew his eyes. + +"Twelve hours," he whispered, staring at it, fascinated. "Thy power, +Thy power and infinite love, O Lord! God have mercy upon us! God have +mercy upon me! My son! My son!" + +And riding down the slope to the river Beaufoy read: + +"Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to +Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your +life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST + +For men there is no such ladder to place and fame as their fellow-men. +Over their crushed and trampled backs, or with a hand in their pocket, +ambition or greed can climb to heights which would be hopelessly +unattainable but for the unwilling foothold of another's disadvantage. +La Mothe? Who the deuce was La Mothe? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared. +He had his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between his +knees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with all +the subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy, +which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He was +almost as fully in fortune's pocket as Monsieur d'Argenton! + +Nor was that all. There was even the hope that this poor devil of a La +Mothe might say, "No, thank you!" to the order for arrest, and so give +Paul Beaufoy opportunity to prove to the world at large, and the King +in particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, that Paul +Beaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever with his head, and fit +for something much better than arresting poor devils accused of God +knows what. But that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhile +the world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of worlds, with just +one small fret to mar its perfection--he had had no breakfast! That +must be remedied, and the half hour's delay could be made good by +harder riding afterwards. + +So, midway to Château-Renaud, at the junction of the St. Amand road, he +gave a little auberge his custom, comforting nature with an omelet +while a fowl was being put on the spit. But because custom such as +Paul Beaufoy's came that way but seldom the fowl was slow to come by, +yet slower to cook, and more time went to its eating than would have +been to Paul Beaufoy's advantage had the King known the excellence of +his appetite. But the King knew nothing and would know nothing, so no +one was hurt by the picking of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothe +would naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a prick of the +spur would drag back some of the lost minutes. + +Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as light as a bird on +the wing or the paper which was to consign this unknown poor devil of a +La Mothe to he neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantly +the generous beast between his knees answered the call. But--surely +disjunctive conjunctions are the tragedies of the language! They +tumble our castles in Spain about our ears with neither ruth nor +warning. Man would be in Paradise to this day--but Eve ate the apple; +Napoleon would have conquered Europe--but England stood in the way. So +was it with Paul Beaufoy. His lost hour would have been regained--but +but the pace killed, and with Amboise a weary distance away he found +himself stranded and disconsolate beside a foundered horse. And linked +to the tragedy of the disjunctive was this other tragedy. It is the +generous-hearted who pay for the follies of others. Had the +broken-down beast been a cowardly scum it would never have lain a +castaway by the roadside. + +And now, indeed, in the King's vigorous phrase, hell was at his back; +only, as is so often the way with blinded humanity, he never guessed +the truth, but thought it salvation, from behind, down a side-road, +clattered a small troop at a quick trot, and taking the middle of the +highway Beaufoy called a halt. + +"In the King's name!" he cried, holding up the hand of authority. The +intoxication of a first commission is almost as self-deceiving as that +of a first love. In his place Philip de Commines, recognizing that he +was outnumbered ten to one, would have been diplomatic. When there is +no power to strike, it is always unwise to clench the fist, especially +when a hat in the hand may gain the point. But the authority sufficed, +and at a motion from their leader the troop halted. + +"More energy than discretion," said he, with a glance at the disabled +horse. "What can I do for you, and why in the King's name?" + +"My energy and discretion are my affair," answered Beaufoy, more +nettled by his inability to dispute the truth than by the truth itself. +"I am from Valmy upon the King's business, and must have a horse +without delay." + + +"Let Valmy buy its own horses, I am no dealer," was the brusque answer. +But the hands which had caught up the loosened reins promptly tightened +them afresh. "How long from Valmy?" + +"That can matter nothing to you; what does matter is that I am on the +King's business and must have a horse." + +"Having, like a fool, killed your own! But that, as you say, is no +affair of mine. When did you leave Valmy?" + +"I see no reason----" began Beaufoy, but with a backward gesture the +other silenced him. + +"Reasons enough," he said. "Count them for yourself. For the third +time, when did you leave Valmy?" + +"This morning, and I warn you that the King will call you to account +for every minute's delay." + +"You, not me; I did not founder your horse." The half banter passed +from his voice, and the bronzed face hardened. "And we have accounts +enough as it is, the King and I." + +"Pray God he pays his debts and mine, and that I be there to see," +retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of all prudence. "Again, in the +King's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your men +can ride double." + +"Must this! Demand that! Tut, tut! you forget the reasons behind me." +But though he spoke with a return of the banter which goaded the +unfortunate Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert and +there was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy been a Philip de +Commines he would have known that jest with no laughter at its back is +more dangerous than a threat. "Where are you going?" + +"That is my affair and the King's." + +Lurching forward in the saddle the elder man--he was eight or ten years +the senior--shook his clenched gauntlet in Beaufoy's face, his own +crimson from the gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. "The +King! The King! The King!" he cried furiously. "Curse you and your +King! What devil's plot is that lying old tiger-fox scheming now that +you ride to death an honester brute than either of you? Whose murder +comes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give some account of +yourself." + +"If you are a gentleman, if you are not a coward as well as a bully," +answered Beaufoy, his face as white as the other's was flushed, "come +down from your horse and meet me man to man. You'll not ask me to give +an account of myself a second time." + +"That is Valmy all over! Give up my advantage that you may gain! And +who are you with your musts and demands?" + +"My name is Beaufoy----" + +"Then you are not from Valmy," broke in the other, running on Beaufoy's +name, "for no faith, beau, bonne, or belle, ever came out of Valmy." + +With a shrug of his shoulders Beaufoy turned on his heel. "Coward as +well as bully," he began, but at a sign from their leader the troop +gathered round, hemming him in in a circle. + +"Now that my reasons are plainer to you, will you answer my +question--where are you going? No reply? And yet no one understands +the logic of numbers better than your coward of a master. But I'll +have my answer. Are you going to Blois? No! To Tours? No! Amboise? +Ah! your eyes have a tongue of their own. You cannot have lived very +long in Valmy, my ingenuous friend. Why to Amboise? You won't tell? +But, by God, you shall! Do you think I'll be baulked for a scruple?" +His hand crept to his hilt as he spoke; now, with a swift wrench the +blade was out and its point at Beaufoy's throat. "Come, your message?" + +But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the quality of its +defects. The law that might was right had bred a contempt for life, +one's own or another's, it mattered little which. In the great game of +national aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the man +who slew without pity could die without fear. If any second incentive +were needed, Beaufoy found it in the gibe at his name. Beaufoy would +hold good faith let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himself +rigidly he answered nothing. + +"Come, the message! I'll have it, though I rip it out of you. You +won't answer? Then there is no help for it. Once!"--and the point +touched--"twice!"--and the point pricked--"three times! Monsieur, you +are a brave fool, but on your life do not stir. Grip him by the +elbows, Jan. Now you, Michault, go through his pockets. What first? +An empty purse! And yet you must have a horse, must you? Was I to +collect its price at Valmy, my good sir? When I go to Valmy it will be +for more than the life of a horse. Next, a woman's ribbon! No wonder +the purse was empty. A paper! Give it me--a love-letter! I +congratulate you, Monsieur Beaufoy, and return it without reading the +signature. No doubt the empty purse is justified. May she show as +firm a faith as you have done; her cause is the better of the two. Now +that. This time we have it. Monsieur Beaufoy, you have done +everything a brave and honourable gentleman could do. Give me your +parole to hurt neither yourself nor us and Jan will release your arms." + +Panting, every nerve tense with impotent resentment, Paul Beaufoy +looked up into the not unkindly eyes turned down to his. A +physiognomist would have said it was a reckless face rather than an +evil one. The blade had been lowered, but Jan's muscular hands still +held his elbows behind his back in an iron grip; beyond him was +Michault. No prisoner in shackles was more helpless. + +"For this time," he said between his teeth; "but God granting me +life----" + +"Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I trust you as I would never +trust that brute without a soul you call King. Trust the King? God +help the man who trusts King Louis! One very dear to me trusted him, +trusted his pledged word with his life, and I humbly pray God's mercy +has him in its keeping, for he found none in Valmy." Sheathing his +sword he sat back in the saddle and smoothed the looted paper +carefully. "Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring +him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on +your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS." + +Having read the order through from beginning to end, he read it over a +second time, sentence by sentence, pausing to consider each separately. + +"'Go to Amboise.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not wish to ask you anything +a man of honour such as you are cannot answer. Do they know you in +Amboise?" + +"No," answered Beaufoy, after a moment's consideration; "and if I +thought it mattered one way or the other, you would get no answer from +me. I am from the north, and a stranger both in Valmy and Amboise." + +"'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without +delay.' It follows that you do not know this Stephen La Mothe nor he +you?" + +"No," repeated Beaufoy. + +"Nor his offence?" + +"Not even that." + +"God knows there need be no offence at all. 'Tell him his orders are +cancelled.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not ask you what these orders are." + +"And if I knew, I would not tell you." + +"Then you do not know?" + +"No." + +"'On your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.' Is it +fair to ask why?" + +"Again, if I knew, I would not tell you, but I do not." + +"Then it comes to this: you, a stranger in Amboise, are to arrest a +stranger to yourself for an offence of which you are ignorant?" + +"With my orders clear and explicit I have no need of knowledge." + +"Is this order public property at Valmy?" + +"No one knows of it except myself and the King," replied Beaufoy, +clinging desperately to the remnants of his authority. + +The other nodded abstractedly, his thoughts busy elsewhere. He quite +recognized the type of man with whom he had to do--light-hearted, +careless, frivolous even up to a certain point, but beyond that +immovable. To question further would be useless, and almost in +violation of the strange code of honour which permitted unscrupulous +violence but respected the right of reticence in an equal--in an equal, +be it observed; an inferior had no rights, none whatever. + +"'Bring him to Valmy.'" Turning in his saddle he beckoned to one of +his followers, a man older than the rest, shrewd-faced and grizzled. +"What do you think, Perrault; can we do it?" + +"Enter Amboise?" + +"Enter Valmy." + +But Beaufoy could control himself no longer. "Monsieur, whoever you +are, I demand back the King's order. These instructions are for me +alone and I must----" + +"What? More musts? No, no, you have done all a man of honour can +do--except hold your tongue and acknowledge the inevitable. Jan and +Michault, take Monsieur Beaufoy into the field yonder, but quietly, +courteously." + +"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustled +across the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Some +day you shall answer me for this." + +"If the King permits," was the ironic reply. "Be a little more gentle, +Jan. Now, Perrault?" + +"Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy." + +"Not all of us, not you--I alone." + +"Alone? Monsieur Marc, you would never venture----" + +"Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would venture to the gates +of hell for just five minutes with Louis of France, and you know it." + +"But it is impossible." + +"Desperate, not impossible. This," and he shook the paper in his +closed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King's +signet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmy +if I have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast--La Mothe, +through whom I have twice missed the Dauphin! Perrault, I'll do it; by +all the saints, I'll do it." + +"Yes," said Perrault, and there was a wistful tenderness in his rough +voice, "you may get into Valmy, but, Master Marc, you'll never win out +again." + +"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung in +my way? And would Guy have done less for me?" + +But Perrault returned no answer. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +"LOVE IS MY LIFE" + +"Blessed be the man who first invented sleep," said the wise Spaniard. +And yet there are times when even a sleepless night can leave a light +heart behind it. For the first time since coming to Amboise Stephen La +Mothe felt at peace with himself and with all the world, though the +latter is a secondary consideration. As between the two disturbers of +his comfort a man's most triumphant foe is his conscience. And he had +good cause for comfort. When at their very worst, things had gone well +with him, and as he reckoned up his mercies the morning Paul Beaufoy +rode post from Valmy, he found his pouch of life full to the rim with +white stones. + +First: Ursula! There was a little tremulous contraction of the heart, +a little sudden sense of warm sunlight as he said the name over. +Ursula--Ursula! What a kindly cunning mother is Fate: she always gives +the one sweet woman in the world the sweetest of names. For where was +there a sweeter name than Ursula? So soft, so--so--well, just Ursula. +Ursula was safe and had forgiven him. Which of these two mercies was +the greater he hardly knew; the second, perhaps, since it was +undeserved. He was a very humble lover, as all true lovers should be +who realize, with a wondering incomprehension, that in creating woman +last of all the Lord God had concentrated all the wisdom of His six +days' experience, and even then only consummated the perfection after a +seventh day of thoughtful rest. He did not know that the miracle of a +loving woman's forgiveness is as common and natural as the sunshine, +and, let it be said sorrowfully, as necessary to life. + +And Ursula was safe. For that they had to thank Villon. It was he who +had grasped the flaw of Saxe's over-proof, and so tumbled the whole +fabric of lies into a ruin never to be built up again. For both these +mercies he humbly thanked God. It is to be noted by the student of the +ways of men that he never gave the Dauphin's safety a thought. He had +risked his life for the boy, and would risk it again if necessary, risk +it cheerfully, but as an abstract proposition he cared little whether +the Dauphin lived or died. Next after Ursula came Commines. There had +been a bitter moment when Commines had tottered on his pedestal, but +Ursula's hand had steadied him just when the touch was needed. Ursula +again! It was marvellous how the whole of Amboise had its orbit round +Ursula. In the end Commines had justified himself, and in that belief +the loyal heart of Stephen La Mothe found the early May sunshine yet +more pleasant and the air sweeter. + +Nor was there now any fear but that he would leave Amboise with clean +hands. The white horse and the piebald were ambling side by side under +his feet, and all danger of a sprawling tumble between them in the mud +was at an end. And because he would leave Amboise with clean hands he +could without shame say to Ursula de Vesc such things as are the sacred +treasures of the heart's Holy of Holies. At least it would not be an +unworthy love he had to offer, unworthy of her acceptance, since no +man's love could be fully worthy of Ursula de Vesc, but not unworthy in +itself. But first he had the King's commission to fulfil, and if Louis +really lay dead at Valmy surely he might violate the letter of his +orders and say, "These are the message of a father's love." Or, +rather, Ursula came first, always first, even before the King's +commission, and with the thought came Ursula de Vesc herself. + +"Good morning, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"Mademoiselle! you so early?" + +"I do not think many slept in Amboise last night. Did you hear that +Tristan's letter was one of your King's merry jests?" + +"But are you certain?" + +"Absolutely. He was seen on the walls just before the closing of the +gates last night. You know at Valmy they do not wait for the sun to +set. Shall I let you into a secret I would not have told you a +fortnight ago?" The white night, its long hours haunted by anxious +thoughts, had left a wan reflection on her face, but now the pallor +warmed; into the tired eyes a little light of laughter flickered, part +humorous, part tender, and the Cupid's bow trembled on its string. "In +Amboise we are not so forlorn as you think. The innkeeper at +Château-Renaud is our very good friend, or how could we have known that +a certain Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, a wandering minstrel with lute and +knapsack on his back, was coming our way?" + +"You knew that?" + +"From the first," she answered, still smiling, but with so kindly a +raillery that not even a lover could take offence. "Did you think you +played the part so well that you deceived us? Or that the Dauphin had +sunk so low as to make a friend of the first hedge-singer who came his +way? We were warned from Château-Renaud that you who arrived with +Monsieur d'Argenton on horseback departed alone on foot." + +"That raw-boned roan which passed me on the road?" + +"Yes. And can you wonder if we were suspicious and just a little +frightened? You were from Valmy and Valmy is our Galilee: nothing good +comes out of it." + +"I wonder at nothing but your goodness in bearing with me." + +"You owe us nothing for that. That," the colour mounted to her +forehead; she, too, had grown ashamed of the first night, ashamed and +astonished that she had not understood Stephen La Mothe's transparent +good faith from the very first, "that was precaution. In the Château +we could watch the watcher. Then you began that fairy tale and your +face told me you believed it every word. That puzzled me. How could +anything good come out of Valmy? Yet next day you saved the Dauphin's +life and again yesterday. But I am forgetting the King and how we know +the letter was a lie. Cartier, the innkeeper at Château-Renaud, has a +son in Valmy and had been to visit him: the King was on the walls when +he left before sunset last night. The hangman's letter was a trap to +catch us all, and the Great King consented to it. What a worthy King! +Oh! I am very human and my bitterness must speak out when I remember +last night. Saxe, Tristan, the King, Monsieur d'Argenton, and against +them one weak coward of a girl. They would have lied my life away last +night; and not mine only, the Dauphin's." + +"Mademoiselle, am I forgiven for my folly of yesterday?" He knew he +was, but for a cunning reason of his own he wished to hear her say so. + +"Can I blame you?" she answered, making no pretence at misunderstanding +him. "You, too, are from Valmy. No, no. I do not mean that. That +was a cruel thing to say; it is you who must forgive me, for you are +not of Valmy, you who stood by me and believed in me even when I seemed +the vile thing they called me." + +"The sweetest and truest woman on God's earth," he said. "I believed +in you even before I loved you--no, that is not true, for I think now I +loved you that very first night when you had nothing for me but the +contempt I deserved. Every day since then you have grown sweeter, +dearer, more reverenced: so strong for others, so full of courage for +others, so full of thought for others and without a thought for +yourself: never one thought for yourself, never one and never a fear. +And every day I have hungered for you; I don't know any other word for +it but just hungered, hungered, hungered that a little of the dear +womanly graciousness might be mine. Though that would not be enough, +not that only: love must have love or go starved." + +Except for a shake of the head in depreciation or denial she had heard +him without interruption. Why should she interrupt what was so sweet +to hear? But though it was the very comfort her heart longed for, +there was no smile on her face, a fresher glow on the cheeks, perhaps, +a fuller light in the eyes, but beyond these a pathetic wistful gravity +rather, as if in the presence of a solemn sacrament. And surely the +revelation of that which is nearest in us to the divine is a true +sacrament of the spirit. But when he ended she put out a hand and +touched him gently, her fingers lingering on his arm in a caress. + +"And I? Oh, my dear, my more than dear, have I not hungered? I think +a woman starves for love as a man never can." From his arm the hand +stole up and caught him round the neck, the other joining it, and his +face was drawn down to her own. "Am I shameless, beloved? No! for +there is no shame in love, and Stephen, my heart, my hero, my man of +men, I love you, I love you, I love you." + +But presently, as she lay in his arms, her head drawn into the hollow +of that which held her near, the grey eyes smiled up at him in a return +to the tender mockery he knew and loved so well, nor was it less sweet +for the moisture behind the lashes. + +"Yesterday----" + +"Hush, beloved, do not talk of yesterday," nor, for the moment, could +she. But she was wilful, and being a woman, had her way. + +"Yesterday you sang; will you ever sing again?" + +"Yes, listen! + + 'Heigh-ho, love is my life, + Live I in loving, and love I to live.' + +Until to-day I never knew how true that is. Ursula, my sweet, you must +teach me the ending, for I have never yet found one to please me." + +"You talk of endings when life has just begun. Tell me, was Homer +blind?" + +"So they say," he answered, marvelling much what new shift of thought +was coming next. + +"I thought so," and the smile deepened until the grey eyes shone +through their thin veil of unshed tears. "And Homer was blind +yesterday or he would have seen I expected a very different question." + +"Yes, laugh at my foolishness; I love to see you laugh, you who have +laughed so little all these days. But I think the time of laughter has +come for us both." + +"Until you go back to Valmy." + +"And that must be soon." + +On the instant she belied his optimism, for the laughter faded from her +eyes leaving her once more the woman of many sorrows, and with a sigh +she released herself from his clasp. + +"I hate Valmy; I have a horror of it and of your terrible King. He +always seems to me like some dry-hearted, cold-hearted beast rather +than a man. Is there nothing human in him?" + +"He is more human than you think. Ursula, I know it, so you need not +shake that dear, wise head of yours." + +"You say so because you are so human yourself. Dear, I love you for +your charity." + +"Love me for what you will so long as you do love me," answered he. +"And do not be afraid. I am quite sure I am not making any mistake. +The King trusts me as he never trusted Monsieur de Commines." + +"And how well he trusts him we saw last night," she said, with a little +bitter irony which surely might be pardoned. "But how can I help being +afraid? Are you not all I have in the world?" + +"Charles?" + +"Do you think Charles counts for anything now? And yet he is a dear +boy who has the good taste to approve warmly of Monsieur Stephen La +Mothe. Did I not tell you, that day you were playing with the dogs, +that you would win all our hearts?" + +"And Monsieur Stephen La Mothe," said Stephen jestingly, "approves so +warmly of the dear boy's approval, that if it would not be presumptuous +he would ask his leave to beg his acceptance of a little remembrance of +these last days." + +"Ask his leave! Poor boy, he would be delighted. Dauphin of France +though he is, he gets so few presents. What is it? Let me guess. +Your lute! and you would sing----" + +"No, not my lute, wicked that you are. And if I sang at all it would +be Blaise's song adapted to this most blessed of blessed days. + + Ursula is sweet to kiss, + Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss." + +I told Monsieur de Commines that was one thing I must have in a wife, +and praise God, I have got it!" + +"Hush, Stephen! Do you want all Amboise to hear your foolishness?" + +"If that is foolishness, may I never be wise again. To me it is the +one wisdom of the world. I think I am drunk this morning and it is +only seven o'clock. Is not that scandalous? Love-drunk at seven in +the morning and never to be sober again! Mademoiselle de Vesc, do you +know you are the most beautiful woman in all France?" + +"I know I am the happiest," she answered soberly. "But, Stephen, what +have you got for the boy? I would not be a true woman if I was not +curious." + +"And you are the very truest woman----" + +"Stephen, I will not have any more foolishness. Tell me at once what +have you got for Charles?" + +"Two small gifts: a coat-of-mail so fine in the links that you could +hold it in your two hands--no! not in your two hands, they are only +large enough to hold my heart. Then there is an embroidered mask, a +tinselled toy of a thing but pretty enough. They will help him to +dress his plays. Ask him, Ursula, if he will accept them from me even +though I came by way of Valmy." + +"Would you spoil his pleasure? No, I shall say nothing at all about +Valmy, just that a wandering minstrel be so rich that he can make +presents to a Dauphin of France! Sing me a song, Master Homer the +blind, and I will give you--let me see: no, not what you think--a +silver livre!" But she did not wait for his music. Dropping him a +little demure, mocking curtsy she turned and ran down the box-edged +path, singing as she went, and the air she sang was Stephen La Mothe's +"Heigh-ho! love is my life; Live I in loving and love I to live!" and +the lilt of the music set Master Homer's heart throbbing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION + +"There was a time," said Villon, "when I, too, could forget that rose +arches are open at the ends. The world is always gaping at our elbow. +If we taste a peach in an orchard, the wall is low; if we smell a rose +in a garden, there are, Heaven be thanked, more flowers than leaves +when life's at May; and either way the world is with us." + +"And you were the gaping world!" answered La Mothe, vexed for Ursula's +sake that Villon of the bitter tongue should have discovered their +secret. "Was that friendly of you?" + +"Not gaping, no! But is a man to close his eyes when heaven opens? I +beg you to believe," he went on with great dignity, "that just so soon +as I made certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you to your +rose-gathering. Observe I have not said one word about the thorns. +That is the stale gibe of the cynic whose heart of youth has dried +before its time. And what if there are thorns? A single rose with the +dew of love upon it is worth more than a pair of scratched hands. +Gape? Could you believe it of me--of me, Francois Villon? No, son of +my teaching, I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe." + +"Saxe!" cried La Mothe. "Never once have I thought of Saxe, never once +all day, and now it is almost night." + +"Don't distress yourself on that account. Saxe has wanted for nothing, +thanks to his two best friends. That reminds me." Pausing, Villon +rapped loudly on the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until a +servant familiar with his ways answered the summons. "My friend, fetch +me a bottle of wine, one single bottle from the furthest-in bin on the +right-hand side of the cellar. It is the '63 vintage," he explained to +La Mothe, "and I have the best of reasons for knowing Saxe will not +object." + +"But why one bottle only?" + +"I have been invited to a certain presentation," he answered, the +crow's feet round his twinkling eyes deepening as he laughed. "Thanks, +my friend," he went on as the drawer returned with the wine; "place it +on the table and retire to your kitchen to meditate on the mutability +of human fortune in the person of the greatest poet of his age, from +the Guest of the Three-legged Maid of Montfaucon to 'Francois Villon, +my friend' of the Dauphin of France! At last they are beginning to +appreciate me at the Château." + +"But what of Saxe?" + +"Ah, Saxe?" Filling his horn mug he emptied it with such slow +satisfaction that the flavour of no single drop of the wine missed his +palate. "Saxe's best friend had been before me this morning." + +"But Monsieur de Commines' orders were strict, only you and I were to +see him." + +"Not even your Monsieur de Commines can shut out a man from himself, +and who is a better friend or a worse enemy? Saxe, the wise man, has +hanged himself." + +"Hanged himself? Saxe?" + +"An intelligent anticipation," said Villon, nodding thoughtfully. "I +did not think he had so much good sense or good feeling. He always +struck me as a man of a coarse, material mind; but one can never tell." + +"Villon, it is horrible! How can you talk so callously? But you know +you do not mean what you say." + +"Every word of it. Hanged he would have been in any case, that was +inevitable. I warned him last night that he knew too much, and that +more went into Amboise than came out again. And was it not better he +should go to his end quietly, decently, just God and himself alone +together--the Good God who understands us so much better than we do +ourselves and so makes allowances? You don't agree with me?" + +"I can only say again, it is horrible." + +"Then what of the justice of the King which makes a man a spectacle in +the market-place, with all the world agape at the terror of it, the +world that licks its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbeting +of wretches no worse than itself? Think of the terror of it! Think of +the shame of it! The men he had drunk with, the women he had laughed +with, the children he had played with, all ringed round him to see him +die. And there he would hang till his bones dropped, a shame and a +blot on the clean face of the earth, blackened by the heat, drenched +white by the rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while the +pies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, a waste rag of +humanity. Come now, which is the decenter?" + +"Poor Saxe!" + +"If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no dew on the roses +this morning. He would have lied Mademoiselle de Vesc to death without +a scruple." + +"She wished him no harm, of that I am certain." + +"It is of the quality of roses to be sweet. But, La Mothe, say nothing +to her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold to +spend through a whole day of life," a cynical truth La Mothe was to +remember before a new morning dawned. + +"Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine?" + +"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, to +be serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a second +bottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life +like a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he would +have bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is no +infection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think of +it, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between us +three that I wonder which will go next." + +"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe." + +"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, I +palmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off upon +mademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and--bah! your presentation will save +us two." + +"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance." + +"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choose +presentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at La +Mothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it another +intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better--a +remembrance. The King--God bless him!--will presently die in earnest; +the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La +Mothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget the +stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases in +princes. When, lo!--a wise youth you are, La Mothe--a remembrance jogs +his recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur +Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over. +Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligent +anticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way of +remembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophets +fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-foot +rope may be infectious after all." + +"Villon, you are quite wrong." + +"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh few +recover from. But let us go to the Château." Pushing the unemptied +bottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had +changed; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face were +those of age, not laughter. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION + +Partly to divert the boy from his grief at Hugues' death, but partly +also as an outlet for her new-found lightness of heart, Ursula de Vesc +would have turned what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into a +playful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand Turk, seated on a +divan of shawls and cushions, would receive the envoy of the Sultan of +Africa bringing presents from his master. It would be just such a play +of make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe proposed to +present the offering in the name of the King of the Genie her zest +waned, and a little alloy seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day. +That would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, she +declared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the night's amusement. + +So only she, Father John, and the dogs were present in the Dauphin's +private apartment, study and playroom in one, when La Mothe and Villon +entered. As is almost always the case, the room reflected many of the +characteristics of its owner, and in its ordered disorder, its hints of +studies, its litter of wooden swords and broken dog-whips, might be +seen the boy who was almost man in gravity and yet still a child in a +child's love of toys. Rising as the two were announced, his effort at +dignity was sorely marred by the eager curiosity with which he eyed the +linen bundle carried by La Mothe. + +"So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, and we will have no +more games together." + +"When I return, Monseigneur." + +"And I hope that will be soon, though I don't know why you are going. +But, then, I never quite knew why you came at all." + +"Nor I until to-day, but the reason is the very best in the world," +answered La Mothe, and the boy, following his glance, caught the +significance of the colour warming Ursula de Vesc's cheeks. + +"So you have made up your quarrel, you two?" + +"Never to quarrel again, Monseigneur." + +"I hope so, but I don't believe it. Two people can't live together +without quarrelling. Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur La +Mothe, will you please call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish." + +"Monseigneur, you are very good." + +"Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don't forget. It's all I have to +give. Father John, who never saved my life or did anything for me, +calls me Charles, so why not you who saved my life twice? Down, +Charlot, down! leave Monsieur La Mothe's parcel alone. You are always +pushing your nose where it is not wanted. What have you in that +napkin, Monsieur La Mothe?" + +"For your acceptance, Monseigneur----" + +"Charles, not Monseigneur," said Ursula softly. "You will be calling +me mademoiselle next!" + +"Hush, Ursula! I cannot hear what Monsieur La Mothe says if you keep +chattering. For my acceptance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give me +presents; but then, I don't think there is much love in the world." + +"There is more love in the world than you think," said La Mothe, "and +some day you will very reverently thank God for it, as I do. Some day, +too, you will know that these are from the very heart of love itself." + +"Yes, yes," said the boy, shifting impatiently in his chair as La +Mothe, laying the package on the table, busied himself untying the +knotted corners, "I know very well all you have done for me; but what +have you there?" + +"Wait, my son, wait; you will know all in good time." But when the +Franciscan would have laid a restraining hand on the Dauphin's +shoulder, Villon twitched him by the sleeve of his robe. + +"Hush, man, hush! Had you never young blood in you? Why, I am like +Charlot the puppy, just itching to know what is inside." + +"But it is not good for youth----" + +"It is good for youth to be young," said Villon testily. "Ah, +Monseigneur, I like that better than a frock with a cord that goes all +round, and no offence to you, Father John." + +Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points, La Mothe shook it out +and held it hanging with such a careful carelessness that the +lamplight, picking out each separate link, fired its length and breadth +into a dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through by the +colder blue of hammered steel. With every cunning, unseen movement of +the fingers a ripple from the throat rolled downward and out at the +edges in a white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he caught +it in his open hands, shaking them till it settled so compactly down +that it lay entirely hidden in their cup. + +"Monsieur La Mothe! Oh, Monsieur La Mothe!" + +To La Mothe the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, and, above all, the +exclamation, were so pathetically eloquent of a stinted, starved, +neglected childhood that a rush of passionate resentment swept across +him in arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those common +joys which are childhood's natural food and rightful heritage. To be a +man in responsibilities, a man bearing the burden and sorrows of his +years, without having first been a boy at heart is more than an +irreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy which has +killed the purest sweetener of the sours of life. Rob the twig of its +sunshine and you rob the tree of its strength. But even while the +flame of his anger scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had come +the gifts which brightened the boy's eyes, and was ashamed. Had he not +said there was a wealth of unimagined love in the world? + +"For me, Monsieur La Mothe?" + +"If you will accept them." + +"See, Ursula! See, Father John! Now I can really be a knight like +Roland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. Oh, thank you, Monsieur La +Mothe, thank you. And what is this?" + +"An embroidered mask for your plays, only none but you must wear it. +See, this is the way it fastens behind, and this fringe hides the +mouth." + +"I don't think I like that so well. Yes, I do! For now I can be the +man who attacked the Burnt Mill yesterday--he wore a mask, you +remember. Poor Hugues! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that I +might show him my armour. But I will show it to Blaise instead. You +know Blaise is to sleep at my door now? Come, Father John, while I +show it to Blaise. I will put on the mask afterwards." + +"And meanwhile, Monseigneur," said Villon, "I will try how it fits." + +But La Mothe, remembering the King's instructions, intervened. "No, +no, Villon, that is for the Dauphin alone--that and the +coat-of-mail--no one else must use them." + +For a moment it seemed as if Villon, vexed at what he took to be a +rebuke for presumption, would have pushed aside La Mothe's protesting +hand, but with a shrug of his shoulders he gave way. + +"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning the edge of the awkwardness +with a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should see +they are nothing but common flesh and blood like the rest of us." + +Slipping her hand into La Mothe's arm Ursula de Vesc drew him to the +door, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin half +dragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaise +his treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve, +his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, and +was hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm. + +"More and more you are my dear," she whispered, her lips so near his +ear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It was +a beautiful thought and I love you for it, but it was just like you. +Oh, Stephen, how I wish Villon was not here!" + +Now why did she wish that? And why did the white rose flame suddenly +red? + +Left to promptings of his own desires, Charlot the inquisitive debated +whether the door or the table offered the better field for amusement +and improving observation. The door, with its group of three crowded +into the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage-way, promised +well, but the table was nearer and forbidden, which promised better. +Besides, some play he did not share was in progress, and he owed it to +the dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once already, when he +tried to push his nose into that linen package, he had been baulked. +Rearing himself on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of the +Dauphin's chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the chair +was blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon the seat, his ears +cocked, his head aslant. + +So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with an +enquiring mind. There was something new on the table, something +strange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiosity +was piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitching +nose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, so +new and strange that he must enquire further. Again, very cautiously, +for he knew he had no business there at all, he caught the mask in his +teeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by his +success he looked about him. The humans were at the door talking +quietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-même were biting one +another's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and could +investigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the mask +face downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as he +sniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under him +rigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a little +soft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legs +relaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buried +in the hollow of the mask. + +"In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of France herself!" said +Villon as they turned back from the doorway. + +"And perhaps his plays may waken something of the Maid's great soul in +him." Then, before La Mothe could tell her that she herself had shown +much of Joan's strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfish +spirit, she added, "It was a sorrowful year when France lost so great a +soul." + +"But France is never long bereaved," replied Villon, and from his tone +they could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soul +went, a great soul came--I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is no +respecter of the rights of princes." + +"Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursula +de Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; but +at the first touch she let him slip from her hold and drew back, +startled, looking up into La Mothe's face as he bent over her. The +plump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen, +Charlot is dead!" + +"Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; but +the limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on the +shoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched back +from the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be no +doubt--Charlot's days of curiosity were ended. + +"Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" But +when reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villon +anticipated her, setting his foot upon it. + +"Don't touch it, for God's sake, don't touch it!" + +"Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin's." + +"It killed Charlot!" + +"Killed Charlot? How?" + +"Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and should know." + +Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction of the Dauphin's +toy and the tone of Villon's reply, she caught at the table-edge, +pulling herself upright. + +"Stephen, what does it all mean?" + +But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension had been staggered but +had recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances, +luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselves +together in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How put +in words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villon +who gave her the key. + +"Poison." + +"Poison?" she repeated, shrinking in a natural repulsion. "Poison on a +mask you gave the Dauphin? Stephen, how could that be? But you must +answer, you must tell us," she insisted as he shook his head for the +second time, "you must, you must!" + +"I cannot." He spoke curtly, harshly, but the determination was +unmistakable. Twice he repeated it. "I cannot, I cannot." + +"But, Stephen----" + +"Ursula, you don't doubt me? You don't think--you can't think I knew? +You can't think I planned this--this----" He faltered as his eyes +turned upon the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had passed +his word to the King to be silent, and even if he spoke, the truth +would only add horror to horrors. "Ursula--beloved!" Laying Charlot +on the table he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught in +both hers, and he himself drawn into her arms. + +"Doubt you? No, Stephen, no, no; I trust you utterly--utterly. And +cannot you trust me? We have the boy to think of--the Dauphin--he must +be protected. But for Charlot he--he--oh! I cannot say it. Stephen, +don't you see? don't you understand? How can we guard him in the dark? +The mask, Stephen: whose was it? where did it come from? Tell me for +the boy's sake." + +"I cannot, Ursula. Dearest heart, I cannot." + +Lifting from the table the napkin in which the mask had been wrapped, +Villon shook it out, holding it up much as La Mothe had held the +coat-of-mail. Then he threw it on the table, spreading it flat. + +"Fleur-de-lys," he said, his finger on the woven pattern. + +"Fleur-de-lys and--Stephen, you came from Valmy? Oh! My God! My God! +I understand it all. So that is why you are in Amboise?" + +Villon nodded gravely. Temperamentally he was the most emotional of +the three, and the tragedy in little, which so nearly had been a +tragedy in great, had so shaken his nerve that he controlled his tongue +with difficulty. + +"Yes," he said slowly, "that is why he is in Amboise, and he never knew +it. There were two arrows on the string, Saxe and this. And it might +have been me." He turned to La Mothe. "You saved me; but for you it +would have been me." + +But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the moment it seemed as if he had +forgotten Villon's existence altogether. His arms were round the girl, +one hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her fears, lover +fashion, and comfort her with his nearness. But his thoughts were in +Valmy, a thin, tired voice whispering in his ears, a white face whose +eyes smouldered fire looking into his. With a shiver he roused himself. + +"Yes, I came from Valmy, and I must go back to Valmy; I must go this +very night. Saxe used to keep a horse always ready," he ended, with +the bitterness of shame in his voice. + +"Stephen, was it for this?" + +"I suppose so. But I must go to Valmy to-night. As to the Dauphin, +when I return----" + +"When you return!" echoed Villon drearily. "Did Molembrais return? +Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is dead. You will be the next, for you +know more than Saxe ever guessed at." + +"Saxe dead?" said Ursula, turning to Villon in her distress. "Monsieur +Villon, how did Saxe die?" + +"Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let him +go anywhere--anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, and +Monsieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct." + +"Stephen, Stephen, for my sake! Oh, that terrible King!" + +"Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. Help me to be strong +to go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surely +to be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin must +know nothing of what has happened. Let him be happy while he can. +Take away poor Charlot and that horrible thing, and leave me to make up +a tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs--anything that he may not +see the pain on your dear face. He is coming back--listen how he +laughs, poor lad! Go, Villon; go, man, go, go!" + +"Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy, +rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so +full of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness of +living, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphin +of France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I would +rather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask." + +"Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot has +torn it." + +"Charlot? Where is Charlot?" + +"Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is banished for a week." + +"But my mask, I want my mask!" + +"It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one--a better one." + +"But I don't want a new one or a better one; I want this one, and I +want it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am very +angry with you." + +"Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never have +said that; and I am sure it was not Monsieur La Mothe's fault." + +For a moment the boy turned upon the priest in a child's gust of +passion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance and +tears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders under +the coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done. + +"You are right, Father, though you do come from Valmy. Monsieur La +Mothe, I am sorry for what I said, and do not forget you are to call me +Charles. Ursula, you have been crying; is that because Charlot spoilt +my mask?" + +"No, Charles; but because Monsieur La Mothe must go to Valmy." + +"Oh! Valmy?" he said dully. "I am never happy but somehow it is +Valmy, Valmy, Valmy! I think hell must be like Valmy." + +"My son, you must not say such things." + +"But what if I think them? Am I not to say what I think? And in hell +they hate, do they not? Monsieur Villon," he went on as the poet +re-entered the room, "they were talking of Valmy as I passed the +stair-head. Will you go and see if my father is dead a second time? +No! stay where you are, I hear some one coming." + +Hastily crossing the room, Charles cowered close to Ursula de Vesc, +furtively catching at her skirts as if half ashamed of his fears and +yet drawn to the comfort of a strength greater than his own. All his +pride of possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and instead +of wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed spirit looked out of his +dull eyes. He was no longer Roland, but the son of Louis of France. +Laying her arm about him in the old attitude of protection which had so +stirred La Mothe's heart, she held him close to her, the anxiety of her +watchfulness no less evident than his own. The darkness of her dread +had deepened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, no good to +Stephen La Mothe. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +THE ARREST + +There was no long delay. Passing Villon with a single, keen, +scrutinizing glance, a man, a stranger to them all, entered, pausing a +yard or two within the room. Four or five troopers showed behind him +in the doorway, but made no attempt to cross the threshold. All were +dusty, travel-stained, and with every sign of having ridden both far +and fast. Their leader alone was bareheaded, his sheathed sword caught +up in a gauntleted hand. + +"In the King's name, Monseigneur," he said, turning to the Dauphin with +a salute which halted evenly between respect and contempt. But the +Dauphin only shrank closer to Ursula de Vesc and it was La Mothe who +answered. + +"You are from Valmy?" + +"By order of the King." + +"With despatches?" + +"With instructions, and," he paused, motioning to the open doorway +behind him, then added, "means to carry them out." + +"What are your instructions?" + +"To arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe----" + +"Arrest Monsieur La Mothe? Why? On what ground--on what charge?" +Sweeping the Dauphin aside Ursula de Vesc moved forward as she spoke. +The instinct of protection had given way to something very like the +instinct of attack: her love for the boy was satisfied with a passivity +which could never content her love for the man. + +"If I could tell you, I would," he replied courteously, "but I fear +Monsieur La Mothe must ask the King that question himself. I know +nothing beyond my instructions." + +"Are your orders in writing?" It was Villon who spoke. + +"Yes, but I do not recognize your right to see them." + +"My right, then," said La Mothe, "since it is against me they are +directed." + +"Certainly; no doubt you can identify the writing." + +"I can," answered Ursula, stretching out her hand for the paper which +would have been Beaufoy's passport to promotion but for his unlucky +appetite. But it was withheld in obvious hesitation. + +"Remember, mademoiselle, that if it is destroyed, I still have the +means behind me----" + +"Oh, monsieur," she interrupted, striking at him with her tongue and +finding a relief in the contempt, "it is easy to see you come from +Valmy." + +A sour smile crossed his face as the colour rose at the gibe, but he +only shrugged his shoulders with a little outward gesture of the hands. + +"Yes, we grow suspicious in Valmy. There are my instructions, +mademoiselle; you will see they leave me no alternative." + +"Yes, the writing is the King's throughout. 'Go to Amboise,'" she +read, "'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, and bring him to Valmy +without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life let +him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS.'" With every +sentence her voice hardened; spots of colour flecked the pallor of her +cheeks, grew and deepened. "It is vile, infamous, contemptible," she +said, "but it is like your King. Yes! You come from Valmy, there can +be no doubt you come from Valmy. Stephen, I shall speak. Useless? +Perhaps; but I shall speak all the same. Your King has hid spies in +Amboise, we know that, spies who can lie or tell the truth as it suits +their master. Through them the King knows that Monsieur La Mothe has +twice saved the Dauphin at the risk of his own life, and now--now!" +She paused, beating the paper with the back of her hand with a force +that lent her words power and meaning, "now he is to hold no +communication with the Dauphin! Monsieur La Mothe may set his own life +on the hazard to save the Dauphin but he may not speak with him! That +is Valmy gratitude and the King's miserable, jaundiced mind. And his +commission is cancelled! What that commission is I do not know, but, +thank God! Monsieur La Mothe, you are freed from it, whatever it is, +since it came out of Valmy." + +"I thank God too," said La Mothe, his eyes meeting hers a moment and +travelling behind to where the Dauphin stood hugging the wall with +Diane and Lui-même at his feet. The significance of the glance was +unmistakable, and the girl paused, breathless, in the revelation. The +gifts were his commission, the mask which killed Charlot was his +commission, and the commission was cancelled. The King had repented, +had he not repented there would be no cancellation. "Yes," repeated La +Mothe, "very humbly I thank God, nor do I think the King can have heard +as yet of the Dauphin's second danger. Monsieur, I am at your service; +I was about to leave for Valmy to-night in any case." + +"So much the better; but I regret you must go as my prisoner. You can +understand that I have no option." + +"I quite understand, and here is my sword. Monseigneur--no, since you +permit it, Charles, my friend, I leave you in good keeping. You will +have Mademoiselle de Vesc, Father John, and Villon here, to watch over +you. Villon, beware of that third cast of the net. I think that is +now the one great danger." + +"La Mothe, La Mothe, must you go? Is there no other way? Remember +Molembrais." + +"What other way is possible? The King has my word, and if that were +not enough there are what Monsieur de Commines would call five good +reasons behind the door. Monsieur, you have my parole. Something +stronger than your five reasons holds me. Good-bye, Charles, my +friend----" + +But somewhere in the boy's blood a dash of the Crusader's spirit he had +sneered at stirred. Brushing past Ursula de Vesc he ranged himself by +La Mothe's side, his coat-of-mail an undulating pool of light as when +the moon shines on a falling wave pitted by the wind. + +"Monsieur from Valmy, Mademoiselle de Vesc is right. You may tell my +father that Monsieur La Mothe has twice saved my life and that all +Amboise knows it. That he saved me may not count for much in Valmy--it +may even be against him--but what all Amboise knows all France will +know. I think my father will understand. Monsieur La Mothe, good-bye, +and when you come back we shall play our games together again. I don't +think I care about the mask, but I shall not forget to be Roland. +Come, Father John, let us go and pray that Monsieur La Mothe will soon +come back to us." + +"Monseigneur--Charles!" cried La Mothe, taking the stretched-out hand +in both his, "you are a gallant little gentleman. No; I do not think +you will forget to be Roland. God save the Dauphin!" + +"Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe. Monsieur from Valmy, you have my leave +to go. Come, Father John." With a stiff little bow he hooked his arm +into the brown sleeve of the Franciscan, and the two left the room. + +"I think, monsieur," said Ursula de Vesc, "the Dauphin speaks the +sentiments of us all. You have Monsieur La Mothe's parole: he will +follow you in five minutes." + +But how spirit drew to spirit as lip to lip in these five minutes needs +not to be told. Whoso has seen love go out of life, uncertain of +return, will understand. But if that morning there had been a passing +behind the veil into the holy of holies where immortal love dwelleth, +then in these five minutes there was the very throbbing of the heart +which beats eternal even in these earthly walls of time. + +Nor was Villon drier of eye as he waited under the stars. + +"He knows too much," he said; "and when a man knows too much, not even +a ballad can save him." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS + +But for two happenings by the way Stephen La Mothe's ride over the +route taken twenty-four hours earlier by Commines was without event. +Of these happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in mercy the +bitter came first, leaving the sweet to comfort the end of the journey. + +Once fully clear of Amboise the leader of the troop halted, and by a +prearranged plan his followers gathered round them, hemming them into a +circle as they had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day. + +"Monsieur La Mothe," he said civilly, but speaking with the air of a +man who had a fixed purpose, "there is a certain signet which I must +demand. We who come from Valmy always say must and demand," he added, +with a touch of grim humour, which was lost on La Mothe, but which Paul +Beaufoy would have appreciated. + +"Your instructions said nothing about a signet." + +"I must have it, nevertheless. You can see for yourself that the order +was written in haste, and how should I know the ring exists if the King +had not told me? To be frank with you, these men do not go with us all +the way to Valmy, and where would I be if, when we arrived, you played +your signet against my scrap of paper?" + +"But you have my parole." + +"Valmy's parole!" he said scornfully. "I mean no offence, but I can +afford no risks. Come, Monsieur La Mothe, do not put me and yourself +to the indignity of a search." + +At the contempt in the scornful voice La Mothe started, flushing hotly +in the darkness. But the memory of the deadly deceit practised on his +own faith was too recent, and he controlled himself. How could he +blame a stranger for judging the servant by the master? + +"The ring came from the King and should go back to the King. On your +honour, is this part of your duty?" + +"My most solemn duty, as God is above us; without the signet I cannot +fulfil all that has been laid upon me"--which was true in a sense. The +order stolen from Beaufoy might gain him entrance to Valmy, but without +the signet he could not count on forcing a way to Louis himself. + +"On compulsion, then," said La Mothe, giving up the signet, and +thenceforward they rode in silence, not pressing their horses unduly; +but it vexed him to think that Louis would not trust him to return the +ring. + +If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could blame him or charge it +to the discredit of his courage? The rough lesson had been roughly +taught that it is better to tramp the road of life afoot and one's own +master than to ride a-horseback under compulsion. He had learned, too, +that on the tree of knowledge of the ways of men are many fruits which +pucker the mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As to the +ways of women, that is an altogether different book--a serial, let us +say, but in how many numbers? + +Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun of a new day had +risen. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the auberge where Paul +Beaufoy had purchased breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, +the troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from which La +Mothe was excluded, and the two rode on alone. Each was preoccupied +and neither spoke. Knowing the relationship which existed between +Valmy and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange in the +procedure followed both at the Château and afterwards. If the King +suspected he had joined the camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might have +been resisted; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, there was +no further need for force. The King who kept no faith was shrewd to +know when he could trust the faith of others, and the troopers +doubtless were required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at a +distance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais' flight in the desperate +possibility of his escape from Valmy. + +Unconsciously following the precedent set by Commines, they drew rein +while it was yet dark. Daylight, both knew, would show Valmy in the +distance. But as they crawled at a foot's pace in the yet darker +shadow of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a sullen grey +ribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the horizon like an inverted giant +monolith, there sounded behind them the remote pad, pad of rapid hoofs +muffled by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when even nature +is steeped in the quiet of a child's sleep, and the rhythmic beat broke +the stillness like the throbbing of a heart. + +"This way and be silent." + +La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught, wrenching his horse +backward into a gloom so heavy that those behind them would have passed +them by but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the bit, +tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. Instantly the +foremost rider checked, and a voice called out of the darkness, "Who is +there? Stephen! Stephen!" It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch of +the spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, dragging the rein from the +hand which held it. + +"Ursula! You! Why are you here? Who is with you?" + +"Where else should I be?" she answered between laughter and a sob. +"Did you think I could wait, breaking my heart alone in Amboise? +Besides, there is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we shall +be together to the end." + +"But the Dauphin?" + +"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer any +fear for the Dauphin. And if there was," she added half defiantly, "I +would be here all the same." + +From the shadow of the pines La Mothe's captor rode slowly forward. +"For what purpose, mademoiselle?" + +"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell +him--that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be +murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all +France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most +loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be too +late, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmy +before me." + +"But there is no entering Valmy in the dark." + +"Monsieur La Mothe's signet----" + +"La Mothe, you never told me that." + +"Why should I?" replied La Mothe. "I owed you no information. You +took your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must +not, dare not, go to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be madness, +the danger----" + +"Where you go I go," she answered steadily. "Dear, do not try to +dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in the +little time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?" + +"Do you mean," demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will give +admission to the King at any hour, day or night?" + +"At any hour, yes." + +"And we are ready to go," said the girl, ranging her horse by the side +of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe was within touch of her hand. + +"Neither you nor the priest--La Mothe and La Mothe only," he answered, +his voice roughening into passion for the first time. "Come, sir, I +hold your parole." + +"But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe's parole." + +"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do with +you." + +"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I +believe the King will thank you." + +"Flatly, I decline to take you." + +"Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not." + +"Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to +the priest. + +"She is right," answered the Franciscan, speaking for the first time, +"and when one is right there is no turning back, no matter what the end +may be. Yes," he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seen +in the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short of +killing me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you can +turn back the finger of God from lifting the sun yonder." + +He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his arm all faced +with him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. The +leaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, +but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the coming +glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divine +had clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit might +take comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid. + +Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat in +silence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the +King of Glory shall come in,'" he murmured. Then he roused, +straightening himself in the saddle. "Let us ride on. Have no fear, +mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I serve you shall taste no +harm." + +"They will never let you pass the outer guard." + +"A way will open; ride on." + +"Well ride, then!" And ride they did, furiously. The fewer sleepless +eyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance of +escape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once only +Molembrais looked round. + +"Remember your parole. Keep near me, La Mothe!" Then, crouching low, +he drove his spurs home and dashed forward at a reckless gallop. + +But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and the Franciscan, he +was mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, +they had changed horses at Château-Renaud, and now their freshness more +than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, the +weakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff +with pain and every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed fatigue, +kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen and Ursula came last, +side by side. Crossing the Loire the pace slackened, and for the first +time speech was possible. + +"Stephen, you are not vexed? I could not wait in Amboise eating my +heart out, knowing nothing." + +"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across the +current. "But, beloved, I am in terror for you. The King----" + +"Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is right, God's over all, +and I have no fear." The clasp tightened in a message neither could +speak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses were +scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart. + +"God guard you, Ursula." + +"Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, but +not in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might be +said in Valmy. + +Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up with +him. + +"We must keep together now. If I have done my part courteously, help +me in return by silence. Remember, no one in Valmy knows of the +arrest. Mademoiselle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves." + +La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was natural. For his part he +had no desire to be a target for curious questions. He had no +explanation to give, nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, +he knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining the Dauphin's +party. As to Ursula, it seemed safer for her to be disassociated from +him in either case; safer, too, that the King should see him first and +alone; the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two rode on +ahead, Ursula and Father John following more leisurely. The dawn was +as yet little more than a haze of yellow mist. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +THE DAWN BROADENS + +While they were still a bow-shot from the walls a hoarse voice shouted +a command to halt, but Molembrais, holding the signet above his head, +called back "In the King's name," and rode on. Every moment of gloom +was precious, and a bold assertion of privilege was his surest hope. +If he appeared to doubt his own credentials, who would believe? There +is always a certain willingness to take a man at his own valuation, +especially if the valuation be a low one. Waiting for no challenge, +and faithful to his policy, he flung himself from his horse at the +outer gate with every appearance of haste. + +"In the King's name," he cried, scarcely giving himself time to light +upon his feet and holding fast by Paul Beaufoy's formula. "To His +Majesty, Monsieur La Mothe and I--quickly now." + +As he more than half expected, the very importunity staggered +opposition. + +"His Majesty is asleep; you cannot pass----" + +"His orders are imperative--sleeping or waking--any hour by day or by +night. Who is on guard?" + +"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre." + +"Send for him, then. Stir yourself, my man, and don't stand there +gaping like a fish." + +But Saint-Pierre had already heard the altercation, and at the rasp of +his spurs on the flags Molembrais turned sharply. Quick to note the +richer dress he drew his own conclusion. Waiting for neither question +nor explanation he again held out the signet. + +"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, we must see the King at once--at once, you +understand. Here is my authority." + +"But I do not know you? No stranger can----" + +"But you know this!" Molembrais cut him short. "Do you think I have +risked my neck galloping these accursed roads all night to be delayed +now just because you do not know me? Is it the King's signet or is it +not?" + +"Pass, then," said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. "Does Monsieur La Mothe +go with you?" + +For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say no? He would have +given much to have shaken off La Mothe now that the gates were passed, +and have forced his way to the King alone; but the attempt might waken +that suspicion which slept so lightly in Valmy. While he paused, La +Mothe answered, deciding the question. + +"Unfortunately, yes, Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. Will you please tell +Monsieur de Commines that I have arrived?" + +"Is it arrest? My dear lad----" he began as La Mothe nodded, but +Molembrais again interrupted him. + +"We have no time now. Where is the King?" + +"In his usual lodgings." + +"Mort-dieu! monsieur, how should I know his usual lodgings? Am I of +Valmy?" + +"Monsieur, a little civility would do you no harm." + +"Monsieur, once I have seen the King I will be as civil or as uncivil +as you please." + +Turning on his heel Saint-Pierre beckoned to an under officer. "Pass +these gentlemen to Captain Leslie: he is on duty in the King's +ante-room. Don't fear, La Mothe, I will send word to Monsieur de +Commines without delay. He is anxious about you, for he has been +enquiring at the gates once this morning already." + +"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, there is a lady behind us; she has ridden +all night----" + +"A lady?" Saint-Pierre's hand fell on his shoulder in a kindly touch. +"Not old enough to be your mother, I'll wager! Don't fret, mon gars, I +have been young myself," and with that La Mothe had to be content. + +Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais took up his position +last of the three. Now that he was within its walls the indefinable +terror of Valmy possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was not +that he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly determined, +not that he had grown coward or would have turned back had return been +possible, but the chill of the shadows through which the path lay crept +deeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, in part the +inexpressible revolt of nature against an inevitable sacrifice, in part +the sinister suggestions inseparable from Valmy itself. + +And how could he escape from that suggestiveness? There, where the +denser gloom sloped from the roof across a paved courtyard, Guy's +scaffold might have stood; through that doorway, dimly outlined against +the greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light for the last time; +these obscure, uncertain windows, blind eyes in the slowly waning +night, might have seen the axe fall; down these cellar stairs might +have been carried--but they had swung to the left into a narrow court, +and before them were the King's lodgings. No! it was not that he +repented, not that he had turned coward, but would fate and +circumstances trick him of his revenge at the last? + +There are some men whom the dread of failure chills to the heart when +the crisis calls them, and Marc de Molembrais was one of them. He had +no definite plan of either attack or escape. How could he have, when +every angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room through which +they passed was strange to him? But if he had no plan, he had a +purpose firmly set in his determination, which neither gloom nor chill +could check; from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice of +revenge, he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow he would +get Louis of France into his grip, and somehow he would break to +liberty. At the door of the King's ante-room Leslie met them, and +their guide stepped aside: his work was done. + +In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinctively he felt that +neither bluster nor importunity would serve him now. Then he glanced +aside at La Mothe. "We must see the King and at once," he almost +whispered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his dread of +failure he feared the excitement in his voice would betray him at the +last. + +"Where from?" + +"Amboise." + +Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy should go and a +stranger return was quite in keeping with the King's devious methods. +"Give me your sword and then I will waken him. I think he expects you." + +"My sword?" The request staggered him. He had relied upon his sword +for the one thrust necessary, then to aid him in his escape, or at +least that he might die fighting. + +"Don't you know that no one approaches the King armed? not even I, not +even Lessaix. There is nothing personal in it." + +"No, I never heard that." He stood a minute, gnawing his lip, then +wrenched the buckle open. What matter, he had his dagger hidden! + +Laying the weapon aside, Leslie softly lifted the portière, holding it +looped with one hand while with the other he opened the door very +gently. + +"Sire!" + +"Is that Leslie? I am awake." + +"There are messengers from Amboise. Your Majesty's signet----" + +"Thank God! Oh, thank God! Lord God! Mother of God! Christ of God! +grant he was in time." The voice was thin and tremulous, the end +almost a sob. "Turn up the lamp, Leslie, and leave them with me alone. +Mercy of God! strengthen me for what is to come." + +Dropping the portière behind him, Leslie crossed the room with a +quietness rare in one so roughly natured and so strongly built. But +Louis had the power of winning men's affections when it so pleased him, +and it was politic to win the man who held his life in care. Loosening +the wick in its socket with the silver pin hanging from the lamp for +that purpose, Leslie returned to the door. + +"Are you ready, Sire?" + +An affirmative wave of the hand was the answer, as, high upon his +pillows and pushed to the very outer edge of the bed, the King leaned +forward. Was he ready? He dared not say so. Words do not come easily +when life or death waits uncertain behind the door. + +"Have you slept, Sire?" + +"No." The voice was firmer as the hard will regained the upper hand, +but it was harsh, dry, curt. "Perhaps I'll sleep--later. Please God +I'll sleep later. Send them in." + +But in the ante-room Leslie paused a moment. + +"Take off those riding gloves," he said sharply. "You must know little +of kings' courts. Leave them on the table. You can pick them up as +you go out." + +"I know my duty," answered Molembrais, "and that is enough for me." To +speak sharply steadied his nerve. But at the door he stood aside and +motioned to La Mothe. "Do you go in first." Again it was not that his +courage failed him, but La Mothe would be so much covert, La Mothe +would draw the King's attention. It would ruin everything if, while he +was on the very threshold, the King should cry out, Where is Beaufoy? + +But Louis never gave him a glance. As the light fell upon La Mothe's +face he drew a shivering sigh and clenched his teeth with a snap. Life +or death had passed the door--which was it? + +"Come nearer," he said, beckoning. "Nearer yet. You, Beaufoy, stay +there by the door. The Dauphin?--Charles?" + +"Well, Sire." + +"Well!" The beckoning hand dropped, then he leaned forward, covering +his face. "Oh, God--God--God--God be thanked!" he sobbed, his +shoulders shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. "God be +thanked!" La Mothe heard him whisper a second time, and in the silence +Molembrais crept forward and aside, edging by the wall where the +shadows were thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench the +lamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he stole towards the +table. + +Suddenly Louis reared himself upright, again shaking a hand before him, +but this time in a threat. + +"I cancelled my orders: where--where----" + +"The mask is destroyed, Sire." + +"Destroyed? Safely?" + +"Safely, Sire." + +"And the Dauphin--Charles--does he know----" + +Again he paused, and again La Mothe filled the blank, reading into the +completed words the uncompleted question. + +"The Dauphin knows nothing but that the gifts were mine." + +"Yours! Yes, yours, yours only, and you dared--who is that at the +table?" His voice rose shrilly into a cry. "That is not Paul Beaufoy." + +The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than the words +themselves warned La Mothe. Round he spun, irresolute in surprise. +Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached +for the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that light +clear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears--"A +martlet with three mullets in chief." Then the lamp flickered out. + +"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, as +they twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in an +indrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the dead +had risen. + +Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yet +tighter, La Mothe fought for his life. Molembrais was the stronger, +Molembrais was the more desperate, and desperation is a strength in +itself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped and +fell; and with the blood drumming in his ears La Mothe heard nothing, +knew nothing, felt nothing but Molembrais' hot breath in his face, +Molembrais' tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled +upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the room +was ablaze, a racking violence wrenched. Molembrais from his clasp, +and he was pressed back downward on the floor, a sword at his throat. +It was Commines; Leslie and a guard held Molembrais; beyond, at the +doorway, stood Ursula de Vesc; by the bedside Father John stooped above +the King, his arm thrown round him. + +"Stephen, Stephen, what madness is this?" + +Propped on his arm La Mothe pointed to Molembrais. + +"Molembrais!" he panted. "Twice--the Dauphin--now the King. Thank God +I knew him at the last." + +By the bedside the Franciscan stooped lower, whispering in the King's +ear--whispering urgently, insistently, pleadingly. What he said none +heard, but the hard face slowly softened. + +"Philip, let him rise; you did well to vouch for Monsieur La Mothe. +And you, young sir, who have learned when to speak and when to keep +silence, was I not right? Amboise was dull, and queen and waiting-maid +are all of the one flesh? Mademoiselle, take him back to Amboise with +you and watch together over my son, the Dauphin, and the God of Mercy +be gracious to you both as He has been to me this day." + +He paused a moment. Shifting on his elbow he laid an arm round the +Franciscan's neck, drawing him closer, and as he whispered to the +priest a laugh wrinkled his worn face. Father John nodded, smiling. +The King's arm slipped from him and he straightened himself. + +"You are right, Sire, it is their due. Mademoiselle, come nearer. Who +giveth this woman to this man?" + +"I do," answered Louis. + + +Seven years after the boy Charles succeeded to the throne a certain +Stephen de Vesc, chamberlain to the King, was appointed, first, +Seneschal of Beaucaire, then Governor of Gaeta, and finally Constable +of France. Could it be that Stephen La Mothe adopted his wife's name +to please the Dauphin? Such changes are not unknown in our day, and +for less cause. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUSTICE OF THE KING*** + + +******* This file should be named 24483-8.txt or 24483-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/4/8/24483 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/24483-8.zip b/24483-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..38f989c --- /dev/null +++ b/24483-8.zip diff --git a/24483.txt b/24483.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f8a7cd1 --- /dev/null +++ b/24483.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9923 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Justice of the King, by Hamilton Drummond + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Justice of the King + + +Author: Hamilton Drummond + + + +Release Date: February 1, 2008 [eBook #24483] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUSTICE OF THE KING*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + +by + +HAMILTON DRUMMOND + +Author of + "The King's Scapegoat," "Room Five," + "The Houses," "Shoes of Gold," Etc. + + + + + + + +International Fiction Library +Cleveland ---------- New York + +Copyright, 1911 +by the MacMillan Company +All rights reserved + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + + I. THE DESPATCH + II. A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE + III. FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE + IV. THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + V. THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART + VI. HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON + VII. FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN + VIII. THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE + IX. FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT + X. LOVE, THE ENEMY + XI. THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS + XII. LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED + XIII. "FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY" + XIV. FOR LIFE AND THRONE + XV. A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY + XVI. TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST + XVII. STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION + XVIII. FRENCH AND ENGLISH + XIX. GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN + XX. THE LAST STAND + XXI. DENOUNCED + XXII. "WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER" + XXIII. JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT + XXIV. A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR + XXV. "IT IS A TRAP" + XXVI. COMMINES TAKES ADVICE + XXVII. THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE + XXVIII. PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST + XXIX. THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST + XXX. "LOVE IS MY LIFE" + XXXI. SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION + XXXII. LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION + XXXIII. THE ARREST + XXXIV. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS + XXXV. THE DAWN BROADENS + + + + +THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + + +CHAPTER I + +THE DESPATCH + +All morning the King had been restless, unappeasable, captious, with +little relapses unto the immobility of deep thought, and those who knew +him best were probing deeply both their conscience and their conduct. +Had he sat aloof, quiet in the sunshine, his dogs sleeping at his feet, +his eyes half closed, his hands, waxen, almost transparent, and bird's +claws for thinness, spread out to the heat, those about him would have +gone their rounds with a light heart. At such times his schemes were +thoughts afar off, dreams of some new, subtle stroke of policy, and +none within touch had cause to fear. + +But this May day he was restless, unsettled, his mind so full of an +active purpose shortly to be fulfilled that he could not keep his tired +body quiet for long, but every few minutes shifted his position or his +place. If he sat in his great chair, padded with down to ease his +weakness and the aching of his bones, his fingers were constantly +plucking at his laces, or playing with the tags which fastened the +fur-lined scarlet cloak he wore for a double purpose, to comfort the +coldness of his meagre body, and that the death-like pallor of his face +might be touched by its gay brightness to a reflected, fictitious glow +of health. But to remain seated for any length of time jarred with his +mood. Pushing himself to his feet he would walk the length of the +gallery and back again, leaning heavily upon his stick, only to sink +once more into his chair and fumble anew with shaking hands at whatever +loose end or edge lay nearest. + +So it had been all morning, but the restlessness had redoubled within +the last half-hour. It was then that a post had reached Valmy, no man +knew from whence, nor had the messenger been asked any questions. The +superscription on the despatch was a warning against the vice of +curiosity. It was in the King's familiar handwriting, bold and +angular, and ran, "To His Majesty the King of France, At his Chateau of +Valmy, These in great haste." A "Louis" in large letters was sprawled +across the lower corner of the cover. + +But though none asked questions it was noted that the horse was fresher +than the man, and that whereas the one was streaming in a lather of +sweat which had neither set nor dried, the other was splashed, caked, +and powdered with mud and dust to the eyebrows: therefore the wise in +such matters deduced that short relays had been provided, but that the +rider had only halted long enough to climb from saddle to saddle. In +silence he handed his letter to the Captain of the Guard, together with +the King's signet, and in silence he rode away; but whereas he came at +a gallop he rode away at a slow walk: therefore the wise further +deduced that his task was ended. + +With the King in residence not even the Captain of the Guard could move +freely through Valmy, but the signet answered all challenges. Every +door, every stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these silent +figures the rooms and passages were alike empty. Loitering for gossip +was not encouraged at Valmy, and least of all in the block which held +the King's lodgings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King took +the air with the pointed windows open to the south for warmth, was +there any suggestion of a court. Here, at the entrance, and remote +from the King alone at the further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were in +attendance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time Lessaix +unbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to Saint-Pierre, and passed +on. In Valmy suspicion never slept, never opened its heart in faith to +loyalty, and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach the King +armed. + +While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnawing his under lip as +he watched him, suddenly flung out one hand, the palm outward, the +fingers spread, and Lessaix halted. + +"Well?" He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man speaks whose temper is worn +to breaking-point. + +"A despatch, sire." + +"From whom?" + +"There is nothing to show----" + +"From whom?" + +"I do not know, sire." + +"Have you no tongue to ask?" + +"I asked nothing, sire." + +"Um; hold it up." Leaning forward Louis bridged his dim eyes with his +hand, and under the shadow Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shut +convulsively; but when the hand was lowered the King's face was +expressionless. "What else?" + +"Your Majesty's signet." + +"Let me see! Let me see! Um; that will do. Put them on the table and +go. Where is the messenger?" + +"He left at once." + +"Um; were the roads bad from Paris?" + +"He did not say, sire; he never opened his lips." + +"Silent, was he? Then there is one wise man in France. Thank you, +Captain Lessaix." + +With a salute Lessaix retired, but as he buckled on his sword again +Saint-Pierre whispered, "Whence?" + +"I don't know," replied Lessaix, also under his breath, "but not from +Paris!" + +Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips mumbling +nervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his own handwriting: the +ring, a passport to life or death, he had at once slipped upon his +finger. Every moment he knew he was watched, every action weighed, and +he was a little uncertain how far a judicious self-betrayal would +further his purpose. His handwriting would tell them nothing but that +he knew the writer of the letter, whence it came, and that it was +important. To heighten the importance but conceal the cause seemed +wise. Of course presently he must take some one into his confidence, +and from the depth of his soul he regretted the necessity. + +That was the curse of kingship--the brain which planned, reconciling +discordant elements, must rely for execution on hands it could not +always control. Yes, that was the vice of government, and the reason +why so many well-devised, smoothly-launched schemes utterly miscarried. +If the brain could only be the hands also! If the hands could only +reach out from where the brain pondered and foresaw! But they could +not, and so he must trust Commines. Trust Commines! A little gust of +anger at his impotence shook him and he shivered, dashing his hands +upon the table; it was never safe to trust any one--never! But he was +helpless, there was no escape, and in turn Commines must trust one +other: trust him with execution, that is, with blind performance, not +with knowledge. Beyond Commines he would trust no man with knowledge, +at least not as yet, nor Commines more than he must. Later it might be +policy to let it be known publicly the great danger which had +threatened him, and France through him, but not till all was over! + +Till all was over! Again Louis shivered a little, but not this time +with anger. The phrase was a euphemism for death, and he hated the +word even when wrapped up in a euphemism and applied to another. Death +was death, disguise it in what phrase one might; a horror, a terror, +another vice of kings worse than the first. It said in plain words, +"You can sow, but you may never reap; you can begin, but you may never +finish. Some one else will reap: some one else will finish." Some one +else! The thought was intolerable. He hated, he loathed the some one +else as he hated and loathed death. With a sweep of his arm, as if he +thrust some bodily presence from him, Louis leaned forward and caught +up the despatch. Let him make an end to brooding, here was work to be +done. + +Having closely examined the seals securing the back to make certain +they were intact, he ripped apart the threads which bound it round and +round passing through the seals, and drew out the enclosure. It was a +single sheet of stiff paper. This he unfolded, and spreading it flat +upon the table bent over it eagerly. But before he could have read +three lines he sank back in his chair with a cry, and so fierce was his +face that Saint-Pierre and Leslie, at the end of the gallery, +instinctively drew apart, each suspicious of the other. The King's +wrath was like lightning, swift to fall, and where it fell there was +the danger of sudden destruction to those near. + +So he sat for a full minute, his brows drawn, his thin lips narrowed to +a line, his head sunk between his shoulders, then with a sigh audible +to the length of the gallery he again bent above the paper, resting his +weight on both arms, as if utterly weary both in body and spirit. + +This time the pause was while he might have read the page slowly twice +over, weighing its sense word by word, and when at length he raised his +head all passion had gone from him; he was a sorrowful old man, weary +and worn and grey. + +"Commines!" he said harshly, "send me Commines," and sat back, the +paper crumpled lengthwise in his hand. + +But he did not sit for long. Rising, he paced up the gallery, his head +bent, his iron-shod stick striking the flags with a clang as he leaned +upon it at every second step, the crumpled paper still caught in his +hand. At the door he paused, looking up sideways. + +"Commines? Where is Commines? Head of God! is there no one to bring +me Commines?" + +"We have sent for him, sire." + +"Sent for him? Why is he not here when I need him? I am the +worse-served king in Christendom. No one takes thought, no one cares, +no one---- Who is on guard? Leslie? Ah! Leslie cares, with Leslie I +am safe: yes, yes, with Leslie I am safe," and once more he turned +away, the iron ringing from the pavement as before. Suspicion breeds +suspicion, and it would never do to vex Leslie's blunt loyalty with any +seeming distrust. Besides, it was true, he could trust Leslie. It was +not the same trust as he had in Commines; Leslie would watch over him, +would guard him at all costs, but Commines would obey and ask no +questions. + +Three times he had walked the length of the gallery, always with +growing impatience, and three times turned before he heard the sound of +whispering at the door, and the ring of rapid feet followed him. But +he gave no sign, and went on his way as if he had heard nothing. He +recognized the footfall, but preferred that Commines should reach him +as remotely from the door as possible. + +"Sire!" + +"Ah!" Louis turned with a start. "You have come at last! At last! +There was a time I was served better. But let that pass. Philip, I +have had letters." + +"Yes, sire, I know: Lessaix told me." + +"You know, and Lessaix told you! You watch me--spy on me, do you?" + +"Sire, it is my business to know everything which touches----" + +"Yes! and what more do you know? Where did the post come from, you, +whose business it is to know everything?" + +"Lessaix thought from Paris." + +"From Paris," and Louis raised his voice so that the affirmation in it +might be clearly heard at the further end of the gallery. Then he +turned to the silent group at the doorway, watchful to seize upon any +clue to the King's mystery which might guide their feet clear of the +pitfalls besetting Valmy. + +"Let all men go from me but my friend Argenton," he said, with a wave +of the hand which still held the paper crumpled in the grasp. "Let the +guard remain beyond the door, but let no man enter till I give leave. +Paris! Let them think Paris," he went on, lowering his voice, "but +from you, Philip, I have no secrets. We are old friends, too old +friends to have secrets one from the other, eh, Philip, eh? Give me +your arm that I may lean upon it, for I grow tired. It is the heat, +not that I am ill or weaker; the heat, the heat, and I grow tired. And +yet I must walk: I cannot rest; no, not for a moment; this--this horror +has unstrung me." + + + + +CHAPTER II + +A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE + +Passing his clenched hand through the crook of Commines' arm, and +leaning heavily on the stick in the other hand, Louis turned slowly up +the gallery, and for a time both were silent. They made a strange +contrast. The King was shrunken, bowed, and bent, a veritable walking +skeleton to whom the grave already imperiously beckoned nor would take +long denial. With his bony head, his listless face, his lean, long +neck thrust out from the fur of his upturned collar, he resembled a +giant bird of prey. The skinny hand thrust through the crook of +Commines' arm, and still grasping the crumpled despatch, was the claw +of a vulture. Above him, head and shoulders, towered Commines, +square-set, burly, muscular, and as full of life and vigour as his +master was sapless. Just midway to the threescore years and ten, his +bodily powers were at their highest, and in the ten years he had served +Louis his mind had ripened so that few men were more astute, more +shrewd to see and seize upon advantages, whether for himself or his +master. In the King's service few scruples troubled him, the +questionable act was Louis', his part was to obey. + +"Then, sire, the post was not from Paris?" + +"From Amboise," answered Louis, with sudden incisive vigour, his voice +rasping harshly. "From Amboise, where the ungrateful son of a +miserable father plots and plots and plots: and you, whose business it +is to know everything, know nothing." + +"The Dauphin? and plotting against you? But, sire, it is impossible. +The Dauphin is barely thirteen years of age." + +"The pity of it, Argenton, oh! the pity of it." As he spoke one who +did not know him as Commines knew him would have sworn that tears were +very near the dull, dry eyes. "No more than thirteen--no, not +thirteen, and yet--ah! the pity of it." + +"Oh, sire, some one has deceived you. The Dauphin is too young to +plot, even if affection and common nature----" + +"Too young?" broke in Louis, halting in his slow walk to strike the +pavement angrily with his stick. "At what age does a serpent grow +fangs? Too young? Ill weeds grow apace, and then there may be those +about him who egg him on, who sow wrong ideas in his mind that they may +reap some gain to themselves. All are not as faithful as thou art, +Philip. I have not always been merciful--not always. At times justice +has rejoiced against mercy for the general good; yes, for the general +good. There was Molembrais; men blame me for Molembrais; but if the +King's arm be not strong enough to strike, who shall hold the kingdom +in its place? And because the King's hand pulls down and raises up as +God wills"--he paused, and bowed with a little gesture of his hand to +his cap--"there are those who do not love me. But if they egg on, +those others who should be loyal to their King and are not, if they +suggest, it is my son--my son, Argenton--who is the very heart and +centre; my son, who out of his little twelve years raises his hand +against my threescore." + +"If he has done that," began Commines, picking his words slowly (he had +not as yet fathomed Louis' purpose, and feared lest he should commit +himself in too great haste to the wrong policy), "if the Dauphin has +truly so forgotten natural love and duty----" + +"If!" With a snarl which showed his gapped and yellow teeth Louis +again straightened himself, and as he raised his head beyond the +reflected glow of the scarlet cloak his face was grey with passion. +"If? If? Head of God, man! do you dare talk to me in 'ifs'? Philip +de Commines, when you were little in your own eyes, when you were the +humble fetcher and carrier to that Bully of Burgundy whom I crushed, +when you were the very hound and cur of his pleasure, fawning on him +for the scraps of life, I took you up, I!--I! Now you are Lord of +Argenton, now you are Seneschal of Poitou, now you are Prince of +Talmont, and I have made you all these, I!--I! and you answer me with +an 'if'! But the hand which raised you up can drag down, you who +answer me with an 'if.' The hand which drew from the mud can fling +into the ditch, you who answer me with an 'if.' And, by God! I'll do +it! An 'if'? We say 'ifs' to fools. Was I a fool to turn the +lickshoe of Charles the Bully into the Prince of Talmont? Was I a fool +to grope in the mud for a Seneschal of Poitou? Am I a fool now--I, who +have held the strings of all Europe in my hand for thirty years, and +loosed or ravelled them as suited the greatness of France? God be my +witness, all has been for the greatness of France! France comes first, +always first. And now, when I say my son plots against me, that +twelve-year boy who is of an age to be king, am I a fool and liar? +Does this lie? Answer me, Argenton, does this lie?" And wrenching his +hand free from Commines he shook the paper passionately above his head. + +So sudden and so fierce was the attack, so full of bitter venom and raw +rage, so brutally naked and perilous in its threat, that Commines +fairly quailed. The florid ruddiness of his fleshy face faded to a +pallor more cadaverous than the unhealthy grey of Louis' sunken cheeks +as he remembered Molembrais. At the door stood the guards with crossed +pikes, beyond these were Leslie and Saint-Pierre, watchful and alert. +He was loved little better than his master, and he knew it. Let the +King speak and there would be no hesitancy, little pity. In his rapid +rise he had kicked many rivals from the ladder of Court favour, and +climbed yet higher by trampling them underfoot, caring little what gulf +of disgrace or worse swallowed them. And the King's threat was no idle +boast; the hand which had raised could drag down, not only to +irremediable disaster, but to the very grave itself. A hand? A +beckoning finger to those who waited at the door would be enough, and +Commines trembled. + +"Sire, sire," he cried, his arms raised in protest and supplication, +"how have I offended you? In what have I been ungrateful? I meant no +more but that it seemed impossible a son could turn against so good, so +great a father. That--that--staggered me for the moment. It beggared +reason; it--it--but let me read the despatch for myself, sire. Not for +belief, but for comprehension, and that we may meet the blow together, +that we may turn it aside--may turn it back on--on--the hand that +strikes." + +"Aye!" said Louis drily, "that is more like the Commines of old, the +Commines who served his master without an 'if.' And that is a good +phrase of yours--turn back the blow on the hand that strikes! When +that is done, and the time comes for reward, I will not forget that it +was your phrase. And it was for that I sent for you: I knew my friend +Commines would find a way to--to--guard his master effectually." + +Before Louis ended all the harshness had gone from his voice, and it +became marvellously gentle, marvellously kindly, almost caressing. A +master student of the subtle trifles which unconsciously influence +great events, he played upon men's minds as a skilled musician on his +instrument, and they obeyed the touch. Nor was Philip de Commines, +opportunist, political adventurer, philosopher, soldier of fortune, +diplomatist, exempt from the influence of that skilful mastery. As he +had gloomed so now he gladdened: he squared his shoulders to his +fullest height, filling his lungs with a deeper inspiration, and the +colour ran back to his cheeks in flood. Nor was it all in pride; there +was relief, and the lifting up of a burden which for one terrible +moment had threatened to crush him to the earth itself. + +But the life which gave its strength to the hand which lifted and +dragged down was frail almost to extinction, and remembering that one +day the Dauphin must step into Louis' place Commines ventured to +temporize. + +"Yes, sire, but to turn back the blow I must know who aims the blow, +whence it comes, where it will strike, and when. To fight in the dark +is to waste strength. Have I your leave to read the despatch from +Amboise?" + +"Eh?" With the gesture of a natural impulse Louis held out the paper, +then drew it back. "We will wait a little. I am tired, very tired. +This shock has unnerved me. Let me sit down, Philip, and rest." + +Slowly, with an arm on Commines' shoulder, he turned and, sinking into +the chair, leaned forward upon the table in an attitude of utter +weariness, his hand still resting upon the despatch. So there was a +pause for a moment, Commines standing to one side, silent and ill at +ease. Then with a sigh, which was almost a groan, Louis roused +himself. Reaching out his hand he raised to his lips a little silver +image of Saint Denis, one of a group which filled a corner of the +table, some standing upright, some pitched upon their faces without +regard to reverence or respect. Kissing it fervently he again sighed, +his eyes raised to the groined roof, and shook his head sadly. If +Saint Denis did not whisper inspiration he at least spun out the time +for thought. Commines' request was reasonable, and he was at a loss +how plausibly to evade it. + +"Have I your leave, sire?" + +"Eh?" Down came the King's hand upon the paper, Saint Denis grasped, +baton-fashion, by the feet. "No, Philip, no, I think not. It is in +confidence, and above all things a king must respect confidence, or how +could he be trusted?" A sentence which sounded strange from the lips +of a man who never kept a treaty he could break to his own advantage, +or, to give him his due, to the advantage of France. + +"That I can understand," answered Commines, as gravely as if his +master's tortuous road to the consolidation of the kingdom had not been +strewn with ruptured contracts, unscrupulous chicanery, and solemn +pledges brazenly evaded. "But how am I to act? How can I, in the +dark, parry a blow from the dark?" + +"Suspect every one," answered Louis, brushing aside Saint Denis as he +turned sharply in his chair. The saint had served his turn. He had +been invoked in a perplexity, and now that the way was clear, no doubt +in answer to the invocation, he was flung aside without ceremony. +"Suspect every one. To suspect all you meet is the first great rule of +prudence, wisdom, success; and to suspect your own self is the second. +Go to Amboise. Remember there is no if, and sift, search, find, but +especially find." + +"Find what, sire?" + +For answer Louis clutched the paper yet tighter and shook it in the +air, and if Commines could but have guessed it, there was a double +meaning in the action and the words which accompanied it. + +"Find this!" + +"And having found?" Commines paused, conscious that the ground was +treacherous under his feet. "Sire, remember he is the Dauphin and the +son of France." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE + +With a quick gesture, the arm thrust out, the hand open, the fingers +spread, Louis shrank back, his other arm across his face. It was a +movement eloquent of pathos, despair, and suffering; then, with another +sigh, he straightened himself, his corpse-like face pinched with care. + +"The son of France!" he repeated. "Yes! the son of France! but, +Philip, my friend, my one friend, must the father perish for the son?" + +"Oh, sire, sire," cried Commines, deeply moved, both by the words and +the appeal in the voice. "Never that. And it is true--you are France, +France itself as no King ever has been; France in its strength, France +in its hope, and God knows what evil will befall----" He checked +himself sharply as a spasm twisted the King's sunken mouth. Carried +away by his sympathy he had forgotten that it was an almost +unforgivable offence to hint that Louis was not immortal. For him the +word death was wiped from the language. If the dread shadow took form +to strike, those near might say "Speak little," or "Confess," but +nothing more. + +But for once the offence passed without rebuke; it was even seized upon +to point a moral, and nerving himself to face the thought the King +completed the sentence. + +"God knows what evil will befall France in a boy's hands! And within a +year he will be of age; of age and yet a child. A puppet king of +France!" Louis paused, drawing in his breath with a shudder like a man +chilled to the marrow. "A puppet, a puppet, and in the hands of a +puppet what must the end be? Ah! France! France! France! It is +disaster, unless it can be turned aside. Philip, you must go to +Amboise. Take with you some one you can trust, if in all Valmy there +is such an one!" + +"There is, sire; one I can trust as my King can trust me." + +"Yes, yes, but not overmuch; do not trust him overmuch. Remember what +I said--suspect, suspect." + +"I am not afraid, sire, Stephen La Mothe owes everything to me." + +"Gratitude? Is that any reason for faithfulness? Piff!" And the King +blew out his thin lips in contempt. "To bind men to you, Commines, to +bind them so that you may sleep easy o' nights, you must hold them +either by the fear of to-day or the hope of to-morrow. Gratitude! +Thanks for eaten bread! How many are there who owe me everything, and +yet have turned against me. But let that pass; may God and the Saints +forgive them as I do." Louis paused, and a sardonic smile flickered +for an instant across his face. If God and the Saints had no more +forgiveness for his enemies than he had, then their prospects in the +life to come were as miserable as Louis would have made the remnant of +their days in this present world if they but fell into his power. "And +this La Mothe," he went on, "there is no need to tell him all we know. +To tell all you know is to lose your advantage. And why should he be +faithful? Why does he owe you everything?" + +"I promised his sister--it was years ago----" + +"A woman? Um, I do not like women. The ways of men I can follow, but +the ways of women are beyond me. Seven devils were cast out of one, +but not from the rest, and so there is no understanding them. No, I do +not like women." + +"Sire, she is long dead." + +"Yes? That makes it safer, but I do not see that it is any reason for +trusting the brother. Take him with you to Amboise if you think he is +safe, but remember"--and the King's lean hand was shaken suddenly +upward almost in Commines' face, a threat as well as a warning--"I hold +you responsible, you, you, you only. Let him be with you, but not of +you; let him enter Amboise apart from you, and let him work out of +sight like a mole, obeying orders without knowing why he obeys. Then +if he fails, or blunders, or is fool enough to be caught spying, you +can disown him, can wash your hands of him, and let him hang! Um! You +don't like it? I see in your face that you don't like it. Will you +never learn that a face has a tongue of its own to be used to conceal +our thoughts? But yours--I know your thought. The woman! Bah! the +woman is dead." + +"Sire, a promise to the dead is like a vow to the Saints; none can give +it back." + +"Um! a vow to the Saints? But we must have the Saints on our side. +Let me see--let me see. Yes! Take him with you, openly or secretly as +you will, and if he bungles I shall deal with him. That frees you from +your promise. The justice of the King! Eh, Philip! will the justice +of the King please you better?" + +The justice of the King! Louis sat back in his chair as he spoke, his +blotched gums showing in a grin between his thin lips, his dull eyes +half veiled by the drooping of the leaden-hued lids. More than ever he +was a mask of death, but of a death that possessed a grim humour, +malevolent in its satirical cynicism. The justice of the King. Who +should know that justice so well as Commines, its minister for almost a +dozen years, or who so testify to its stern implacability? None +escaped the rigid iron of its wrath. Their almost royal blood saved +neither the Duke of Nemours nor the Count of Armagnac. Saint-Pol, +Constable of France, perished on the scaffold. Besides these a score +of the greater nobles of France had fallen, nor could the scarlet of +the Cardinalate shield Balue from its vengeance. If these, the great +ones of the chess-board, were beyond the pale of mercy, what hope would +there be for a simple pawn like Stephen La Mothe, if once he fell +beneath that inflexible ban? And yet to the courtier the King's +question could have but one reply. + +"The justice of the King," repeated Commines; and added, without +thought of irreverence, "Let him fall into the hands of God and not of +man." + +"Good!" The thin lips twitched, and deep in the dead eyes a sombre +fire glowed. It warmed his cold humour to read so plainly the thought +hidden behind the smooth words. But to a mind as fertile as the King's +that very thought was a suggestion. It would be well that this La +Mothe should clearly understand all he had to fear; and not to fear +only but also to hope. The justice of the King could raise up as well +as cast down, could reward without measure as well as crush without +mercy. + +"Go to Amboise. Be myself in Amboise. If--I use your own word, +Philip--if justice must strike---- Ah! poor wretched King and yet more +wretched father!--be thou the King's justice, be thou the King's hand +in Amboise, and let this Monsieur La Mothe be your ears, your eyes. +And--um--yes, let me see this La Mothe before you leave; I am, as you +know, something of a judge of men. To-morrow will do, and the next day +you can go to Amboise." + +"And my commission, sire? My authority to act on your behalf?" + +"Commission?" The plaintive, gentle calm of the King's voice broke up +in storm. Leaning forward Louis tapped his finger-tips on the table +noisily. "Sift, search, find, find, there is your commission. +Authority? Um--um--when Absalom rebelled against David did Joab, the +king's servant, say, 'Where is my authority?' Rebellion is your +authority; the safety of your King is your authority; the plot against +France is your authority. For such crimes there is none above justice, +Monsieur d'Argenton, none--none. But justice is like truth, and +sometimes dwells in shadow. Do you understand? Justice, but no +scandal. We must be circumspect. There must be no shock to public +thought in France. It is the curse and fate of kings to be misjudged. +Justice might well come by way of accident. And--let me see! This La +Mothe! He owes you everything and you say he can be trusted?" + +"Yes, sire, but I have been thinking----" + +"Then, Philip, tell him something of what I have told you. The +danger----" The King again shook in the air the crumpled despatch +which had never been exposed, never left his grasp for an instant. +"The danger to me--to France--to you, above all to you who vouch for +him. He owes you everything as you owe me, perhaps he will understand +as you do?" + +"But, sire," said Commines again, striving hard to keep his voice +unemotional, "while you spoke I have been thinking. I fear Stephen La +Mothe is too young, too inexperienced, for so grave a mission." + +"And are there two in Valmy you can trust with your life? Too young? +No! To be young is to be generous, to be young is to dream dreams. +The generosity of his youth will repay you all he thinks he owes, and +will not count the cost: the dreams will see the glory of serving +France. Age brings caution, Philip; age brings too much of the +weighing of consequence; and at Amboise a little incaution will be +good, incaution of himself, you understand. He owes you everything; +let him get it into his head that you are the gainer by his +incaution--as you will be, Philip, as you will be, and he too. There! +That is settled. Send him to me to-morrow. Move the brazier nearer to +me, then go. Nearer yet; within reach of my hand. There! that will +do." + +But filled by a fear he dared not show Commines still lingered. Across +the gulf of the past years came the voice of the dear, dead woman, the +voice of the lost love of his youth, lost while youth was generous, +while youth dreamed dreams and loved passionate. It was the sweetest +voice he had ever known; sweet in itself because of itself, caressing, +gentle, sweeter still because passionate love had throbbed through it. +"Watch over him, Philip, for my sake," it said, and she had died +comforted by his promises, died trusting him. And now---- But while +he hesitated, willing but afraid to dare, Louis bestirred himself. +Resting one arm upon the table he pushed himself half upright with the +other hand, and so, half poised, pointed forward at the door. A blotch +of crimson showed upon the cheek-bones and the dull eyes glowed. + +"God's name, man! did you not hear me? Do you serve me or the Dauphin? +Which? Go! go! go!" + +This time Commines obeyed, and obeyed in silence. The King's question +was not one which called for an answer; or rather he understood that +Amboise must give the answer, give it emphatically and without a +quibble. Once outside the door he paused. Between Saint-Pierre, +Leslie, and himself no love was lost, but the bond of a united +watchfulness against a common danger bound them to mutual service. + +"Where was it from?" asked Saint-Pierre. But Commines shook his head, +running his fingers inside the collar of his doublet significantly. +Complacency, even when it was the complacency of self-defence, had its +limits. + +"I dare not," he whispered back. "He is in the mood of the devil. +What is he doing now?" + +As if playing the part of sentry Saint-Pierre turned and walked twice +or thrice up and down before the open door, glancing cautiously within. + +"Tearing the despatch, and burning it piecemeal in the brazier." + +"I feared as much. If you love yourselves, gentlemen, see that you do +not cross him to-day. And when I am gone from Valmy walk warily." + +"Where are you going, Monsieur de Commines?" + +"To Amboise, and I would have given a thousand crowns for one look at +that despatch." + +But it is a question whether the look would have taught him much, +though he had studied the paper for an hour. It was blank; beyond the +superscription and the "Louis" sprawled across the corner there was not +one single word. And yet, to one trained by ten years service in his +master's ways of crooked cunning the very blank would have been +eloquent of warning. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE JUSTICE OF THE KING + +As Commines crossed the courtyard to his lodgings his face was puckered +with anxious thought. Many a time he had fished for his master in +waters both foul and troubled, but always he had known the prey he +angled for. Now, and he shook his head like a man who argues against +his doubts, but with little hope of compelling conviction, he was not +sure. Or was it that he was afraid to be sure? Was he afraid to say +bluntly out, even in the secret of his own mind, the King desires the +death of the Dauphin and for good cause? + +That there might well be cause, that there might well be a sinister +upheaval against the King with the Dauphin as its rallying centre he +could easily believe, even without the evidence of the despatch. +France had never yet known such a nation-builder as Louis. His +quarries had lain north, south, and east. In his twenty-two years upon +the throne he had added to the crown Artois, Burgundy, the northern +parts of Picardy, Anjou, Franche-Comte, Provence, and Roussillon. To +secure such a wholesale aggrandizement he had been unscrupulous in +chicanery, sleepless in his aggression, ruthless to the extremest verge +of cruelty; no treaty had been too solemn to tear up, no oath too +sacred for violation, no act of blood too pitiless. + +With Louis the one sole question had ever been, Does it advantage +France? If it did, then his hand struck or his cunning filched, +careless of right or privileges. As he had said, and said truly, +France came first. It was his one justification for the unjustifiable. +No! Never such a nation-builder and never a man so feared and hated +for valid cause. He was the King of the greatest, the most powerful +France Europe had ever known, but it was a miserable France, a France +seething with wretchedness, with discontent, and each hour he went in +terror for his life. Only a few, such as Commines himself, could +foresee how great would one day be the power of these weak, +antagonistic states he had so ruthlessly welded into one. For the +rest, France was so full of unhappiness and dread that the Dauphin +might well be the centre of a plot, a plot to murder the father in the +son's name for the relief of the nation. But was the Dauphin himself +concerned in the plot, or had he that knowledge which, prince though he +was, laid him open to the penalty for blood-guiltiness? These were the +questions which troubled Commines. + +Clearly--and as he followed his train of thought he turned aside, his +hands locked behind him, his head bowed, and walked up and down in the +shadow flung by the gloomy range of buildings which cut the courtyard +into two halves--clearly the King had no doubt: clearly the despatch +had left no room for doubt. Or else--the thought was contemptible, but +it refused to be thrust aside--the King wished to have no room for +doubt. The frown deepened on Commines' face as he remembered how often +the King's wishes had been master of the truth. + +But could any father be cursed with such a terrible wish? Yes, when +the father was that complex, unhappy man, Louis of France. Commines +knew the King as no man else knew him, and in the gloomy depths of that +knowledge he found two reasons why the father would have no sorrow for +the death of the son. It was characteristic of Louis to hate and dread +his natural successor, nor did his distrustful fears pause to consider +that if the Dauphin was swept aside Charles of Orleans would stand in +his son's place. When that day came he would hate and dread Charles as +his suspicious soul now hated and dreaded the Dauphin. + +The other reason he had himself unveiled to Commines, no doubt with a +set purpose. Behind the King's most trivial act there was always a set +purpose. In a boy's feeble hands, a puppet as he had called him, a +king in legal age and yet a child in years and ignorance, this great +France he had built up so laboriously would crumble into ruin. Louis +was a statesman first and a father afterwards. So Commines must go to +Amboise, must sift, search, find--but especially find. Find what? His +question had been answered--find and prove the boy's guilty knowledge. +But having found, having proved that the King's fears were terribly +justified, what then? The answer to that question touched the hopes of +his ambition. Upon most men death steals unawares, but for Louis the +edge of the grave crumbled in the sight of all who served him, nor, +when the end came, would it linger in the coming. Supposing death +struck down the King while he, Commines, was still at Amboise, finding? +What then? The opportunist in Commines was vigilantly awake, that nice +sense which discriminates the rising power and clings to its skirts. +The Dauphin would be King of France. For the third time he asked +himself, What then? + +It was a relief to his perplexity that a cheery full-noted whistle +broke across the question, a whistle which from time to time slipped +into a song whose words Commines could hear in part: + + "Heigh-ho! Love's but a pain, + Love's but a bitter-sweet, lasts an hour: + Heigh-ho! Sunshine and rain! + If it's so brief whence comes love's power? + Wherefore go clearly, + Sweetly and dearly--" + +and the song ran again into a whistle. + +At the sound the gravity faded from Commines' face and the coarse set +mouth grew almost tender. It was Stephen La Mothe: and whatever the +words might be, the lad surely knew little of love when he so lightly +marred his own sentiment. A lover sighing for his mistress would have +sighed less blithesomely and to the very end of his plaint. Presently +the voice rose afresh: + + "Heigh-ho! where dost thou hide, + Love, that I seek for thee, high and low? + Heigh-ho! world, thou art wide, + Heat of the summer and cold of the snow. + April so smiling, + June so beguiling, + Let us forget, love, that winter's storms blow." + + +Entering the narrow hall, lit only from the courtyard and with a +much-shadowed stairway rising from the further end, Commines pushed +open a door on his right, fastening it behind him as he entered. + +"Stephen, Stephen, what do you know of June and December, love's +sunshine and the cold of the snow?" he said railingly. + +"Nothing at all, Uncle, and just as much as I want to know," was the +answer. "But a song must have a theme or there'd be no song." + +"And you think love is a better theme than the text you hold on your +knee." + +"Yes: for a song. If it was a tale, now, or an epic, it would be a +different matter. But they are beyond me, both of them. Do you think, +Uncle," and La Mothe turned over the arquebuse Commines had pointed at +in jest as it lay on his lap, "this will ever be better than a curious +toy? I think it is quite useless. By the time you could prime it +here, set your tinder burning and touch it off there, I would have my +sword through you six times over." + +"Charles the Rash found it no toy in the hands of the Swiss at Morat," +replied Commines. "But toy or no toy, put it aside while I talk to +you. Stephen, my son, I fear I have done you an ill turn to-day." + +"Then it is the first of your life," answered La Mothe cheerily, as he +stood the weapon upright in the angle of the wall. "It would need a +good many ill turns to set the balance even between us, Uncle Philip." + +"No. One thoughtless act which cannot be recalled or undone may +outweigh a life. And so with this. Stephen, I have commended you to +the King for service." + +La Mothe leaped to his feet, laying his hands on Commines' shoulders +impulsively, one upon each. And if proof were needed of the relations +between these two, it would be found in the spontaneous frankness of +the gesture: Philip de Commines was not a man with whom to take +liberties, but there stood La Mothe almost rocking the elder man in the +fullness of his satisfaction. + +"At last," he cried. "I have been eating my heart out for this for a +week past! And you call that an ill turn?" + +"Stop! Stop! Stop!" and Commines, smiling through his gravity, +followed the other's gesture so that the two stood face to face, locked +the one to the other at arm's length. + +How like the lad was to Suzanne: a man's strong likeness of a woman's +sweet face. There were the same clear expressive eyes, ready to light +with laughter or darken with sympathy; the same sensitive firm mouth +and squared chin, fuller and stronger as became a man and yet Suzanne's +in steadfastness to the life; the same broad forehead and arched brows; +the same unconscious trick of flushing in moments of excitement. Even +the colour of the hair was the same, with the curious ruddy copper tint +running through the brown in certain lights. + +Yes; it was Suzanne's self, Suzanne whom he had loved as he had never +loved Helene de Chambes, his wife these nine years past! Suzanne whom +he still loved with that reverence which belongs alone to the gentle +dead: Suzanne for whom even now his spirit cried out in these rare +moments when it broke through the cynical, selfish crust which had +hardened upon him since Suzanne died. So for Suzanne's sake he called +Stephen his son, though there was no such difference in age, nor any +drop of blood relationship. + +"Do you know," he went on, gravely tender in the memory of the dead +woman, "that a king's service brings with it a king's risks?" + +"And did Monsieur de Perche call me coward when he wrote to you?" + +"No; he said many things which it were better a boy should not know +were said. Conceit is only too ready to take youth by the arm." + +"And am I such a boy? Surely four-and-twenty----" + +"Are you so old? It always comes as an astonishment when those we love +are no longer children. It is then we realize how the years have +passed." + +"So old, Uncle. Four-and-twenty is no boy." + +"A man in years, a boy at heart. Be a boy at heart as long as you can, +Stephen, for so will you keep your conscience clean before God. And +yet what use has the King for a boy's service?" + +"Teach the boy to be a man in thought that he may find a use for +himself, Uncle; and who can do that so well as you?" + +Commines let his hands fall to his sides and turned away, pacing the +room with short strides. His man's thoughts were not always such as he +would care to teach Stephen La Mothe. + +"To the King's service every man must bring his own thought." + +"And did Monsieur de Perche call me fool when he wrote to you?" + +"No: but the little things of Marbahan are poor training for the +greater things of Valmy, of Blois, of Plessis, of Amboise, of Paris." + +"But truth and faithfulness and courage are the same everywhere, and +whether at Marbahan or Valmy a man can but serve God and the King with +the best wits God has given him, and that I'll do." + +"Aye!" said Commines drily, "but what of that Heigh-ho song of yours? +When love knocks on one door the service of the King may get bundled +out of the other." + +Stephen La Mothe laughed a hearty, wholesome laugh, pleasant to hear. +There was nothing of self-consciousness in it, and no protest could +have more clearly proved that the mental comment of Commines' +shrewdness had read the broken melody aright. + +"That is easily settled. All His Majesty has to do is to find me a +wife of seven thousand crowns a year with two or three little additions +to give salt to their spending. Item, eyes which see straight; item, a +mouth that's sweet for kissing; item, a temper as sweet as the mouth; +item, a proper appreciation of my great merit. But, Uncle, what is the +service?" + +"That the King will tell you himself. And, lad, when kings talk it is +a simple man's duty to listen and obey. Stephen, whatever the service +may be, do it." + +"Gratefully and faithfully, Uncle. Anything my honour----" + +"Honour? God's name, boy, the King's honour is your honour: the King's +service, no matter what it may be, is your honour. Are you, a +milk-child from Marbahan, knowing nothing of the ways of men, to talk +of your honour to the King?" + +"Yes, but Uncle, Monsieur de Perche taught me----" + +"Monsieur de Perche? Monsieur de Perche taught you many admirable +truths, I don't doubt. That he might so teach you I placed you in his +household seven years ago. Monsieur de Perche has taught you the use +of arms, and that courtesy which next to arms goes to the making of a +man. But what can a simple gentleman in the wilds of Poitou know of a +king's service? and above all, of such a King? His little household +with its round of petty thought was his great world, and a trial of +hawks an event to be talked of for a week; but all France is the +household of the King, and beyond the borders the eagles of Europe are +poised to harry us. But while he lives they are afraid to swoop. +While he lives, yes, while he lives." + +"But after him comes the Dauphin?" + +"A child! a puling, weakling, feeble child. Stephen, as king the +Dauphin spells disaster." + +"He will have you to guide him, Uncle, and under you----" + +But Commines silenced him with a gesture full of angry denial. +Unconsciously La Mothe had put his finger on a rankling sore. + +"With the Dauphin king my career ends!" he said harshly. "He and those +around him hate me as they hate his father: hate me because I am +faithful to the father. And yet, Stephen, I have sometimes +thought--this is for you alone--it might be that if in some crisis of +his life I served the Dauphin as I served his father--but no! no! no! +Even then it is doubtful, worse than doubtful. If Charles of Orleans +were king it would be different. He is no child and old enough to be +grateful. Always remember, Stephen, that a child is never grateful; it +forgets too soon." + +"And I am a grown man, Uncle, and so never can forget." + +"I know, my son," and Commines' stern eyes softened. "I told the King +you were faithful, and already he trusts you as I trust you," which was +rather an overstatement of the case, seeing that Louis trusted no man, +not even Commines' self. "To-morrow you are to see him." + +"Then I hope his service, no matter what it is, will take me out of +Valmy." + +"Why?" + +For a moment La Mothe hesitated. The thought in his mind seemed at +variance with his assertions of maturity and manhood, but he spoke it +with characteristic frankness. + +"Valmy frightens me." + +"Why?" repeated Commines. + +"Because of its silences, its coldness, its inhumanity--no, not +inhumanity, its inhumanness. In Valmy no man sings; in Valmy few men +laugh. When they speak they say little and their eyes are always +afraid. And they are afraid; I see it, and I am growing afraid too." + +"But half an hour ago you were singing?" + +"But I am only nine days in Valmy. And sometimes when I sing I +remember where I am and stop suddenly. It is as indecent as if one +sang in the house of the dead. Soon I shall always remember and not +sing at all. And I do not wonder that few men laugh." + +"Why?" asked Commines for the third time. This was a new side to +Stephen La Mothe and one that in the King's service--not forgetting his +own--should not be ignored. Often in his career he had seen a +well-laid plan miscarry because some seeming triviality was ignored. +Was it not one of Louis' aphorisms that life held nothing really +trivial? + +"Because it is a house of the living dead." + +"For God's sake, Stephen, hush. If the King heard you speak of his +feebleness in such a way there would be a sudden end to both you and +your service." + +"The King? But I don't mean the King. I mean----" He paused as if +searching for a comprehensive word or phrase, and presently he found +it. "I mean the justice of the King." + +"Well?" Commines' throat seemed suddenly to have gone dry, so that the +word came harshly. Within the hour the King had used the same phrase, +and the coincidence startled him unpleasantly. + +But La Mothe made no immediate reply. To answer the little jerked-cut +dry interrogatory in concise words was not easy. He knew his own +meaning clearly enough, but how was he to make it equally clear to +Commines, who was plainly unsympathetic? When at last he spoke it was +with a hesitation which was almost an apology. + +"As I passed through Thouars on my way from Poitou--you know Thouars, +Uncle?" + +"Yes; go on." + +"Then you know its market-place with the little shops all round and the +church of St. Laon to the side: a cobble-paved space where the children +play? At the one end there was a ring of black and white ashes with +the heat still in them, and in the middle a Thing which hung by chains +from an iron stake. It had been a man that morning, but there it hung +by the spine with the chains through its ribs; a man no more, only +blackened bones and little crisped horrors here or there. Round it two +or three score, white-faced women and children mostly, stood and gaped, +or talked in whispers, pointing. Presently the little children will +play there, and shout and sing and laugh, and the women gossip or buy +and sell." + +"A coiner," said Commines. "The King must see that the silver is full +weight." + +"Yes, Uncle: but I have heard that sometimes the King himself has +coined----" + +"Hush, boy: the King is King." + +"Then at Tours, as I rode through the Rue des Trois Pucelles, there was +a house with a fine bold front. One would say that a man with the soul +of an artist lived in it. There were brave carvings on the stout oak +door, carvings on the stone divisions of its five windows, strong iron +bars of very choice smith-work, twisted and hammered, to keep the +common folk from tumbling into the cellars, and in the peaked roof of +fair white plaster were driven great nails from which hung fags of +rope, and from one something which was no rope, but a poor wisp of +humanity staring horribly aslant above a broken neck." + +"Yes," said Commines, "Tristan's house. He is the King's +Provost-Marshal and--and----" + +"Yes, I know, Uncle. He carries out the justice of the King. But to +hang a fellow-Christian over one's own hall-door is a strange taste." + +"Stephen, take my advice and have naught to do with Tristan by word or +deed. And no doubt the fellow deserved his hanging." + +"That he may have naught to do with me is my hope," answered La Mothe, +with a little laugh which had no humour in it. "And as to deserts, he +drank overmuch and beat the watch. Truly a vicious rascal! God send +us all sober to bed, Uncle, and may a sudden end find nothing worse on +our conscience than a dizzy brain. But that's not all. Midway between +the castle and the Loire stands the Valmy gibbet, fair set in the +sunshine and for all to see: and as I rode past there were two hung +from it; two hang from it still, but they are not the same two." + +"Thieves," said Commines. "Would you have the roads unsafe?" + +"One of to-day's couple is a boy of twelve--unripe fruit for such a +tree, Uncle, and a fearsome danger to the peace of France. Tristan +does well to keep the roads safe from such swaggerers. Twelve years of +life, twelve years of a pinched stomach, and--the justice of the King +to end it all! And what of the woman who gathered nettles for the pot +from the river-bank? The archers shouted to her, but she was hungry, +poor starved soul, and gathered on, bent to all-fours like a beast. +Then they shot her--like a beast. Down she went with an arrow through +the bent back; a woman, Uncle." + +"She should have hearkened and kept away," said Commines. "Neither man +nor woman may come near Valmy without permission when the King is here." + +"She should have hearkened," echoed La Mothe. "But the Good God had +sealed her ears; she was deaf as a stone and so for the justice of the +King she died. Then three days ago it was Guy de Molembrais, who came +to Valmy--so 'tis said--with the King's safe-conduct." + +"Molembrais lost his head as a traitor," answered Commines roughly. + +"And the safe-conduct?" + +"The safe-conduct was given before Molembrais' treason was fully +proved." + +"Then it is the King's justice to lure suspects----" + +"There can be no faith with traitors. Did the safe-conduct make his +treason less? Do you not see," he went on, as La Mothe made no reply, +"that Molembrais got no more than his deserts?" + +"Like the brawler in Tours," said the lad whimsically. "Perhaps +Tristan gave him a safe-conduct too, and the fool got drunk. And if we +have good, warm blood in us we all get drunk sooner or later. Yes, and +please God my time will come, but may the Saints send me far from +Valmy! You think I'm talking nonsense, Uncle; but Monsieur de Perche +always let me talk. He said it was better to let blow at the bung than +burst the cask." + +"You drunk!" answered Commines jestingly. La Mothe had been on very +dangerous ground and a change of subject was an unspeakable relief. +"Why, except the King, no man in Valmy drinks less wine." + +"Wine-drunk? Am I a beast, Uncle, that you should say such a thing? +No, not wine-drunk. Love-drunk, war-drunk, fighting-drunk. To feel +the nerves tingle, the blood run hot, the heart go throbbing mad! to +feel a glorious exultation quiver through you like--yes, Uncle, I know +I'm a fool, but it's not so long since you were young yourself." + +"Nor am I so old yet, Stephen boy. When that day of your drunkenness +comes there will either be a very happy woman or a sorrowful man." + +"Yes, Uncle, if only the King gives me a safe-conduct----" + +"The King requires the attendance of Monsieur Stephen La Mothe without +delay." + +With a start like the cringe of a nervous woman suddenly frightened, +Commines, the man of iron nerves, turned to the door, the colour +rushing in a flood to his face. Neither had heard its latch click nor +seen it open, but the broad figure of a burly man was massed in the +gloom against the greater light from the outer entrance. A passing +torch, flaring up the hall-way from behind, showed him draped from +throat to ankle in some self-coloured, russet-red, woollen stuff which +caught the glare, and outlined him for the moment as with sweeping +curves of blood. To La Mothe he was a stranger, but from the little he +could see of the shaven face, at once harsh and fleshly sensual, he +judged him to be nearly twenty years older than Commines. + +"You--Tristan----" The surprise had shaken even Commines from his +self-control and he spoke brokenly. "How long have you been here?" + +"Since the King sent me for Monsieur La Mothe. At once, if you please, +Monsieur." + +"But it was to-morrow----" + +"He has changed his mind. What is to be done is best done quickly. +You, Monsieur d'Argenton, will understand what the King means by +quickly. I know nothing but that you are to leave Valmy to-morrow +morning instead of the day after, and so he must see Monsieur La Mothe +to-night. As Monsieur d'Argenton's friend, Monsieur La Mothe, I would +advise humble acquiescence." + +"In what?" It was the first time La Mothe had spoken, and in his +repugnance he could not bring himself to add the courtesy "Monsieur" to +the curt question. + +"Our Master's will, whatever it may be. It is a privilege, young sir, +to further the justice of the King." + +"The justice of the King!" replied La Mothe, carried hotly away by that +repugnance. "God's name, Provost-Marshal, I am not--not--not the +King's arm, like you," he added lamely. But though Tristan might +neither forgive nor forget the suggestion of the broken sentence he was +not the man to resent it at the moment. The King's arm must endure +pin-pricks as well as deal justice. It was Commines, rather, who +replied. + +"Hush, Stephen, our friend is entirely right. It is you who +misunderstand. The King's justice is in all his acts. Yes! and not +only his justice, but his mercy and his greatness, and these three have +made France what she is." + +"And all these three are waiting for Monsieur La Mothe. Come, young +sir, the King is very weary and it is time he was in his bed--though I +would not advise you to tell him so," and leaving the door open behind +him Tristan went out into the night: that he did so they were sure, for +they heard the rasp of his feet on the flags of the court. + +"How long was he there?" Commines spoke under his breath as his +fingers closed on La Mothe's arm with a grip which left its mark. "How +long was he listening? What did he hear? You fool, you fool, you may +have ruined yourself--and me, and me. And why has he left us together? +He has some reason for it--some end to serve: his own or the King's. +Try and think what you said: no, not now, there is no time, but when +you are with the King, and unsay it, unsay it. And Stephen, remember, +he is the King, he is the Master of France, the maker of France, and he +is dying. Promise him----" + +"Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, is the King to wait all night, +or shall I say Monsieur d'Argenton detains you?" + +"Go, boy, go. Promise everything, everything--he is the King," and as +Commines pushed him through the doorway La Mothe could hear his breath +coming in heavy gasps. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART + +If proof were needed of the King's unique trust in his Grand Marshal it +was to be found in the ease with which Tristan conveyed La Mothe past +the sentries who stood guard at every door. Not Commines, not Lessaix, +not Beaujeu himself, for all that he was the King's son-in-law, could +have brought a stranger to the King's presence without special licence. +But to none Tristan gave greeting, much less vouchsafed explanation, +and by none was he challenged. Nor did La Mothe speak. Not only had +the suddenness of the unexpected summons confused him, but his thoughts +were too deeply busied trying to remember how far he had allowed his +tongue to outrun discretion. + +To say he was afraid would be too much, to say he had no fear would be +too little, but his fear was less a dread than an awe. The gaiety of +his laughter had clean gone from him, and his heart of song was hushed: +even the crude, ironical satire of his uncomprehending youth was +stayed. He had made grim jest of the justice of the King, and now the +King's justice, in its sternest, most sinister incarnation, rubbed +shoulders with him. It was little wonder that his mood was sobered as +his mind, instinctively swayed by Commines' almost frenzied insistence, +groped its way step by step from Poitou to Valmy in a troubled +endeavour to recall just what had passed between them when Tristan's +interruption pricked the bubble of his irony. + +And he succeeded in part. First there had been the coiner of Thouars, +then the brawling drunkard of Tours, the thief of Valmy, the +nettle-gatherer, and lastly Molembrais who held the King's +safe-conduct. Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small when +not even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in his cups, or the +holder of the King's safe-conduct could slip through. Perhaps it was +as he spoke of this last the door had opened. It was then he had hoped +he might be far from Valmy the day his passion of soul was stirred. It +expressed his mood of the moment, but now he knew he had said more, +much more, than he had meant, as youth so often does in its gay +self-sufficiency, and the words as they stood--if Tristan had caught +them--were no commendation to either favour or confidence. How could +the King trust him when his foolish satire had so plainly hinted that +he did not trust the King? It would be unreasonable: faith begets +faith. For an instant it flashed across his mind that he might explain +away the words, but in the same instant he dismissed the thought. +Explanation would never win belief from such a man as Tristan, nor +could he bend his repugnance to such a familiarity. + +So in silence they crossed the courtyard where Leslie's Scottish +archers lurked in every shadow, in silence passed the many guards +grouped at the gateway to the King's lodgings, in silence traversed the +great square hall, gaunt and comfortless, but brighter than daylight +from its many lamps--the King was afraid of gloom--and in silence +mounted the stone stairway. At its head they turned along the +right-hand corridor, entering a silent ante-room with sentinels at its +door; at a further door, masked by drawn curtains, the guard was +doubled. Force, vigilance, suspicion, were the dominant notes of +Valmy--in a sense they were Valmy itself. Midway across this ante-room +Tristan paused and struck La Mothe lightly on the arm with a gesture +that seemed part contempt. + +"A word of advice, young man, from one who knows. Be frank, say +little, answer promptly: do what the King bids you and be thankful." + +"Is that a threat?" La Mothe answered the tone of half-truculent +command rather than the words. + +"A threat? No! The King and I do not threaten, we fulfil." + +"The King and you?" + +"I have said so, do you want it proved?" Drawing back the curtains +very quietly Tristan stood a moment blocking the doorway before +motioning to La Mothe to follow him. He knew his master, and wished to +make certain that the stage picture was set before the audience was +admitted. + +The room was even more brilliantly lit than any they had passed +through, and yet with such a skilful distribution of the light that the +further end was completely shadowed. It was the effect of an +artificial alcove. There, where the grey thickened, sat the King, or +rather there he lay propped high upon a couch, pillows behind him and +pillows at either side to support and comfort his weakness. A peaked, +close-fitting cap of crimson silk, laced with gold embroidery, covered +his head down to the very roots of the ears, while a long, wide-sleeved +robe of the same colour, furred at the neck, and draped to give an +appearance of breadth of chest, swathed him to the feet. So shadowed, +and with a reflected glow flushing the thin face, it would have needed +a shrewder suspicion than that of country-bred Stephen La Mothe to +detect how low the flame of life burned in the frail vessel of clay. + +In front of the couch a low table, hardly higher than the couch itself, +was placed within reach of the King's hand: behind all--the draping, as +it were, of the alcove--hung arras of blue cloth interwoven with golden +fleurs-de-lis, a fitting and picturesque background to the tableau. To +the left were windows, fast shuttered, to the right a closed door. + +Drawing La Mothe to the front Tristan turned on his heel and re-entered +the ante-room in silence, dropping the curtains behind him. There had +been no formal announcement, no word spoken, but as the curtain fell +the King stirred upon his pillows and La Mothe was conscious of a +scrutiny which slowly swept him from head to foot. But the protection +of the peaked cap was insufficient. Lifting his hand Louis shaded his +eyes yet further, and leaning forward repeated the scrutiny; then he +beckoned very gently and lay back upon the pillows. He was a judge of +men, a crafty reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or the +faint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far he was +satisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, but at least this La +Mothe was no assassin. Nevertheless the door upon the right opened +quietly so soon as La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, opened +wide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the darkness of the +passage without. Louis was not a man to run a needless risk, and the +bolt which brought home the King's justice to the nettle-gatherer would +not miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet. + +"Nearer," said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, uncertain how far that +beckoning hand had called him, "nearer yet; there! that will do for the +present. You are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and trusted +friend, therefore my friend also, and the King has need of friends. +No, no, say nothing, Philip said I could trust you as himself. That is +a great deal for one man to say of another." + +"Prove me, sire." La Mothe spoke with an effort. The weary, caressing +voice with its subtle note of pathos, the affectionate, frank admission +of Commines' worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of a +personal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as music has the +power to stir, so that to command words was difficult. "My uncle told +me----" + +"Uncle?" Louis' suspicions sprang to life newborn. Goaded by their +sting he leaned forward, one arm thrust out, and for the first time La +Mothe saw the deathly pallor of his face. "Uncle, do you say? +Commines never called you nephew?" + +"Not in blood, sire: in love--service--gratitude." + +"Then it is better to have a nephew by name than a son by nature. Do +you hear? If you love your uncle pray with all your soul that he may +never have a son to grudge him his life." The thrust-out fingers, +little more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless bones, were +shaken in a convulsion of passion, from the sunken, dull eyes a sudden +fire glared, and the thin lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in an +instant the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows, +breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord fastening his +robe at the breast. "See what it is to have a son," he said, but in so +low a tone that La Mothe barely caught the words, nor were they spoken +as if addressed to him, then with an effort which racked his strength +the King roused himself. "Love! Service and gratitude! Words! empty +words! Kings hear them daily and find them lies. Because of these in +his mouth Guy de Molembrais was trusted as it may be Stephen La Mothe +will be trusted, and Molembrais is dead--dead in a traitor's grave. +Words? It is deeds France has need of, deeds--deeds. And you, young +sir, for whom my friend Philip vouched as for himself, are you more +faithful than Molembrais?" + +"God helping me, sire." + +"Um, um; have you need of God's help to be faithful?" + +"I only meant----" + +"There! there! obey orders and you will have help enough. You owe much +to Monsieur de Commines?" + +"Everything, sire." + +"Everything? Sit there," and Louis pointed to a low stool placed just +beyond the transverse angle of the bench-like table which fronted the +couch. "Everything! Love! Service! Gratitude! You are right! Take +these from life and there is not much left. And how will you repay the +everything you owe?" + +"Love for love----" + +"Um! A woman may have a word to say as to that! Well?" + +"Service for service----" + +"You are not your own. France claims you; never forget a man's first +service is to his country. The nation is the mother of us all. Well, +what next? Shall I tell you? Win his gratitude in return! Eh, Master +Stephen, how would that please you? Prove your love, show your +service, earn his gratitude, and these you will do to the uttermost by +serving the King and France." + +"Sire, sire," cried La Mothe, shaken out of himself by the gust of +healthy emotion which seized him as the King's quiet voice grew in +strength and fullness till it seemed to vibrate with as generous a +passion as that which stirred the depths of the listener; "I am yours +to use body and soul." + +"Body and soul," repeated Louis, his eyes fixed searchingly on La +Mothe's face. The lad's prompt response promised well, all that was +needed was to keep this enthusiasm of devotion keyed to the pitch of +action. "Body and soul! Be sure I shall not forget. But what you +promise in hot blood you will forget when your mood cools. No? Well, +Molembrais' mood cooled and he has been colder than his mood these +three days past. But you are different, you are of stronger, finer, +truer stuff, your love and service are for Commines as well as for +France, and so you will not forget. You understand? Monsieur de +Commines vouches for you. Monsieur de Commines." The King paused, and +the nervous fretful fingers plucked at the breast of his robe afresh. +He was utterly wearied and must have time to regain strength. +"Monsieur de Commines stands surety for you; never forget that. Your +faithfulness is his faithfulness, your failure his failure: keep that +always before you. To-morrow you will----, but first tell me something +of yourself." With a moan of weakness he settled back into the pillows +and his eyes closed. "I must know Philip's friend as Philip knows +him," said the soft voice. + +And again La Mothe was touched to the heart, touched in his pride for +Commines, the King's trusted friend, touched in his grateful sympathies +that the King, weary and burdened by many anxieties, should find time +and thought for so kind an interest in one so insignificant as himself, +though that, too, was for Commines' sake; touched above all with a +generous self-reproach when he remembered his bitter satire on the +King's justice. He now saw that the severities which had horrified and +repelled him were exigencies of State, repugnant to the gentle, kindly +nature of the man in whose name the law took its course. + +And out of that grateful heart of youth he spoke frankly as Tristan had +bidden him speak. Briefly, succinctly, he told of his childhood's +poverty, of the change which came later under Commines' unfailing, +affectionate liberality, of his placing him as a lad in the household +of Monsieur de Perche, of the life in Poitou with its training in arms +and simple teaching of Keep faith, Live clean, Follow the right and +trust God unafraid. It was a very simple story, but he told it well. +No tale grows cold in the interest or halts for words when the heart is +behind the telling. + +And through it all Louis lay among his cushions like one dead. Not an +eyelid flickered, not a finger moved, his breath came so softly, so +quietly that the red robe scarcely stirred beneath his sunken chin. +Every muscle was relaxed in that restfulness which next to sleep is the +surest restorer of exhausted vitality. But the brain, the most acute +and cunning brain in France, was awake. With that dual consciousness +which, even more than dissimulation, is the diplomatist's prime +necessity for success in the worsting of an adversary, he gathered and +stored for use in his memory the salient points from La Mothe's story, +while all the while, co-energetically, his mind was busy searching out +how best to use this new tool for the cementing closer that fabric of +France which was his pride and glory. France was at once the mother +who gave his genius form and the son of his jealous love. And as he +listened, planning, sufficient strength crept back to the worn body. +He could play out his part to the end, and La Mothe would carry with +him no sense of his master's frailty to paralyze action. In loyalty +for loyalty's sake Louis had no faith. + +"You need say no more," he said, nodding his head with sympathetic +interest. "A debt--a debt indeed. And to-morrow you begin your +repayment. To-morrow you go to Amboise with Monsieur de Commines. +Amboise," he repeated slowly, "Amboise," and paused. "Where His +Highness, the Dauphin----" + +"Where my son waits--and watches." The thin hand crept up to the sunk +lips, lingered there an instant, crept up to the dull eyes, passed +across them once or twice with a motion eloquent of weary hopelessness, +and fell drearily to the lap. "God keep us in His mercy," said the +King, and as his finger-tips made the four points of the cross upon his +breast La Mothe felt he was upon holy ground. "God keep us in His +comfort. All is not well at Amboise, but my friend Philip knows--knows +and feels for me. I have no orders to give. All is left to him. Only +I say this, and never forget it, never--France comes first and +obedience is the payment of your debt." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON + +La Mothe sat silent. His fear had passed away utterly, but in its +place his awe had grown, an awe full of a deep pity. Youth is the true +age of intolerance and for the simple reason that it is the age of +ignorance. In its abundant strength, its sense of growth and +development, its vigorous, unfailing elasticity, its blessed want of +knowledge of the ills of life, its blindness to the inevitable coming +of these ills, it is impatient of a caution it calls cowardice, or a +frailty it neither understands in another nor anticipates for itself. +But in the rare instances when it takes thought its sympathies are more +generous than those of age, because the sorrows it sees are so much +greater than any it has known, ever realized in itself or even +conceived. So was it now with La Mothe. The pathetic, solitary +figure, feeble almost to helplessness, diseased, shrunken, dying, +Commines had said, yet with a heart warm in friendliness and a thought +for France alone, thrilled him to the very depths. And the dull eyes, +watching him from under the heavy lids with an alert vigilance from +which no shift of mood escaped, read his emotion unerringly. + +Again Louis leaned forward. But it was a changed Louis. This time the +light fell on a worn face fixed in a grey solemnity. The grave +protesting voice, the outstretched hand driving home its indignant +points, completed the spell. + +"No, all is not well at Amboise. They think the King grows old. Poor +humanity must needs grow old, but they are impatient and +would--anticipate age. I have a son, not yet thirteen--but of age to +be king. Silence--silence, he is the Dauphin. It is not for you to +blame--or condemn the Dauphin. Nor does the King's justice condemn +ignorantly. Plots, plots, plots! Plots against the father, God and +the father can forgive; but plots against the King--plots against +France: for these there is no forgiveness and youth is no excuse." + +"But, sire," began La Mothe. Then he remembered the Valmy gibbet where +a boy of twelve still hung that the roads of France might be safe, and +his voice choked. The King was right; youth was no excuse. + +"There are no buts," said Louis, sternly emphatic, and sank back upon +the pillows. "I have knowledge, I have knowledge, Commines +knows--others--France, Europe--must know later; an honest lad like you +will be believed." + +"Three weeks ago I was in Poitou----" + +"Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without prejudice, you are +not of the Court." + +"I meant, sire, I have no experience." + +"And so the nut may be too hard for your teeth? I see no fault in your +modesty: diffidence is not cowardice. But you will have help in your +nut-cracking, you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, Fear, +and Love: with these three I have made France what she is. Money--a +man--a woman; what will these not do! With the first--bribe and see +that you do not hold my skin too cheap; Fear--a life forfeit, if I lift +a finger he hangs; Love--a woman." + +"A friend, sire?" + +"An enemy--but a woman. Fool her: she is young and Amboise is dull. I +have a scheme for you ready made. You sing? But I know you do, +Tristan has told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing: and nothing is too +small for the King's service. Always remember life holds nothing +trivial. Leave Valmy with Commines, but separate on the road and go to +Amboise as a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will welcome any +distraction. You make verses?" + +"Sometimes, sire," stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flushing +as youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost as +disconcerting as being found out in a lie. + +"Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, and +Amboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one flesh +under the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember," added Louis +hastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothing +more, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give you +your orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of his +robe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, then +went on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse and +ride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay and +keep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or night +will open every door in Valmy." + +"What end, sire?" + +"What end? What end? Ask Commines, serve him, serve France; that end, +boy, that end, and in the name of Almighty God, ride fast." The dull +eyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow of +the scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a passion waked +the blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect of +its quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!" +he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motioned +imperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it will +pass--it is nothing, nothing at all--and I have one thing more to say." + +Fumbling amongst the cushions he drew out a little silver figure, +whether of man or woman La Mothe was uncertain, so fully the tense +fingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowed +to it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weakly +to his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image clattered on the floor. +It had served its purpose, out of the curious act of faith a renewal of +strength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the words +faltered. + +Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. It +was littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such a +presence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goose +quills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, a +lumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded and twisted inwards. +Amongst these the nervous hand shifted uncertainly here and there, +almost like the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon the +bunched folds of the napkin. + +"The Dauphin is a child," he said, his fingers closing upon the +looseness of the linen as he spoke. "A weakling--girl! And so, +girl-like, he loves to play at make-believe. You know their games? +There is the shell of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds it +against all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by assault at +the head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I am +Charlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but the +Dauphin of France!" + +"But, sire," ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural in +a child." + +"I played no such games at twelve years old," answered Louis bitterly. +"At twelve I learned king's-craft and foresaw realities; at twelve I +struggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child in +make-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. But +being a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--and +so----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linen +shook as with a palsy. "You see," the King went on hoarsely, "what it +is to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as a +child, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, not +outwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these others +would say I fostered with my hand what I condemned with my head. No, +the father's hand must be hidden out of sight, and that will be your +part." + +With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, dropping +the hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemed +a challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoff +if you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steel +rings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if the +quaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate in +the tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy to +raise a sneer or gibe a moral. + +Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of young +blood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness is +pierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, the +pathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King, +overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushed +by no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kin +even to this stern and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsion +wakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts of +fatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyalty +which had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasm +which is the devotion of the heart and counts life itself no sacrifice. +Nor could he hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines of +challenge were smoothed from the King's face. + +"A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn," he +said, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and dropping +them again in a little heap that caught the light on every separate +ring and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have a +message for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it the +spirit of the child may grow." + +"But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire, +let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from the +father to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be----" + +"God's name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with your King +who shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think--does he +think--that--that--Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingers +caught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the lean +neck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick, +quick, is it Commines--Commines--Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "I +took him from the gutter--from the very gutter; he was traitor to a +Charles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve a +Charles again?" Pushing himself up, half kneeling on the couch, half +leaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening hand +towards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak and +tell the truth, you dumb dog?" + +But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shivered +as if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, one hand feebly +beckoning to La Mothe to come nearer. + +"Whisper," he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smile +twitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone, +we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Come +now?" + +"No one, sire, on my honour, no one." + +"Honour? I know too much of the ways of men to trust men's honour. +Swear, boy," he burst out again, passionately roused. "Swear on this. +It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears +falsely dies, dies within the year--dies damned. Honour? Honour is a +net with too wide a mesh to hold men's oaths. Dare you swear?" + +Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it reverently, while +Louis, his lungs still fighting for breath, witched him narrowly. + +"Sire, I meant nothing, nothing but----" + +"But that you were a fool. Only a fool sells--the lion's skin--while +the lion--is alive." His voice strengthened as if the thought +stimulated him like a cordial. "And the lion is alive--alive! I must +finish, I must finish," he went on more querulously. "Yes, a fool, but +fools are commonly honest. You may be a faithful servant, but you are +a bad courtier, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"But, sire, have you not more need of the one than of the other?" + +"Of the servant than the courtier? Aye, aye, that is well said, very +well said. You are less a fool than I thought. But I must finish or +Coictier, my doctor--he thinks me less strong than I am--will be +scolding me. Take these," and he pushed the coat of mail away from him +impatiently, as if vexed that he had been betrayed into such a display +of feeling. "Remember that I have never seen them, never, never. You +promise me that? You swear that?" + +"I swear it, sire, solemnly." + +"And you will return to Valmy--to me, in silence?" + +"I promise, sire." + +"Swear, boy, swear." + +"I swear it, solemnly." + +"There!" And again he pushed the mail from him, his delicate fingers +touching the mask delicately. "Give them from yourself. All things +have their price, and the price of a child's confidence is to serve its +pleasures. But, young sir, remember this too, remember it, I say, my +son is the Dauphin of France and that which is for a prince's use, even +in play, is for his use only. Let no one else have commerce with +these." + +"Be sure, sire, I reverence the prince too deeply----" + +"Aye, aye: you can go. Words cost even less than honour. Give me +proofs, Stephen La Mothe, proofs, and trust to the justice of the +King," which shows how right Commines was when he said that the justice +of the King had many sides. + +And so, with his deepest bow and his heart full of many emotions, La +Mothe left his master's presence, and the cross-bow in the shadows +beyond the door on the right was lowered for the first time in more +than half an hour. For what he was to trust the justice of the King he +was no more clear in the confusion of the moment than what his mission +to Amboise was. But of one thing he was certain, the King was a man +much maligned and little understood: harsh of word and stern of act, +perhaps, but with a great, undreamed wealth of tenderness behind the +apparent austerity. Of that the little coat of mail and tinselled mask +bore witness. It was wonderful, he told himself, how the yearnings of +the human heart found excuse for what the sterner brain condemned; +surely that was where the human drew nearest to the divine! This was +not alone a master to serve, but a man to love! + +And Louis, a huddled, shapeless mass on his tossed cushions, sat +gnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. All +passion had died from him and suddenly he had grown very old, though +the indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age. + +"My son," he said, shivering, "my son, my son." Then the bent +shoulders straightened, the bowed head was raised, and into the tired +eyes there shot a gleam of fire. "I have no son but France!" Was he a +hypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who never deceived himself +to another's hurt cast the first stone at him. + +When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from Valmy the next +morning on their way to Amboise he was there upon the walls, a solitary +grey figure pathetic in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as they +were in sight, did his eyes wander from them. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN + +Many, deep, and diverse are the springs of silence. If Commines asked +no question when La Mothe returned from his interview with Louis, and +made no comment beyond "You are late, my son," it was because he knew +that curiosity was almost as dangerous as opposition where the schemes +or secrets of his master were concerned. La Mothe, in his ignorance, +had on the other hand no such thought, no such fear, but a charge which +he held sacred had been solemnly committed to him: he shared a secret +with the King and the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines' +ultimate orders might be he understood now what his mission was, this +mission to Amboise: it was to do for the father what the father might +not do for himself, and as they rode slowly along the high road from +Valmy he thought complacently to himself that he alone recognized the +true nature of the man who watched them from the walls. + +But there were obvious limits to the silence if the line of procedure +laid down by the King was to be followed. A parting and a meeting were +to be arranged, a plan of campaign to be decided upon; and it struck La +Mothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make-believe in a boy +could yet seize upon make-believe for his own purposes. + +"The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise with you," began La +Mothe, and it is to his credit that he spoke with hesitation. To +Commines, as Commines himself had said, he owed everything, and yet it +seemed as if already he had come between Commines and the King's +confidence. And yet, just because he was in the King's confidence it +was not easy to keep a touch of importance out of his voice. It was as +if he said, "The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are to +stand aside." But the bubble of his complacency was soon pricked. + +"At Chateau-Renaud you will stay behind after we have dined," answered +Commines, "nor will you leave the inn until three o'clock. You will +then go on foot to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and take +the Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then to ford the Loire +at Grand-Vouvray and enter Amboise from the south. Once in Amboise ask +for the Chien Noir and put up there for the night." + +"So you know all about it," said La Mothe, crest-fallen. Nor was it +simply that Commines knew all about it, it seemed he knew much more +than La Mothe himself. + +"Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some one who can open the +doors of the Chateau to you I know nothing, and I want to know nothing. +There you are to obey orders, but to have your time to yourself; and, +my son, my son, pray God there may be no orders to give." + +"But the King told me nothing of all this last night." + +"It is enough that he told me this morning," answered Commines drily. +"You need not look downcast; it is his custom to divide his +instructions." + +But La Mothe had another objection, and one so obvious that he +marvelled how it had escaped Commines' notice. + +"One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as a stranger will be +impossible. Riding behind us there are twelve good reasons why I +should be recognized." + +"Do you take us for fools?" retorted Commines. Turning in his saddle +he pointed backwards. Valmy was still in sight, and a keen eye could +have detected the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the grey +walls. "What is that to the right of the castle?" + +"Valmy gallows." + +"And from it hang three good reasons why the twelve will keep silence. +The King's grip is as sure in Amboise as it is in Valmy; it is over all +France, and God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. Think +twice, Stephen, before you say the King forgets--and then don't say it." + +La Mothe rode on in silence. This sudden reminder of the justice of +the King had dashed his satisfaction. Wherever he turned it confronted +him, and always with a warning which was less a warning than a threat. +It had been so with Tristan, it was so now with Commines, nor could the +memory of the coat of mail and embroidered toy in his saddle-bags +entirely quiet the uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seeking +relief, his thought cast back to Commines' curt instructions. + +"Who is this fellow--for I suppose it is a man who is to meet me at the +Chien Noir?" + +"Who is he? Slime of the gutter, contemptible old age unashamed, human +pitch whose very touch is a loathing, a repulsion, a defilement." It +seemed as if Commines was less afraid to speak his mind now that the +walls of Valmy were out of hearing, for he went on bitterly: "The King +chooses his tools well, a foul tool for a foul use, and neither you nor +I can come out of it with clean hands. His name? The gallows-cheat +has a dozen names and changes them as you would your coat. He is like +a Paris rag-picker, and his basket of life is full of the garbage he +has raked from the gutter." + +"And the woman?" + +"The woman! To hear you say the woman one would think there was but +one in the world. The King told me of no woman." + +"Then I am not likely to get drunk in Amboise, unless your rag-picker +pours the wine. + + 'Heigh ho! Love is the sun, + Love is the moon and the stars by night.' + +The scheme seems a foolish one to me. I can never play the part. But, +Uncle, what do you say? Shall I make a good troubadour?" + +"Sing while you may," answered Commines, with a dry gravity behind the +softening of his stern mouth, "and remember that at Amboise you sing +for a King's pay." + +"And I would sing five songs for nothing but the pleasure of singing +rather than one for a fee. What kind of a little lad is the Dauphin?" + +Commines made no reply, but rode on with knit brows. The question so +lightly asked was one he had often weighed in his own mind nor found a +clear answer. Rumour said of him--but under her breath, for to speak +at all was dangerous--that he was shamefully neglected, slow-witted, +ill-taught, or, worse still, untaught, but, and here rumour whispered +yet lower, that flashes of shrewdness broke the dull level of the +undeveloped intellect when least expected. That he was small for his +age he knew, that he was weakly, ill-formed, and awkward. These things +were patent to the eye and common knowledge, but into the depths of the +lad's nature he had not ventured to probe lest Louis' suspicious +jealousy should be aroused. Now that he found himself between a +father's twilight and a son's dawn, with "The king is dead, long live +the king," an imminent proclamation, he blamed himself for his +cowardice as men always do who are wise after the event. With a little +more certain knowledge his star might rise with the dawn, instead of, +as he feared, setting with the twilight. + +"Eh?" he said, rousing himself as La Mothe repeated the question. "The +Dauphin? I know little of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy or +Plessis with the King: it is long since the two have met. An ailing, +obstinate, dull boy, they say, with no more wit than can be put in him +with a spoon. If it were not that weak natures often turn vicious that +they may be thought strong I would say the King's fear of a plot was +baseless." + +"But surely there is no plot--a son against a father: a father who +loves him," added La Mothe, remembering the contents of his saddle-bags. + +"I wish the plot was as doubtful as the love; we might then have stayed +comfortably in Valmy," answered Commines cynically, and La Mothe's eyes +twinkled as he thought how much better he had read the King in his +single hour than Commines had in all his ten years of intimacy. "The +woman," he went on, "must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spend +your hour or two's walk from Chateau-Renaud to Amboise adding a verse +to your love song." + +"Why not a new song all for herself!" replied La Mothe, the twinkle +broadening to a laugh, "or had I better wait till I see her? She would +never forgive me if the adored dimple was in the right cheek instead of +the left, or the sweet eyes of my song grey instead of blue. Which are +they, Uncle?" + +"I never knew the colour of any woman's eyes but one," answered +Commines; and La Mothe knew by the softened voice that he spoke of +Suzanne. "And when a woman has taught you the colour of her eyes may +you see that in them which will make black or blue or grey the one +colour in the world for you. As to Ursula de Vesc, she detests me much +as I detest that offscouring from the dregs of brazen Paris who will +meet you at the Chien Noir. But there is Chateau-Renaud, where you +will find something better for your age and more to your liking than +women's eyes." + +"Dinner! and I twenty-four!" + +"Eighteen, Stephen, eighteen, not a day older, and be thankful for the +heart of a boy." + +"Why not be thankful for the heart of a girl!" retorted La Mothe. +"Pray the Saints, as the King would say, that Ursula de Vesc is as +pretty as her name." + +Partly that his men might be free from the restraint of his presence, +and partly because he did not wish to advertise his visit to Amboise +more broadly than necessary, Commines ordered their meal to be served +in a private room. It was to the front, with two small windows +overlooking the roadway. These were open, and as the stamping of hoofs +and jingling of bridle-chains came through them Commines bade La Mothe +see who were without. + +"But do not show yourself. Between Valmy and Amboise every man is a +friend or an enemy, with fewer friends the further Valmy is left +behind." + +"A priest, with three of an escort," said La Mothe, "King's men, I am +sure. Some of your own have gone out to meet them. Shall I go down to +make sure?" + +"No; go into that inner room, rather, for I hear feet upon the stairs. +If you are to be a stranger in Amboise the fewer who see you at +Chateau-Renaud the better. We cannot give a priest the Valmy gallows +as a reason for silence." + +As the inner door closed the outer opened, and a Franciscan entered, +his robe strewn thickly with the dust from the highway. Commines +recognized him at once; he was from Valmy, one of the many clerics the +King's strange religiosity gathered round him, and justly held by Louis +in deep respect for the simplicity and saintliness of his life. In an +age when the fires of scandal scorched the Church with such a flaming +vehemence that the heat kindled round the throne of the Chief Bishop +himself, Father John escaped without so much as the smell of burning on +his garments. None could lay self-seeking to his charge, nor even the +smallest of the many vices which in every order raised their heads, +rampant and unashamed. It was characteristic of Louis that he should +attach to himself men of such unselfish humility and austere pureness +of life. God and the Saints would surely forgive a little chicanery to +one who lived in an atmosphere of other men's holy lives. + +"Father John!" and Commines caught the Franciscan by the arm almost +roughly, a sudden fear setting his pulses throbbing. "Has Saint-Pierre +sent you? Is the King ill--is he--is he?--you of all men know what we +fear for him." + +"No, my son, no; the King is as you left him, well, praise God! and +strong: it is he himself who has sent me after you. He said that such +a mission as yours had great need of the blessing of God upon it." + +"And was that all his message?" + +"That he committed France to your care. He spoke, no doubt, of the +Dauphin, who is the hope of France." + +"Yes," answered Commines drily, "I do not doubt he spoke of the +Dauphin. Now, Father, I fear you must dine in haste, for it is time we +were on the road." + +"A crust in my hand to eat as we go is enough. It makes me so happy, +Monsieur d'Argenton, to see the King at last taking thought for his +son." + +"Yes," repeated Commines, with the same dryness. "The Dauphin is +indeed much in his thought. But though we are in haste there is no +need you should die of starvation. France has need of you, Father +John. There are plenty to play the devil's game by living, do not you +play it by dying before your time." + +Twenty minutes later they were again on the road, La Mothe's +saddle-bags fastened on his led horse. He himself followed at the hour +named by the King, but on foot, a knapsack strapped across his +shoulders and on it a lute in open advertisement of his new trade. His +sword was with his saddle-bags, but was no loss, so free from danger +were the roads under the iron persuasion of the justice of the King. +Nor were travellers numerous. Only twice was he passed, once by a +courier riding post to Valmy, and once by a lad, little more than a +child in age, who thundered up from behind on a great raw-boned roan +horse and disappeared ahead in a cloud of dust. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE + +Blessed four-and-twenty. From the first breath of life until the last, +even though by reason of strength there be four-score years, is there a +more perfect age? The restraints of the schoolboy are left behind, the +tree of the knowledge of good and evil has scattered its fruit about +the feet, all sweet, all fresh in their newness, all a delight, even, +alas, the worst of them: that of the tree of life seems just within the +reach, and the burdens of the world are as yet on other men's backs. +Even if the Porter's Knot, which all must bear sooner or later, is +already on the shoulder, the light heart of four-and-twenty is +untroubled. It believes, in its optimism, that it will tumble the load +of carks and cares into the first ditch, and live in freedom ever after! + +To Stephen La Mothe's four-and-twenty with the spirit of eighteen the +world of that May day was God's good world, and what better could it be +than that! If a full-leaved cherry tree, its ripening clusters rosy +red and waxen yellow against the dense greenery, flung shade across the +road he paused in his tramp, squared his shoulders, and drank a deep +breath of the cooler air; if the blazing sun sucked up a subtle, acrid +smell from the hot dust stirred by his feet he snuffed it up greedily +and found it good to live. A hawk in the air, a thrush whistling from +a hazel bush as only a thrush can whistle, the glorious yellow of a +break of whin, all were a delight. + + "Heigh ho! Love is my life! + Live I in loving, and love I to live!" + +he sang, and broke into a whistle almost as blithe as the thrush itself +that he might think more freely. Commines' gibe had come back to him, +and for pastime he would make a verse of his love song, let Ursula de +Vesc's eyes be blue, grey, or black! + + + "Live I in loving, and love I to live," + +was a good line, a line Francois Villon himself could not have +bettered, but how should the next line run? + + "Heigho! Sweetest of strife!" + +Strife! The word jarred the context, but where would he get a better? +Wife? Rife? Worse! both worse! Sweetest of strife--of strife--strife, + + "Winning the dearest that life can give!" + +No! that was not good, not good at all: Villon would have turned the +rhyme better than that. But then Villon, wild rogue though he was, was +a poet. The dearest life can give--the dearest? What was the dearest +life could give? As the question, idly asked, fastened on his mind his +whistle sobered into silence, and he plodded on through the dust, +seeing neither the sunshine nor the shade. + +France came first, the King had said, and then had made it clear that +he was France. Was the King's service the dearest thing life could +give? In times of peace, when the millstones and the hearts of men +alike grind placidly, patriotism is a cold virtue, and even in the hot +passion of war it is often the magnetism of the individual man--the +personal leader--who wakens the enthusiasm of desperate courage rather +than the cause in whose name men die. Roland, La Mothe told himself, +might have roused such an enthusiasm, or Coeur de Lion, or Joan of Arc, +but never that fierce corpse of Valmy. And if the father was France, +what was the son--the twelve-year boy so dreaded and so loved? Was he +not France too? Did France plot against France? "All is not well at +Amboise," said the King. If that was true in the sense the father +meant it, what then? Was this dull ailing boy a double parricide to +his father's knowledge? + +That, by the law of association of ideas, called up a new thought, and +a rush of warmth, which drew none of its heat from the sunshine, +flushed La Mothe. What if the boy, dull and neglected though he was, +hid such a love for the father as the father hid from the boy, and what +if cunning Stephen La Mothe should find it out and make this torn +France one in heart? And so, because however one follows the clues +through this maze of life they always lead to love at the end, La Mothe +broke into his song again: + + "Heigh ho! Love is my life, + Live I in loving, and love I to live. + Heigh ho! Sweetest of strife, + Winning the dearest that life can give. + Love, who denied me, + Hast thou not tried me---- + +And now, plague take the verse, where is my rhyme for the end?" + +But a turn of the road brought him to Limeray with the stream of the +Eisse flowing beyond. Another league and he would reach +Amboise--Amboise, where the shuttles of fate, the man and the woman, +Fear and Love as the King had called them, were waiting to weave into +the warp and woof of life a pattern which would never fade; Amboise, +where an end was to come--he had forgotten to ask Commines what end--an +end which in some obscure way was to serve Commines and serve France. +"If I lift a finger he hangs," said the King. That, no doubt, was the +human slime of the gutter who had roused Commines' contempt, and yet +who was his passport to the castle. A pretty passport, and one not +much to his credit, thought La Mothe, and fell to wondering if Ursula +de Vesc of the uncertain eyes would class them as birds of a +feather--Ursula who found Amboise dull and was to kiss the poet as +Margaret had kissed Alain Chartier. But Chartier had been asleep at +the time, while La Mothe promised himself he would be very much awake, +and then called himself slime of the gutter for the thought. This was +not the chivalry and respect for all women he had learned in Poitou. +Who was he that a woman, sweet and good he had no doubt, should kiss +him because Amboise was dull, and if she did would she be sweet and +good? He pulled a wry face and shook himself angrily, the thought was +like a bad taste in the mouth. + +At Grand-Vouvray he forded the Loire, with Amboise sloping up from the +river in full sight, the red roofs of its houses, huddled almost +underneath the Chateau for protection, glowing yet more ruddily in the +setting sun, and entered the town by the Tours gate as Commines had +bidden him. Reared high above the town it at once awed and protected +was the grey castle, towered and turreted like a fortress, and fortress +it was,--fortress, palace, and prison in one. Round town and castle +alike lay the river, holding them in its embrace like a guardian arm, +and beyond stretched the rich fertility of the Orleannais. + +The Chien Noir was easily found. It seemed as well known in Amboise as +Notre Dame in Paris, and from the warmth of his reception La Mothe +guessed shrewdly that his coming was expected. Innkeepers were not +prone to lavish welcomes on wandering minstrels who carried all their +world's gear on their back like any snail. For such light-hearted folk +an open window at night was an easier method of payment than an open +purse. + +"A room and supper? Both, monsieur, and of the best. For the first +what do you say to this?" and the landlord threw open a door with a +flourish of pride. "Not in the Chateau itself will you find a better. +Two windows, as you see: bright by day and cool by night, with all the +life of the town passing up and down the road to keep you company if +you are dull, and the castle gates in full view so that none can go in +or out and you not know it. And for supper--I am my own cook and you +may trust Jean Saxe. Give me twenty minutes, monsieur, twenty little +minutes, and you'll say blessed be the Black Dog of Amboise!" + +"And who are in the castle?" + +"Two or three units with a dozen of noughts to their tail to give them +value; Monsieur de Commines----" + +"Monsieur de Commines? Do you dare speak of Monsieur de Commines so +insolently?" burst out La Mothe, too indignant in his loyal devotion to +Commines to remember that a wandering singer ate the bread of +sufferance and had no opinions. But the innkeeper took no offence, +which again suggested that he had his own private opinion of the +knapsack and the lute. + +"Monsieur, I meant no harm," he protested humbly. "I am Monsieur de +Commines' man--that is, the King's man--to the death." + +"Well, let it pass. Who else are at the Chateau?" + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc----" + +"Does she come next in consequence? Why not the Dauphin?" + +"Oh! The Dauphin!" and Jean Saxe blew out his lips in contempt. "We +who live in Amboise do not think great things of little Charles. To my +mind little Charles is one of the noughts. But wait till you go to the +Chateau and then you will understand for yourself." + +"And why should I go to the Chateau?" + +"Because they love music," and the fellow grinned knowingly as he +cocked a cunning eye at the exposed lute, "because there is another who +loves music and can open the doors and will say---- There! do you hear +him? La, lilla, la! La, la, lilla, la! He always sings over the +third bottle, and the King--God bless him--pays for all." + +Opening the door to its widest Saxe stood aside listening, his head on +one side, his hand beckoning familiarly to La Mothe, as up the dark +well of stairs there came the rise and fall of a man's voice in a brisk +chant. No words could be caught, but the air ran trippingly, and if +the higher notes broke in a crack which told of age or misuse, or both +together, the lower ran clear and full, and the tune ran on with a +rollicking, careless awing which showed that, whoever might cavil, the +singer had at least one appreciative hearer--himself! + +"A wonderful man, wonderful," whispered Saxe, his small eyes twinkling +with appreciation, but whether at the music or because the King paid +for all, La Mothe was uncertain. "A poet of poets, a drinker of +drinkers, and a shrewd, bitter-tongued devil drunk or sober. Not that +he grows drunk easily, not he! and always he sings at his third bottle." + +"What is his name?" + +"Whatever he chooses, monsieur, and so long as the King pays what does +a name matter? He serves the King as I do and--with great respect--as +you do also. Did I ask your name when you said, 'A room and supper'? +Not I!" + +"I am called Stephen La Mothe." + +"As you please, monsieur, and I don't doubt you will eat as good a +supper by that name as by any other. Give me twenty minutes and you +will say the Black Dog of Amboise is no cur." + +Nor was Jean Saxe's boast unjustified. La Mothe not only supped but +ate, and with such satisfaction that in the peace of a healthy hunger +crowned with as healthy a digestion--unappreciated blessings of +four-and-twenty--he forgot alike King and Dauphin, Valmy and the Grey +Gates of Amboise in the shadows across the road. + +But neither was allowed to remain forgotten. As he sat over the +remains of his supper, tapping out a verse of his love song with his +finger-tips on the table, the door from the common room of the inn was +opened and a man entered whom La Mothe at once guessed to be one of his +three good friends in Amboise. In one hand he carried a lighted +candle, in the other a great horn cup. + +"Thanks, Jean," he said patronizingly, nodding towards the room he had +left as he spoke. "Close the door behind me, my good fellow: both my +hands are full." Then raising the candle, he turned and scrutinized La +Mothe with a curiosity as great as La Mothe's own and much more frankly +evident. + +And he was worth studying, as a rare specimen is studied in the +difficulty of classification. If there were many such men in France La +Mothe had never yet met one of them. He was under middle height, the +jaunty, alert youthfulness of his slim figure, supple without great +strength, contradicted by the grey which shot with silver the thin hair +falling almost to his narrow shoulders, and, as La Mothe searched him +in the wavering, guttered candle-light, it flashed upon him that +contradiction was the note of all his characteristics. The weak chin +with the unkempt straggle of a beard gave the lie to a forehead +magnificent in its abundant strength of mental power: the promise of +the luminous, clear eyes was robbed of fulfilment by the loose mouth +with the slime of the gutter and sensuality of the beast writ large +upon its thick lips. From the thin peaked nose upwards it was the face +of a son of the gods who knew his parentage and birthright; but +downward that of a human swine who loved the foulness of the trough for +the trough's sake. A Poet of poets, said the eyes: Slime of the gutter +and old age unashamed of its shame, retorted the mouth; and both spoke +truth. Evidently his scrutiny satisfied him, for he heaved a sigh of +contentment as he drew nearer to La Mothe. + +"The image of what I was at your age," he said, and again there was the +note of contradiction. The voice was the sweet, full voice of a +singer, but ruined at the first emotion into roughness by excess. +Placing the candlestick on the table he lifted La Mothe's wine bottle +and smelt it with slow carefulness, applying it first to one nostril +then to the other. "Vintage '63," he said appreciatively, "and that +animal Saxe fobs me off with '75." + +"Then try my '63," said La Mothe, "and we shall see if Saxe has another +bottle of the same." + +Promptly the contents of the horn mug were flung with a splash into the +open fireplace at La Mothe's back. + +"Just what I was at your age! The same to a hair! A gay companion +generous of heart and purse. Yes," he went on, half seating himself on +the table-edge and sucking down the wine with slow appreciative gulps, +"'63; I knew I could not be mistaken, though it is four years since I +tasted it last. The palate, Monsieur La Mothe, is like nature and +never forgets. For that reason we should never outrage either." + +"Four years!" repeated La Mothe with mock admiration, then remembering +that this was a poet of poets and should know his Villon, he quoted, +"'And where are the snows of Yester Year?'" + +The narrow shoulders broadened with a start, the bright eyes grew yet +brighter, and a firmer set of the mouth gave the face that note of +strength it so sorely needed. If it were not that he was already deep +in his fourth bottle La Mothe would have said the wine had set his +blood on fire, warming him with a fictitious energy, so sudden and so +marked was the change. + +"Ah ha!" he said, setting down the horn mug as he leaned towards La +Mothe, and this time the voice was as full and round as a woman's. "So +you know your Villon, do you? rascal that he was!" + +"Was? Is Villon dead?" + +"Dead! No! But his rascality is dead: dead but not forgotten! +Saints! what a dear sweet life it gave him while it lived, that same +rascality. 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' That is the cry of +all the years after, say, four- or five-and-twenty." He paused, his +bright keen eyes watching La Mothe with a wistful humour in them, half +envious, half reminiscent. "Four-and-twenty! Up to that age it is, +Oh, for next year's suns! Oh, for the flowers of a new spring's +plucking! and ever after, 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' I +think," he added, pursing his mouth reflectively, "that what the +priests call Hell is hot just because last year's snows never come +back." + +"Gone!" said La Mothe, falling into his humour, "dead like Villon's +rascality, but as unforgotten. But are you sure Villon is alive?" + +"Monsieur," and the little man slipped from the table-edge to his feet +and bowed, his eyes twinkling with an intense enjoyment, "I can vouch +for him as you can for Stephen La Mothe: I have the honour to present +to you Francois Villon, Master of Arts of Paris and of all the crafts +of this wicked world." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT + +La Mothe stared up at him incredulously. "You Francois Villon?" he +began; "Francois Villon the--the----" + +The gallows-cheat, the human pitch whose very touch is defilement was +what was in his mind, but with those clear luminous eyes looking down +unashamed into his own he could not put the brutal thought into the +naked brutality of words. But Villon read something of his meaning in +his eyes and rounded off the sentence for him. + +"The King's Jackal!" he said, not without a sour resentment. + + "Necessite faict gens mesprendre: + Et fain sallir le loup des boys! + +You don't believe it? But you have been dandled on the knees of +respectability all your little life: what do you know of necessity or +hunger? I know both, and I tell you necessity and hunger are two gods +before whom all who meet them bow down. Better a live jackal than a +dead poet. Besides, is he not the greatest of kings? Bishop Thibault +had me in gaol for a mere slip of the fingers and talked of a judicial +noose--the third I've looked through--but the King fetched me out--God +save the King!" + +"God save the King!" echoed La Mothe, for want of something better to +say. His mind was still confused by this sudden upheaval of his +ideals. All that was best in Villon's poetry had stirred his +enthusiasm, while all the much which was worst had left his sane +wholesomeness untainted. To the half-dreamer, half-downright, +practical lad in Poitou, Villon, with his jovial, bitter humour and +even flow of human verse, had been something of an idol, and when our +idols crash into ruin the thunder of the catastrophe bewilders +judgment. But there was more than bewilderment, there was an +inevitable disgust. The frankness of this disgust Villon discovered. + +"Besides, again, my very young friend," he went on, "what are you in +Amboise at all for, you and your lute? Is Villon the only King's +Jackal here in the Chien Noir? Do we not hunt in a couple, and have +you as good an excuse for your hunting as poor Francois Villon, who +looked through a halter, and found the eternity beyond unpoetical to a +man of imagination? What brought you to Amboise, I say?" + +"The King's orders: the peace of France," began La Mothe, but though +the words were fine swelling words in the mouth they somehow failed to +fill the stomach of his sense. Nor did Villon let him finish. + +"And I say the same. What is more, I say them openly, and do not drown +the words with the twanging of a lute. Not that I blame you--not I, + + 'Toute beste garde sa pel,' + +or, as a greater poet than Francois Villon has said, Skin for skin, all +that a man hath will he give for his life. Whose hide you guard, your +own or another's, I don't know and don't care. Mine was that of bare +life, and there you sit and look disgust at me as if to cling fast to +this good gift of God which comes to a man but once were a sin. And +what are you doing in Amboise? No!" he interrupted himself hastily, +emphasizing the negative with a rapid gesture of both hands, "don't +tell me. If there is one thing more dangerous than knowing too little +it is knowing too much. Tell me, rather, what you want me to do for +you and tell me nothing more." + +"Gain me a footing in the Chateau." + +"I can open the doors, but the footing you must gain and hold for +yourself. I warn you Amboise is well guarded. Oh! not with pikes, +cross-bows, and such-like useless things in which our beloved King puts +his faith, but by eyes that see and hearts that love, and so Amboise is +a hard nut to crack. But your teeth are strong, and if the good God +had made no peach stones there would be no peaches, and, my faith! +peaches are worth the eating." + +He drew a long breath and sat silent, the horn mug, which he had again +filled and emptied, tilted against his thigh. A smile flickered his +loose mouth, and the full bright eyes, turned toward the vacancy of the +empty fireplace, were sparkling with reminiscences. + +And who should have reminiscences if not Francois Villon? There was +not such another judge of peaches in all France, no such authority upon +their eating, and few who had broken more teeth over their stones. The +smile broadened into a soft chuckle, laughter deepened into puckers the +many wrinkles of his crow-footed temples, and he wagged his grey head +in the warm appreciation of a happy memory. Dipping a finger-tip into +a pool of spilt wine he wrote on the table reflectively, and as La +Mothe watched his leering face he understood Commines' outspoken +contempt of this old man unashamed of his shamefulness. + +"Peaches," he said, scratching his chin with a wet forefinger; "my +faith! yes! I have climbed walls for them, robbed gardens of them, +found them in market baskets--the gutter even. What matters where they +come from so long as the cheek is warm, the bloom fresh, the skin +smooth, and the sweetness full in the mouth. And where are they now? +Aye! aye! 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' My young friend, my +very young friend, you have but one life, and when you drop it behind +you see that only the husks of its possibilities are left: crush the +grapes while you may and drink the wine." + +"I thought," said La Mothe, "that the rascality of Francois Villon was +dead? Leave it in its grave, if you please. It is decenter buried out +of sight and does not interest me. How am I to gain entrance to +Amboise?" + +Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance of carelessness, but +the unctuous complacency was wiped from his face, and the narrow eyes +and mouth showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe's disgusted +contempt. + +"How, but as my friend, pupil, and protege," he replied, with evident +enjoyment of the other's discomfiture at the unwelcome association. +Then with incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery passed +from his voice and he went on bitterly, "Do you think I love my life? +Perhaps I do--at times. But not always, no, not always. You see that +fly there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt wine, the +ragout with its spices, the salad with its oil and its vinegar, +everything within reach which tickles its palate: then it rubs its +stupid head with its forelegs and trots back to the wine again. +Presently"--and Villon suited the action to the word--"a great hand +turns an empty tumbler over it and there it is: all the delights of the +world it has lost clear within sight, but out of reach--always out of +reach. That, my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blame +the fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life? Perhaps if +the great hand is merciful it draws the glass to one side, thus, and +still to one side, thus and thus and thus, until, phit! there is a +little red patch and no fly; yes, perhaps. Aye, aye, I have seen life. +But it is better for the fly to laugh as it runs round and round under +the glass than to sulk and cry its heart out for the snows of Yester +Year. God save the King!" + +The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe so +irrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instant +comprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shot +through the disgust. + +"Perhaps the hand will lift the glass," he said, "and let the fly back +to its spilt wine and spices?" + +Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. "Will that give me back my twenty years? +Bah! the palate is as stale as the spilt wine, and when the good of +life is gone life itself may go. There is Saxe knocking at the door. +My faith! but you have indeed scared him into discretion; he never +knocks for me. Perhaps he has brought that second bottle." + +But Saxe was empty-handed, and by the light of the candle La Mothe +could see a quizzical grin upon his face. + +"Monsieur," he began, but which of the two he addressed was uncertain, +"they are dull at the Chateau." + +"And have sent for Francois Villon to make sport! I have dropped the +'de,' Monsieur La Mothe, there are so many rascals amongst the nobility +nowadays that I find it more distinguished to be the simple commoner. +Dull at the Chateau! Good Lord! don't I know it!" He paused, lifting +his head with a quick, bird-like motion: a cunning smile wrinkled his +face and he smote the table with his open hand. "Dull, are they? +There, my hedge-minstrel from Valmy, is your welcome ready made. Bring +your lute and make pretty Ursula's grey eyes dance to a love song, +prude that she is." + +"To-night?" said La Mothe doubtfully. "Surely not to-night: the +Dauphin might resent a stranger's coming so late." + +"The Dauphin? Phit! Little Charles is pretty Ursula's echo and +nothing more. Come, let us go." + +"Then Mademoiselle de Vesc may object." + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc? So you know her name, do you? And what girl +objects to a love song? I never yet knew one who did, and Francois +Villon has lived his life. If they pout and turn aside don't believe +them: it's just that you may not see how the heart beats. Black eyes, +blue, grey, hazel, brown; Fat Meg and Lean Joan, wrinkled fifty and +smooth sixteen, their eyes have all the same sparkle, the same dear +light in them when the heart melts. I should know, for I have made +love to every colour under the sun. Except Albino," he added +reflectively and with the conscientious air of one who desires to tell +the whole truth. "I wonder what it would be like to make love to an +Albino. But now I shall never know, the fly must run round and round +its glass until the day of the red blotch. It is a mercy I tasted the +oil and vinegar in time. That disgusts you, does it? My young friend, +you must learn not to say more with your face than you do with your +tongue if you are to keep your secrets and the King's. Come, I talk +too much and they are waiting for us." + +But Stephen La Mothe left his lute behind him. He had accepted the +part allotted to him half as a jest and half for the sake of the +adventure it promised, but Villon had put a less pleasant gloss on this +open-faced masquerade, nor had the blunt question, Why are you in +Amboise? been easy of answer. Or rather, the answer was easy, but one +he did not relish in its naked truth. If to be the secret almoner of +the King's love for the Dauphin had been the sole reply to the +question, his scruples would have been as light as his love song. But +that answer was insufficient: there was a second answer, an answer +which Commines knew and these two men, Villon and Saxe, suspected, one +which would leave a soiling on clean hands, yet which must be faced. + +He found himself in the position of a circus-rider who, with one foot +on the white horse--which was Honour--and the other on the +piebald--which was duty and a King's instructions,--has lost control of +their heads and feels his unhappy legs drawn wider and wider apart with +every stride. And in the emergency La Mothe did exactly what the +circus-rider would have done--he clung to both with every desperate +sinew on the strain. To keep his piebald still under him he went with +Villon to the Chateau, and that he might not part utterly from his +white he left his lying lute behind him. But he was not happy: mental +and spiritual unhappiness is the peculiar gift of compromise. + +Nor did Villon make any protest at his decision. "As you will, it is +between you and the King," he said, with all the indifference of the +beast whose one thought is for his own skin, and then immediately +proved that he was less indifferent than he seemed. "But if I knew +which of the two you wish to win over, the boy or the woman, I might +help you." + +"The boy," answered La Mothe, remembering the gifts of a father's love +which lay in the saddle-bags Commines had brought for him to the +Chateau. Ursula de Vesc was but a means to an end, the Dauphin was the +end itself. + +"The boy?" Villon paused as they crossed the road in the sweet +coolness of the young night, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That's +not so easy. Women, of course, I know like my ten fingers, but +children are too subtle for me. And little lathy Charles with his +long, narrow white face and obstinate chin, is no A B C of a boy. You +must know something more than your horn-book before you understand him. +To-day he received Monsieur de Commines with all the gravity of the +Pope: 'Where is Monsieur Tristan, Tristan of the House of Great Nails?' +he asked, peering about him with those dull, tired eyes of his which +see so much more than most men imagine. 'Tristan?' says Monsieur de +Commines, very sourly for so great a man, 'Tristan does not travel with +me, Monseigneur.' 'He must be somewhere near,' says little Charles, +'since you come from my father, do you not? and you are both friends of +his.' It was a sharp thrust and it was not the Dauphin who looked the +fool. Now, was that more or less than the impishness that's in all +boys, prince or gutter rat? More, I say. No, children are too subtle +for me: give me women for simplicity! But I may help you with him all +the same." + +Though a king dwelt in Valmy and a king's son in Amboise, never was +there a greater contrast than between the watchfulness exercised for +their safety. At Valmy guards had thronged at every turn, more +vigilant than pickets who hold the lives of a sleeping army in their +keeping, but at Amboise the doors swung open to the touch of almost the +first comer, though it was not easy to be certain how much of this +laxity was due to the guarantee of Villon's presence. A careless +porter kept the outer gate, a single sentinel, lounging in the +guard-room, let them pass into the central court unchallenged, and the +servant or two they met upon the stairs gave them no more than a +heedless glance. That, at least, was La Mothe's first impressions. +But when he saw the same face in the lower hall, again at the +stair-head, yet again in the ante-room, and recognized that the plainly +dressed serving-man had kept them under observation at every turn, +unobtrusively but of evident purpose, he decided that a casual stranger +could not have penetrated to the heart of Amboise without first giving +a good account of himself. The watcher was Hugues, the Dauphin's +valet. And yet when Villon gently drew aside a curtain masking a +doorway which opened upon the stair-head, there was no one in +attendance to announce them. It was as if the King said, more +significantly, more emphatically than in any words, "My son may be the +Dauphin, but I alone am France." + +"There are the boy and the woman," said Villon softly, "Charles and +Ursula de Vesc. Now, had I been your age I would rather have won the +woman." + + + + +CHAPTER X + +LOVE, THE ENEMY + +Charles was seated on a low stool at the further end of the room, a +pale-faced boy with dull, peevish eyes closely set together, the long +Valois nose, and a thin, obstinate mouth. His dress was severely, +obstinately, contemptuously plain. Again it was as if the King said, +This is not the greatness or the glory of France! But love and care +had redeemed the derisive parsimony. All the lad wore was exquisitely +neat and the very severity lent the little figure a dignity of its own. + +Beside him, but a little behind, stood Love, the Enemy, Ursula de Vesc, +a slim figure in white. One arm was flung over his shoulder, the hand +holding the boy's hand as he raised it across his breast, and she +seemed to draw him back to her so that he half leaned, half lay against +her knee. Her other hand was caught up against her side below the +rounded breast, and pressed there so tensely that the slender, +bloodless fingers lay ivory-white against the hardly purer white of the +bodice. The whole attitude was one of spontaneous, natural, womanly +affection, but as Stephen La Mothe looked a second time he seemed to +find in it both defence and defiance, or if not defiance, then that +vigilant watchfulness which is almost an antagonism. The clasping arm +spoke protection, but a protection which said, "Touch if you dare." + +Nor did the expression of her face change his thought. The clear grey +eyes were alert with something more than a girl's fresh interest, the +firm mouth, even while the lips moved, was set in an unconscious +strain, and across the broad forehead two lines were shadowed where no +lines ought to have been. If the face of age, when the sorrows and +experience of years have written anxiety for the uncertain morrow +across it, moves the heart by the story it tells, how much more the +face of youth lined by cares which merciful Time should still have held +unrevealed? There are more valleys of shadows than that of death, and +it seemed to La Mothe that the gloom of some one of them had gathered +thickly round Ursula de Vesc. + +Of the three or four others grouped at the further end of the room +Commines was the only familiar figure, and though all turned at the +noise of the brass rings jangling on their rod as Villon drew the +curtain there was no recognition in his eyes. It was the opening of +the lying masquerade, and La Mothe vaguely felt the white horse stumble +as it swerved from the straight course. The soiling of clean hands +spoken of by Commines on the road to Chateau-Renaud had begun. + +"Gain the girl and win the boy," whispered Villon as, with his hand +upon La Mothe's arm, they walked up the room together, then aloud, +"Monseigneur and Mademoiselle----" + +"Monseigneur, if you please," interrupted the girl, but though she +spoke to Villon her eyes were on La Mothe. The voice was cold, the +words at once a self-effacement and a rebuke. It was as if she said, +"I know my place: know--and keep--yours." + +"Monseigneur," went on Villon, quite unruffled, "with the ills of life +come their cure: Amboise was dull and I present to you Monsieur Stephen +La Mothe." + +The Dauphin made no immediate answer, but glanced up at Ursula de Vesc +with a question in his eyes, and his clasp on her hand tightened, +drawing her yet closer to him. It was the action of a child to its +mother rather than that of a boy of twelve to a girl not twice his age, +and to those who understood it was curiously instructive. Looking down +upon him she smiled and nodded, nor did the gracious softening of the +tender face escape La Mothe. Her eyes were grey, and surely grey eyes +were the sweetest in all the world? + +"Monsieur La Mothe," repeated Charles, as if the girl's look had given +him courage to speak. "Monsieur La Mothe of--Valmy?" + +"Monsieur La Mothe of everywhere," replied Villon hastily, before La +Mothe had time to answer. "Singers and poets are of all the world. +They say it took seven cities to give Homer birth." + +"And Monsieur La Mothe is another Homer?" said the girl, and Stephen +winced at the insolent curve of her lips. He was quite sure they were +never meant for such a curve, surely a Cupid's bow would be more +natural than contempt, disdain, and a few other injurious opinions all +in the one expression. In this belief he hastened to reply, allowing +no time for Villon to intervene. + +"No, mademoiselle, I am neither a singer nor a poet, at least not such +a one as Monsieur Villon." + +"I hope not, for your credit's sake," answered the girl drily, nor did +she seek to keep the scorn from her voice. "As both singer and poet +Monsieur Francois Villon is beyond his age." + +"There is no such critic as the one who fails to understand," said +Villon, his wrinkled face white with anger, "and I see I was right at +first, and should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur, not +Monseigneur and Mademoiselle." + +"Master Villon, you are impertinent," broke in Commines, who loved +Ursula de Vesc little, but hated Villon more. + +"Monsieur de Commines, if it were not another impertinence I would say +that like breeds like," retorted Villon, entirely unabashed. He +returned Commines' dislike with energy, and so long as he served the +King he had little to fear from the King's minister. + +"Poets are privileged," said Mademoiselle de Vesc. "And Monsieur +Villon has paid me a compliment: I neither understand his poetry nor +desire to." Her tone was still contemptuous and had in it no thanks to +Philip de Commines for his reproof on her behalf. She resented it, +rather, since she had no desire to owe him either gratitude or thanks. + +For a moment there was a pause, a moment which seemed the prelude to a +sarcastic outbreak from one or other of those she had wilfully +irritated in that intolerance which so often goes hand in hand with a +spirit of self-sacrifice. But Stephen La Mothe interposed. + +"Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of being presented to Monseigneur?" + +"You?" she said, the lines deepening across her forehead. "A roadside +singer presented to the Dauphin! Surely you forget yourself--and him?" + +"Even a roadside singer may be a loyal son of France," he retorted, +looking her full in the face. He keenly resented the false position +into which the King's ill-considered scheme had thrust him, but he had +gone too far to retreat. "You know best, mademoiselle, whether the +Dauphin has need of a man's honest love and devotion." + +"Devotion that is here to-day, was God knows where yesterday, and will +be God knows where to-morrow! Merci! the Dauphin is indeed grateful." + +"Spitfire!" murmured Villon, but so cautiously that only La Mothe heard +him. "Certainly I should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur. Or +better still have left the Monseigneur out altogether. You do not go +the right way. Win the girl, I tell you, and the boy will follow like +a sheep." + +"Let me win her my own way," answered La Mothe, which has always been +the man's desire since Adam was in Eden with the one woman in all the +world. Then he went on aloud, "Pour your scorn on it as you will, +mademoiselle, it is devotion that will wait patiently in Amboise until +it has proved itself." + +"That will wait patiently in Amboise?" she repeated. Her eyes +challenged his as she spoke, and in them there was nothing of the light +the sons of Adam have loved to see in a woman's eyes so that they might +dwell together in Paradise. + +"Why not? And if a poor gentleman desires to see France in this +fashion is there any reason against it?" + +"A poor gentleman, but not a poor minstrel?" + +"As both I can but give my best. May I have the honour, mademoiselle?" + +Her clasp upon the boy's hand must have tightened, for again he raised +his face to hers as she stooped over him, speaking softly. This time +it was he who nodded. + +"You know best," he whispered back, and the words would have given La +Mothe food for thought had he heard them. "As you say, it will be +safer to have him before our eyes than behind our backs. We may be +quite sure that Hugues will watch him. Yes, I agree: at least he is +prettier to look at than that beast of a Villon." + +From her side, where she held it pressed, her left hand slipped down +across the Dauphin's shoulder until it too drew him towards her, but +when she raised her head the lines were smoothed from the forehead, and +if the grey eyes were still watchful, they watched through a smile. + +"Monseigneur permits it," she said. "Monseigneur, I have the honour to +present to you Monsieur Stephen La Mothe." + +"Monsieur La Mothe of where?" asked the boy gravely. + +"Of Landless, in the Duchy of Lackeverything," replied La Mothe, bowing +with an equal gravity, and at the adroit parrying of a difficult +question the smile crept down from Ursula de Vesc's eyes until it +loosened the hard lines of the mouth, and bent them to that Cupid's bow +La Mothe so much desired to see. "I have many fellow-subjects, +Monseigneur." + +"Another name for that duchy is Amboise," said Charles, "and so, +monsieur, it is my wish that you make the castle your home for as long +as it pleases you." + +He spoke with such a settled seriousness that it was difficult to be +sure whether he understood the jest and played up to it in that spirit +of make-believe which had drawn down the King's anger or answered out +of a dull uncomprehension. Nor did La Mothe care which it was. His +heart leaped within him at the double promise opened up of fulfilling +the King's mission at his ease and watching the unbending of the curved +bow, but he answered with an equal gravity. + +"Then Landless is not Houseless, Monseigneur, and to devotion gratitude +is added." + +"Discretion and good appetite give a man a longer life than either," +said Villon. + +"But remember," and Commines spoke to La Mothe for the first time, "the +King has first claim upon both." + +"On discretion and good appetite?" said Villon gravely. "I fear, +Monsieur d'Argenton, His Majesty in his present health has more need of +the second than the first." + +"Take your ribald impertinences elsewhere, but beware how you attempt +them upon me elsewhere," answered Commines, with a stern contempt. +"Here Monseigneur and mademoiselle's presence protect you." + +"But if I took them elsewhere, even to Paris--and, heavens! how I wish +I could--Amboise would be duller than ever," protested Villon, then +added, with a significance of tone which gave the careless words a +weight, "let us hope that Monseigneur and mademoiselle can protect each +other as well as me." + +Again there was a dangerous silence, and this time it was Ursula de +Vesc who turned aside the threatening storm. + +"Monsieur La Mothe is to cure our dullness. Tell us a story, monsieur, +if you will neither sing nor play. We love a story, do we not, +Charles?" + +"A story?" repeated La Mothe slowly. The chance suggestion, more than +half malicious, had given him an unexpected opening, and he was turning +in his mind how best to use it. "Why, yes, I think I might. Once upon +a time----" + +"Wait a moment," said Charles. "Here, Ursula," and he rose from his +stool as he spoke, "you sit down and I will sit at your feet and lean +against your knee. There! That is better. Now we are both +comfortable. What is the story about, monsieur?" + +"It is an eastern tale, Monseigneur." + +"I like the east better than the west, don't you, Ursula?" and he +looked up in the girl's face with a laugh, then at Commines in a way +which lent the words point and meaning. Valmy, La Mothe remembered, +lay towards the west. "Now, monsieur, we are ready." + +"There was once a king of the Genie who dwelt in a certain part of +Arabia. He was a very great and a very wise king, the greatest and +wisest his kingdom had known for many centuries. During his reign he +had added province to province----" + +"At whose expense?" broke in Villon. "In love and the building of +kingdoms there is always a giving and a taking." + +"Silence!" cried Charles sharply. "If you interrupt again I will have +you removed, even though you are who you are. Now, monsieur, go on, +please." + +"He added province to province," continued La Mothe, "until in all that +part of Arabia there was no such kingdom for greatness or for power, +and no king so feared by the kings of the surrounding countries. But +though his affairs were so prosperous he had one bitter grief which was +never absent from his thoughts: he was estranged from his only son, +whom he loved with all a father's love." + +"Yes," said Charles gravely, "I see this is really an eastern story: a +kind of a fairy tale, is it not, Monsieur La Mothe? A tale one wishes +were true, but knows is all make-believe." + +"All fairy tales have a heart of truth," answered La Mothe, "and this +is a very true one, Monseigneur, as I hope you will believe before I +have ended. In all his cares of state, and with so great a kingdom his +cares were very many, there was no such care, no such sorrow, as this +longing, unsatisfied love of the father's heart. Day and night his one +thought was how he might win for his old age the love which his boy----" + +"Ursula, I am tired," and Charles rose with a yawn. "Monsieur La +Follette, will you please call Hugues, and I will go to bed? If we are +duller to-morrow than we are to-day we will hear the rest of the story, +but I don't think I like it very much. Even fairy tales should sound +probable. Good night, Monsieur d'Argenton, good night, Monsieur La +Follette, good night, Monsieur La Mothe," and with a bow which +contrived to omit Villon from its scope the Dauphin left the room, +followed by Ursula de Vesc. But at the door she paused a moment. + +"A room will be made ready for you in the Chateau, Monsieur La Mothe, +and perhaps to-morrow you will tell me the end of your story?" + +"Dull?" said Villon, stretching himself with vigorous ostentation. "My +faith, yes! If you are wise, friend La Mothe, you will finish the +night with me at the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulders +with genius familiarly." + +But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe's arm. + +"Genius?" he said, sternly contemptuous. "Yes! Genius depraved and +degraded: genius crapulous and drunken. Take advice, Monsieur La +Mothe, and bide indoors: the foulest soiling of God's earth is a foul +old age unashamed of its disgrace." Then lowering his voice to a +whisper, he added, "Come to my room when all is quiet, son Stephen. +Look out for the cross of shadow and take care that the de Vesc girl +does not see you." + +The de Vesc girl! Stephen La Mothe was almost as offended by the +curtly supercilious description of Mademoiselle Ursula as Villon was at +the bitter judgment so uncompromisingly passed upon him. That may have +been because Cupid's bow had shot its bolt, and love's new wounds are +almost as supersensitive as a poet's vanity. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS + +Two or three adroit questions addressed to the servant who showed him +to his sleeping-quarters gave La Mothe a sufficient clue to the +whereabouts of Commines' lodgings. That they were in the same block of +buildings as his own, and on the same level, made it comparatively easy +to find them. But the Chateau must first settle into sleep, and he had +an hour or two to wait before he could safely go in search of them +unobserved. In the angry mood which swayed him the delay was +fortunate. For the first time in his life his temper was exasperated +against the man to whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of his +knapsack and lute, sent from the Chien Noir, lessen the irritation. +Few things feed the flame of a man's anger as do his own faults, and in +every string of the unlucky toy--for it was little more--he saw a sharp +reminder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness left by +Commines. + +What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle de Vesc as this de +Vesc girl, as if she was some lumpish wench of the kitchen instead of a +sweet and gracious woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, and +yet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe strode up and down +the room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles; +that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in her +tenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in her +love. From which it will be seen that the Cupid's bow had sent its +shaft very deep indeed, and Commines by his contemptuous phrase had but +driven it more surely home. + +There be those who say love dethrones reason, but observe with what +admirable logic, what cogency of deduction Stephen La Mothe could argue +upon Commines' incapacity for judgment--thus. He had misjudged Ursula +de Vesc, why not also Villon? If there had been this undeserved +prejudice against an innocent and helpless girl, was not his contempt +for Villon equally unjustified? How, in fact, could such a man as +Philip de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world and of the +world's affairs, understand or appreciate Villon the poet, Villon who +had lifted the whole literature and poetry of France to the highest +level it had yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous, +unthinkable, the one as great a blunder as the other. So Stephen La +Mothe gilded his gold, painting his lily lover-fashion time out of +mind, and whitewashed into a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchings +with which Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself. + +With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found the outer passage +intensely dark. Its only illumination came from the narrow lancet +windows through which the moonlight streamed so whitely that the rest +of the gallery was yet blacker and more hidden by the contrast. +Beyond, at the end, was a deeper pool of darkness which he knew was the +arched entrance to the main body of the Chateau, his own lodgings being +in a projecting wing bounded on the one side by a wide court. A few +steps beyond this archway a narrow corridor cut the passageway, opening +up three lanes of shadow. These were lit to a bare visibility by as +many tiny lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings, mere specks of points +of light too small to flicker, and such as all night long hang before +the high altar of a church, symbols of changeless faith burning +unquenched even in the deepest darkness of the night of the world. + +Turning to the left, his hand upon the wall for guidance, La Mothe +crept softly on until a further passage opened to his right. Down this +he stole, breathing uneasily as men do who walk warily in the dark, +intent to keep their presence secret. From the roof depended the same +inadequate light, but at the farther end was a hazy blur which marked +the head of the stairs, and across the floor luminous shadows drifted +here and there from under doorways where the lamp still burned within +the chamber. One of these chambers La Mothe knew was allotted to +Commines, and as he scanned the flagged floor of the passage, searching +for the sign Commines had given him, a shadow amongst the shadows +stirred his curiosity, and he stole nearer on tiptoe: it was a mattress +laid before a closed door, and stretched upon it lay a man wrapped in a +blanket. + +Holding his breath, La Mothe paused, listening intently. Though he had +resented Commines' brusque reference to Mademoiselle de Vesc, the +wisdom of caution was obvious, and he knew the value of secrecy too +well to venture an unnecessary risk. But the figure neither moved nor +changed its regular deep breathing, and La Mothe slipped past +noiselessly, seeking anew for the promised signal. And midway to the +well of the stairs, where faint murmurings told of sleepless life even +in ill-lit, ill-guarded Amboise, he found it--a nebulous dusky cross, +broader than long, stretching its shadowy arms upon the flags, and at +his first low tap on the panel the door was softly opened and as softly +closed behind him. + +"Are you sure no one saw you?" + +"No one. But, Uncle, this playing at thief in the night is +intolerable. It will be very much better to say quite plainly to +Mademoiselle de Vesc----" + +"Stephen, Stephen!" and as he spoke Commines, who had been stooping +over his signal, a tiny paper cross pinned against the foot of the door +so that it blocked the flow of light from the lamp laid on the floor +behind, lifted himself and laid his hand strongly on La Mothe's +shoulder. "Do you know why you are in Amboise at all? Do you know it +is to convict this very Ursula de Vesc of complicity in a plot to +murder the King and place the Dauphin on the throne, and that the King +believes the Dauphin is privy to the scheme? And do you know what part +you are to play?" + +Commines spoke in the anxious remonstrance of affection rather than in +anger. There was no censure in the tone, no reproof, a pleading +rather: but when the irritation of offence is raw it resents +expostulation and rebuke alike: they are just so much salt to the +wound. So was it now with La Mothe. + +"It is we who conspire," he answered angrily, "we who call ourselves +men and yet creep about a sleeping house to meet by stealth in the +dark. And against whom? Against a weak girl, a weak, defenceless girl +whose one offence is that her love is loyal to a boy as helpless as +herself. A brave conspiracy truly, brave, worthy, and honourable! You +saw her to-night, how she faced us for his sake, unafraid and yet very +sorely afraid because she is so womanly through her courage. A girl +and a half-grown boy! And we call ourselves men." + +"Why do you say 'we'? Me she knows and Villon she knows, but not you." + +"Some day she will, my hope is some day she will: pray God I be not +ashamed to look her in the face when that day comes." + +"Stephen, Stephen, what has changed you? Have you grown mad or is this +that drunkenness?" + +"I don't know, I only know it is something new. And if it is that +drunkenness as you call it, then may I never be sober again my life +long." + +"Listen," and this time Commines' voice was stern to harshness. The +time for pleading, or even remonstrance, had gone by. A more vigorous +schooling was needed if Stephen La Mothe was to be saved from folly. +"If you must go girl-drunken as every sentimental boy does sooner or +later, do not go blind-drunk or sense-drunk, but keep your eyes open +and your mind clear. Mademoiselle de Vesc may be blameless or she may +not: that is what we are here to prove. You call her weak, but the +greatest folly of a foolish man is to despise weakness. Contempt of +weakness has lost more battles than strength of arms has won. Charles +the Bold despised the weakness of the Swiss, and the devotion of the +weak Swiss crushed him. Weak, you say? Love is never weak. Fifty +years ago a weak girl saved France because of her great love for +France, and to-day another just as weak might ruin France through +another great love. Never despise the power of love nor call it weak +even in the weakest. If faith can remove mountains, love is greater +than faith, and of mademoiselle's devotion to the Dauphin I have no +doubt." + +"Who has the better claim upon it?" answered La Mothe sullenly. + +"Granted, but that is not the point. And what if the devotion is +misdirected? It is a quality of love that it only sees the lights in +the jewels and not the flaws. If love saw all the flaws in us it would +hardly be love. What if Mademoiselle de Vesc, seeing the boy +neglected--and I grant the neglect,--seeing him unhappy--and I grant +the unhappiness,--seeing him denied his high position--and I grant the +denial while I assert that the King, who is a wise king, must have wise +reasons I do not understand; what if Mademoiselle de Vesc, I say, +seeing all these things and understanding the reasons for them as +little as I do, seeing no deeper than her devotion and knowing nothing +of the King's wise reasons, were moved by this same devotion to some +desperate effort which would right this wrong at any cost? Supposing +that were so, what would hold her back? Fear? She is no coward, and +there is no such courage on God's earth as the courage of a loving +woman. Weakness? Love is strong as death and stronger, for love +builds up where death can only destroy. The crime? In her eyes the +crime lies in the unhappiness and neglect of Amboise, and to right the +wrong by any means, however desperate, would be no offence before God +or man. What would hold her back? I ask you. Nothing, nothing at +all." + +"Granted," said La Mothe, impressed in spite of himself and falling +back upon the last resort of baffled argument. "It is all very +plausible, but I do not believe it all the same." + +"Because you are drunken," retorted Commines, "and because, too, there +are none so blind as those who will not see. But supposing I am right, +is not the King justified, and are not we, the King's servants, +justified too? And is the Dauphin such a fool as to be blind to this +devotion, he who has known so little love in his life? Stephen, if the +King is right and Mademoiselle de Vesc's love has overcome both fear +and weakness, he is right, too, when he links Charles with her in her +abominable plot." + +"But why has he sent----" La Mothe broke off lamely, remembering in +time that he had no right to say to Commines, Why has he sent such a +message of a father's love as lies in those saddle-bags I see in the +corner? Very naturally Commines misunderstood the interrupted sentence. + +"Why has he sent you to Amboise?" + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED + +But having ended the sentence Commines broke off at the end as La Mothe +had done in the middle, and with much the same embarrassment. His +face, harsh and stern of feature both by nature and schooling, grew +almost tender as he turned aside troubled. To speak plainly to any man +of honour and generous spirit, answering his own question in direct +words, would have been difficult, but how much greater the difficulty +when the man was brother to that dear dead woman who had sunk to her +sleep comforted by his promise of care and protection? "Watch over +him, Philip, for my sake." But into the memory of the tired voice he +had loved there clashed the King's harsh question so curtly asked in +Valmy, and torn by the conflict of the two natures warring within him +Commines paced the room in silence. La Mothe was not the only man in +Amboise who found his skill as a circus-rider tried to the utmost, and +like La Mothe Commines temporized. + +"Who are we to judge the King?" He spoke harshly, even aggressively, +and as if combating some undeveloped argument of La Mothe's. A burst +of temper may not convince a man's own conscience, or quiet its +uneasiness, but it silences its voice for a time as declamation can +always silence pleading. "Who are we to question his justice or deny +its right to strike? And it is as his arm of justice that you are here +in Amboise." + +"I?" And into La Mothe's mind, as he stood silent after the startled +ejaculation, there flooded significant, misunderstood hints dropped by +the King in Valmy, and by Commines himself on the road to +Chateau-Renaud, hints which had seemed to him meaningless in the memory +of the little coat of mail which was the secret gift of a father's +love. "I, the King's arm of justice? In God's name how can that be?" + +"The days of Brutus have gone by," answered Commines, never ceasing +from his restless pacing of the room. The motion eased the tension of +his nervous distress and made speech less formal, less difficult. +"Treason is treason wherever found. You know its punishment, but the +days of Brutus are gone. The justice of the King, the justice of the +father, can no longer--no longer----" But even his restless pacing +could not give him power to clothe the grim thought in blunt words, and +Commines was silent. + +La Mothe's scornful indignation had no such reticence, nor had he yet +learned how to cloak the ugliness of a naked truth in the pleasant +euphemisms of diplomacy. With frank brutality he completed Commines' +broken sentence. + +"The father can no longer murder the son and call it justice. But, +monsieur," and it was significant that the adoptive relationship was +unceremoniously swept aside, "what has the father's murder of the son +to do with me?" + +"Treason is treason," repeated Commines, finding some comfort and +strength in the bald platitude: it was incontrovertible and at least +gave him firm ground under his feet. "Nor can treason go unpunished, +or how would the throne be safe for a day? But what the father cannot +do, though a king, another can and must; and must," he reiterated, +steeling himself with a rising emphasis for what was to follow. "And +you have been chosen as the King's arm in Amboise." + +This time there was no outburst of scorn or indignation. It was not +that the crisis was too deep for noisy declamation, though human nature +differs from organic in that it commonly meets its most grave crises in +quietness. The truth was, simply, that La Mothe did not grasp the full +meaning of the words. + +"The King's arm in Amboise?" he said uncomprehendingly. "The King's +arm? What does that mean?" Then, by the very repetition of the +phrase, enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his fingers +closing in upon his palms. "Not that! For God's sake, Monsieur de +Commines, say it is not that! Not that the father---- Oh! it cannot +be, it cannot. Is it--is it murder?" + +"Justice," replied Commines doggedly through his shut teeth. "Let us +call things by their proper names. I say justice, justice of----" + +"Hell!" broke in La Mothe fiercely. "Justice is sacred, to God +Almighty, and this--this---- Where is God's hand? Where is--? Oh, +no, no, it is damnable, damnable!" + +"Justice," repeated Commines, quoting Louis. "Not even the son of a +king is above or beyond justice." + +"Vicarious murder!" retorted La Mothe. "No smooth sophism can make it +less. He would have another commit an iniquity he dare not commit +himself. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? Never! God helping +me. I am to obey you, Monsieur de Commines; these were the King's +orders; but not in this, never in this, never, so help me God!" + +"Listen, Stephen." Commines had fuller command of himself now and +spoke more quickly, but also with more assumption of authority. "Put +yourself in the King's place and consider the truth dispassionately." + +"Consider dispassionately how a father can best kill his own son; yes, +Uncle?" + +But Commines took no umbrage at the crude sarcasm, a sarcasm aimed at +himself and the King alike. He understood it as a sign that La Mothe's +mind was recovering from the shock which had swung its balance awry. +Five minutes earlier he would have declared that murder could never be +dispassionate. That he would listen at all was something gained. + +"The King is both more and less than father," Commines went on: "that +is to say, his responsibilities are greater than those of a simple +citizen, and his private rights in his son are less. He and the +Dauphin do not belong to themselves. France comes first. Do you admit +that France comes first?" + +"God knows!" replied La Mothe moodily. The dying out of his first hot +passionate protest had left him fretful and desperate. He remembered, +too, something the King had said about France being the mother of them +all, and at the time he had agreed; nor could he quite see where +Commines' argument might lead. "There was a time when I thought right +was eternally right, but now it seems a father may wipe out his +fatherhood in blood and be justified." + +"France comes first," went on Commines, emphasizing the point which he +saw had weight. "The millions of lives in France come first. Could a +son who plots against his father's life reign in France?" + +"He is a child." + +"In a year he will be old enough to reign: answer me, could such a son +reign?" + +"Are there not prisons?" + +"You do not answer my question. I ask again, could such a son reign?" + +"I am answering it in my own way, and, I repeat, there are prisons." + +"And would there not be conspiracies? Would France not be torn asunder +in civil war? Would the blood of France not flow like water? Be +sensible, Stephen: am I not right?" + +"I will never be the King's arm in Amboise, never, never. I would +sooner ride back to Valmy and face the justice of the King. The +justice of the King!" scoffed La Mothe, to ease his troubled soul. +"And in any case I shall return to Valmy; my word is passed." + +Again Commines let the sarcasm levelled at the King's justice pass +unchallenged: it is never wise to block a safety-valve when a high +pressure, whether of steam or of passion, is blowing itself off. + +"These things being granted," he went on, "what course is the King to +follow? Is he to pardon the crime against the nation? for that is what +it is; is he to pass it over in silence and leave the criminal free to +weave a second and perhaps successful conspiracy? The King dare not: +for the nation's sake he dare not. What then? Is he to arrest and try +the prince by solemn course of law? I doubt if the Dauphin of France +is not above the common law of France, but apart from that again the +King dare not. France would be rent from end to end, and her enemies, +England, Spain, Burgundy, would swoop upon her and lay her waste, as in +the days before the coming of The Maid. I say again, the King dare +not. What course is left? Nothing but the arm of justice, that +justice which is Almighty God's, striking in secret, and so France is +saved." + +He ended, but La Mothe returned no answer. Not that he was convinced, +no, not by a hairbreadth. But the sophism, and he knew it to be a +sophism, was too subtle for him, and his safest refuge was silence. +And yet his inability to tear the sophism to tatters was not the sole +cause of the silence. Commines' last question, What is left? though a +mere flourish of rhetoric, had stirred another possible reply. +Reconcilement was left, the union of father and son in love was left. +Inexorable logic as voiced by Commines, if it was logic at all and not +a sophism, might coerce the King to a terrible justice, but would the +father's love not welcome the reconcilement of a son's penitence as a +way of escape from the ultimate horror of the logic? And surely that +love must be a very tender, very yearning, very forgiving love when +even in the midst of just anger it could bend to such gentle thoughts +as lay hidden in those gifts through the hand of a stranger. Surely, +surely, surely. And so La Mothe kept silence. + +"There may be no plot: there is no plot," he said at last, though in +the face of Commines' assertion he had little hope he was right; then +he added, "and what of Mademoiselle de Vesc?" + +"The greater includes the less," replied Commines shortly. + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"If the King may not spare his son can he spare the girl?" + +"There is no plot," repeated La Mothe, more emphatically than before, +"and I shall remain in Amboise." Crossing the room he knelt beside his +saddle-bags, opening and taking from them the package wrapped in a +linen napkin which contained the King's gifts to the Dauphin. "I +suppose I must live upon my knapsack for the present, but this I shall +take with me. Is there anything more to be said?" + +"Not for the present." + +"Then good night." + +The passage was plunged in the same quiet and as deep a gloom as when +he had traversed it an hour before, and La Mothe plumed himself on +regaining his room unseen. But had he paused and turned at the first +angle he would have seen the shadow which lay stretched in the deeper +shadows of the doorway stir itself, and Hugues' white face, a blur upon +the darkness, watching him. Beyond that door slept the Dauphin, and +Villon was right when he said that the guards of Amboise were not pikes +or cross-bows, but eyes that saw and hearts that loved. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY" + +With his overnight's irritation still unallayed, and more than ever +convinced that the prejudice which could so misread Mademoiselle de +Vesc must also wrong Francois Villon, La Mothe was early at the Chien +Noir. Of the Amboise household he had seen nothing, which means that +he had looked in vain for Ursula of the Cupid's bow, and his temper was +not thereby improved. But he had the day before him, and he promised +himself some recompense for his disappointment before it was many hours +old. Meanwhile, he would show Villon that all who came from Valmy were +not sharers in Commines' harsh judgment. He found the poet +contemplative over the remains of his breakfast, but in a mood as +captious as his own. + +"Have you found already that the inn has a warmer welcome than the +Chateau? I tell you this, my young friend, it will cost you less to +live here than there, though in either case it is the King who pays." + +"To every man his wages," answered La Mothe, but Villon shook his head. +His knowledge of the paying of wages, or at least of the earning of +them, gave the chance phrase a sinister meaning. + +"As to that, we all look for more than our dues in this world and less +in that to come. God's mercy keep us from justice! If our wages were +paid in full where would we be? What is little Charles doing?" + +"Sleeping, I suppose." + +"And Mademoiselle de Vesc?" + +"How should I know!" answered La Mothe crossly. It vexed him that +Villon should speak at all of Ursula de Vesc, and still more that his +answer was so lame. But recognizing the symptoms out of a wide +experience, Villon only laughed softly at the brusque retort. + +"Some peaches hang themselves high," he said, the laugh broadening as +La Mothe's face grew wrathful, "but they are peaches all the same. +Shake the tree, my young friend, shake the tree, and see that you keep +your mouth open when the fruit drops." + +"Monsieur Villon, if we are to be friends----" + +"So young, so very young," said Villon softly. "Friends? most +certainly. If we are not friends, who should be? Are we not both +jackals hunting in the one pack, and jackal does not bite jackal." +Then his mood changed with a swiftness which La Mothe soon found to be +characteristic, a kindliness cast out the jarring banter from his face, +and his luminous eyes grew wistful. "Friends? It is a good word, the +very best word in the world. Friends are more than family or kinship, +and not many care to call old Francois Villon friend nowadays. There +was a time----" He paused, running his hand down the long trail of his +beard reflectively, a slender-fingered supple hand. La Mothe noted it +was, a hand that had a distinct character of its own, just as the +contradictory face had, though the finger-tips were less sensitive than +in the days when their itching acquisitiveness had brought their owner +to the cold shadows of the gallows. "Aye! there was a time. There +were four of us----" + +"The ballad says six," said La Mothe. + +"Four, four: a man--yet, more, a woman--may have many lovers but few +friends, many to tuck an arm in his or throw it across his neck when +the pockets are full. But that's not friendship, and I don't call +every man friend who dips his fingers into the same till with me. Yes, +there were four of us, Montigny, Tabary, Cayeux, poor snows of yester +year sucked down by the cold earth. But while the blood was warm in +our veins we four were as one with one purse. When it was full we +laughed and sang and feasted as no king feasts, because no king has +such spice of appetite nor can snap his fingers at the world and care +as we could: when it was empty, and it was mostly empty, we laughed and +sang the louder and shared our crusts or went gaily hungry. Brave lads +every one, and brave days. Aye, aye." + +"And where are they now?" + +"With the snows of yester year! God knows where! and I fear me the +devil knows too. Montigny was hung in '57, Tabary in '58, and Cayeux, +Cayeux of the light heart and lighter fingers, went by the same path +two years later: I only am left. They said I killed a man and would +have hung me--me! Francois Villon! Certainly a man died or there +would be no Villon now: it was either he or I, and they would have hung +me." The full lips parted in a comfortable laugh and the eyes +twinkled. "I appealed to Parliament in a ballad, and the humour of the +notion moved the good gentlemen to mercy. 'How can we choke the breath +from so sweet a singer?' said they. 'There are ten thousand hangable +rogues in Paris, but only one poet amongst them!' God be praised for +humour. I think it gave Francois Villon his life; but since then +friendship has walked the other side of the street." + +"And yet," La Mothe laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder, letting +it lie there in kindliness, "you who so gibe at your best self are the +Francois Villon of the ballad to Mary the Mother. How is that?" + +"Can I tell you? + + 'Je cognois tout fors que moy mesme.' + +Man is Eden in little: there is the slime of the serpent under the tree +of knowledge, but the Lord God walks through the garden in the cool of +the day. What are we but contradictions, shadows of Montfaucon shot +through by glories from Notre Dame. Perhaps some day a clearer +knowledge than ours will straighten out the tangles," and with a laugh, +which had little joyousness in it, Villon plunged afresh into memories +which seemed to strike the whole gamut of a soul's experience from A to +G. + +La Mothe allowed him to run on without interruption. The alternations +of mood, tender and callous by turns, but never remorseful, never +regretful, except with the regrets for a lost delight, both amused and +repelled him, but at last as Villon sat silent he turned to the window +and flung open the wooden sun-blinds. + +"At last they are awake in the Chateau," he said. "Horses? hawks? Are +they going hunting, do you suppose?" + +"Saxe will know. Hulloa! Saxe! Saxe! What is little Charles doing +to-day?" + +"I was coming for you both," answered Saxe from the open door. "They +are riding to Chateau-Renaud, and your worships are so beloved by both +the Dauphin and mademoiselle that you must needs go with them. +Monsieur de Commines and Monsieur La Follette have gone hawking for the +day." + +"Do not go," said Villon. "They know you at Chateau-Renaud, and how +could you explain if they recognized you?" + +"But we may not go near the inn," answered La Mothe, to whom the ride +meant neither more nor less than a morning with Ursula de Vesc, +therefore a delight not to be denied. "But what of horses?" + +"They are being saddled this very moment," replied Jean Saxe, and then +went on to paint out La Mothe's roseate dreams with the dull brush of +realities. "Always," and he lowered his voice as he spoke, "whether by +day or by night, you will find a horse waiting ready for your ride to +Valmy. It is in the stall facing the door, monsieur. By day the +stable is open and not a soul will ask questions; saddle and bridle for +yourself, then ride like the devil. By night send a stone through the +last window on the left and I will be with you in three seconds. Don't +spare your spurs, that's my advice." + +"God send the man who rides to Valmy nothing redder than a red spur." +Villon had joined La Mothe at the window, and was peering out at the +stir of men and horses in the open space between the inn and the castle +gates. + +"Saxe, what man of yours is that who is bitting Grey Roland? I don't +know his face." + +"A stop-gap," answered Saxe indifferently. "A gipsy fellow I think he +is by his colour. Old Michel is drunk in the barn--how I don't know, +but the Chien Noir is none the better for it--this other is in his +place for the day. I don't know his name, but he can tell a horse from +a mule by more than the ears, and that's name enough for me." + +"Who owns that huge, raw-boned roan?" asked La Mothe. "Surely I have +seen it somewhere." + +"It's as much a stranger to me as Michel's stop-gap," answered Saxe. +"It's not one of the regular Chateau horses, that's certain. The beast +has power in his legs, rough though he is. Why do you ask, monsieur?" + +But La Mothe had already lost his interest. "There is the Dauphin," he +said. "Come, let us go." + +But his gaze was fixed on the slender figure which followed the boy, +and the eyes of a much greyer age than a lover of twenty-four with the +heart of eighteen might well have lit into a sparkle at the charm of +the picture. He was not learned in women's stuffs, or the hundred +little arts through which an accent, as it were, is put upon a charm +already sufficiently gracious, or a beauty brought into yet clearer +relief for the luring and undoing of the unsuspecting male, and so +could not have told whether Ursula de Vesc was clad in sober grey or +sunny lightness. She was Ursula de Vesc, and that was enough, Ursula +de Vesc, the woman of a single hour of life, and yet the one sweet +woman in the world. + +"A lover's arms ought to be her riding-chair," said Villon, following +La Mothe's gaze. "No, there is no offence meant," he added, as +Stephen's face reddened with the beginnings of umbrage. "She may be a +spitfire and not love Francois Villon, but she is a good girl, and my +four eyes are not blind." + +"Your four eyes?" questioned La Mothe; "most of us have but two." + +"Two in my head and two in my sense, and it is by the two in his sense +a man should marry. The two in the head are the greatest liars and +deceivers in creation." + +The Dauphin had already mounted when La Mothe and Villon crossed the +roadway with their horses following, led by drunken Michel's +substitute, and his greeting to both was of the curtest. The apologue +of the night before was neither forgotten nor forgiven. But with +Ursula de Vesc's grey eyes smiling at him La Mothe cared little for the +boy's dour looks. Hugues, who had mounted his master, still waited by +the horse's head, a spirited, high-bred bay, sleek and well groomed, +which stood shifting its feet with impatience at the delay. The bridle +of the less fiery but no less well-cared-for jennet intended for the +girl was held by a stable-helper, while in a group behind the escort +made ready to mount. Neither Commines nor La Follette was present; +they had gone hawking, as Saxe had said, nor was Hugues booted for +riding. + +"Good morning, Monsieur La Mothe." Ursula de Vesc spoke gaily, +frankly, as if she had not a care in the world, and the greeting in the +soft clear voice stirred La Mothe's heart as the smile in the grey eyes +had stirred it. "We missed you at breakfast: what early risers you +poets are." + +"Mademoiselle," stammered La Mothe, "my day has but now begun." + +"Then you must walk in your sleep," she interrupted laughingly. +"Monseigneur, do you hear? Monsieur La Mothe walks in his sleep. So +do not be frightened if you hear him in the corridor o' nights. He has +been up these three hours and says the day has only now begun." + +"I hear," replied Charles, turning on La Mothe those dull, watchful +eyes which, according to Villon, saw so much more than men supposed. +"And Hugues hears too. While Hugues sleeps at my door I shan't be +frightened. Come, Ursula, mount and let us go. Bertrand is so restive +I can scarcely hold him." + +At that moment La Mothe felt the bridle of Grey Roland pushed into his +hand with a "Hold that a moment, monsieur," and Jean Saxe's stop-gap +crossed to the Dauphin's side. + +"Your pardon, Monseigneur," he said, stooping, "there is a buckle +loose, if your Highness would lift your leg a moment while I fasten it." + +"A buckle? Where?" + +"Below the saddle-flap, Monseigneur: a shift of the leg--thank you, +Monseigneur, that is right," and he drew back toward the Chien Noir, +nor paused until he was lost in the crowd of idlers. For a gipsy he +was singularly unobtrusive. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +FOR LIFE AND A THRONE + +Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin mechanically closed +his knees, as a rider does to renew his grip after it has been relaxed. +But with the tightening of the grip the bay started as if goaded by a +vicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, shaking his head +till the chains rattled, then plunging to right and left he sprang +forward at a gallop. + +"Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins," cried mademoiselle, but the swerve +had sent Hugues staggering, and before he had steadied himself or +regained his wits Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, his +reins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer's. + +"The Dauphin! the Dauphin! Oh! for God's sake--Hugues--Monsieur La +Mothe--is there no one to help? They will be in the Loire--drowned +while you stand there staring. Oh! that I could ride like a man: why +don't you move, some of you, stocks that you are?" + +The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the broken sentences +followed one another, but before the frightened girl could lash them +with the whip of her distress a second time La Mothe had his fingers +knit in Grey Roland's mane and was climbing into the saddle, and the +last he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped blindly for a missing +stirrup, was the girl's deep breath, half sob, half cry. + +Bertrand had a long start, but on Grey Roland's back was a rider who in +his horsemanship had learned not only how to save his beast, so that no +ounce of strength might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knew +how to compel into immediate energy all that reserve force which +endures the trials of a long day's march. + +Bareheaded--his hat was in his hand as he jested with Ursula de Vesc, +and in the stress of the surprise he had flung it aside--La Mothe +crouched low in the saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand so +that he and Grey Roland alike were just conscious of the bit in the +sensitive mouth. For the moment, with that tense grip of the knees, +they were as one flesh; the need was they should be of one spirit. +With a quiet word La Mothe soothed the excitement which might have +plunged them both to sudden destruction on the rounded cobbles of the +paved streets, but once the gates were passed, and the dust of the high +road underfoot, he loosed the light tension and pressed his heels home +into the flanks. There, ahead, a shifting vision in the rising swirl +of dust, was the bay, thundering at top speed. Behind there were +shouts, cries, the clatter of iron shoes upon the stones, but La Mothe +heard only the muffled rhythm of galloping hoof-beats sounding through +the roar of the blood swelling his temples and booming in his ears like +the surf of a far-off sea. Away to the side, with a stretch of +sunburnt grass between, lay the river. Let Bertrand keep to the +winding road and all was well. Gallop how he might Grey Roland would +wear him down, but let him swerve, let the fluttering of a bird startle +him aside, and Ursula de Vesc's prophetic terrors would be justified. + +As the memory of her dread flashed into his mind afresh, there swept +across Stephen La Mothe one of those sudden storms of temptation which +at some time or another beat into every life, even the most sheltered, +and surely prove that the curse of primal sin still dwells inherent in +our best humanity. "He will drown! Well, let him drown!" and in the +instant of the thought, by some instinct of the brain, the loose rein +was drawn in with a jerk, which forced the grey to change his stride. +Let him drown and there was an end to the tangle which made a hell in +the possible heaven of Amboise, an end to the unnatural strife of +father and son, an end to the threatened rending asunder of France, who +was the mistress and mother of them all, whether King, Dauphin, or pawn +in the terrible game of life and death, an end to the danger which hung +over the head of Ursula de Vesc. Let him drown: death would pay all +debts, and the crooked would be made straight. + +Gritting his teeth La Mothe drew a deep breath. With the fuller +realization of the thought the sudden convulsion of his heart choked +him, and while his blood buzzed the louder for the possibility, fate, +chance, or what you will threw the cards in the game his way. Beyond a +bend of the road a waggoner's leisurely wain plodded its way to +Amboise, and next instant the clearer thunder of Bertrand's hoofs came +ringing back from the harder sod which lay between the river and the +road. The bay had headed for the bank where, by the same bend, the +river curved to a line ahead. Death would pay all debts, and the +crooked would be made straight: he would pay Commines all he owed him +and there would be clean hands for them both. Clean hands? "By God! +No!" he cried, and shook the tightened rein loose. Clean hands? Saul, +who consented to Stephen's death, was as red-handed as the man who +hurled the first stone: what better was it to let the boy ride to his +fate unaided? That way there was no cleansing of hands. To permit a +preventable death was murder--murder. + +Stooping lower La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, urging him with +voice and hand, "Faster, boy, faster, faster." That he had no spurs +was a point against him, but drawing his dagger he laid the point +against the wet flank. There was no need to draw blood, no need for +goading. The generous heart of the beast understood the touch, and the +splendid muscles coined their utmost strength, squandering it in a +spendthrift, willing energy. They were gaining now, stride by stride +they were gaining: Bertrand, the half Arab, had the greater endurance, +but English Grey Roland the greater power and the stouter heart. Yes, +they were gaining, and there was hope if only the Dauphin kept the +saddle, and so far he had held his place like a crouched statue, +stooping by instinct as La Mothe had stooped, and clinging to the long +mane with both hands. He was no coward, boy though he was, and not +once had looked back, nor did he now though the following hoofs must +have been loud in his ears as stride by stride the grey gained on the +bay, and the ten lengths of space between them closed to five, to +three, to one, and the glint of the river rose almost at their feet. +Then La Mothe spoke. + +"Monseigneur, keep your nerve, it will be all right. When I say 'Now!' +loose your hold and try to kick your feet free from the stirrups; leave +the rest to me." + +The gap narrowed foot by foot: up to the girth of the bay crept the +straining muzzle of the grey, the eyeballs staring, the teeth bared, +the nostrils wide, the foam flying with every jar of the hoof, up and +up with a scant two yards of river-bank to spare upon the outer side, +up and up till, leaning forward and aside with outstretched arm, La +Mothe could feel the pressing of the Dauphin's back, and the hand +closed in upon the ribs. "Now," he cried, his voice cracked and +hoarse. "Now, Christ help us, now, now," and gripping the boy he +reined back as tightly as he dared, reined back to feel the slender boy +slip from the bay's back, hang helpless in the air an instant, then +fall sprawling across the saddle. On dashed the bay, and as Grey +Roland staggered in his halt the bank caved under the Arab's feet; he +too staggered, rearing back too late, then plunged head foremost +forward. + +As, dropping the reins, La Mothe caught the Dauphin in both his arms to +raise him more fully upon the saddle, he was conscious for the first +time that they were followed. From behind there was a shout and the +noise of hoofs, and looking across his shoulder he saw Hugues mounted +on the roan riding recklessly. Beyond him the rest of the escort +tailed off almost to the city gate, with Ursula de Vesc framed by the +grey arch, her hand upon her breast, as it had been when La Mothe first +saw her, Love the Enemy, whom he so longed to make Love the more than +friend. "Win the girl and you win the boy," said Villon. But what if +he had won the boy, and winning him had won Ursula de Vesc, won her to +friendliness, won her to kindliness, won her to trust, won her to--and +Hugues thundered up breathlessly. + +"Monseigneur?" + +"Safe, unhurt, but I think he has fainted. Here," and lifting the lad +with little effort La Mothe leaned across to Hugues and won his heart +for ever by the act, "take him, you: he will be less fretted when he +comes to himself. The sooner he is in mademoiselle's care the better, +and I must spare Grey Roland." + +"Monsieur, monsieur," stammered the valet, gathering the boy into his +arms as carefully as any tender woman, "how can we thank you--how can +we prove----" + +"Thank Grey Roland," answered La Mothe, speaking more lightly than he +felt. "I did nothing but keep my stirrups." + +"Nothing?" Hugues' eyes turned to the gapped bank and followed the +course of the river, void of any trace of the bay. "Then to save a +king for France is nothing. But you are right, monsieur; the sooner +the Dauphin is in Amboise the better." + +"Was it for this you came to Amboise?" said Villon, as La Mothe, having +given Grey Roland his own time to return, halted at the inn door. The +crowd had been shaken off and the two were alone. "I doubt it myself, +and you should have heard Saxe curse: I give you my word it was +Parisian. But, as I said last night, what you do in Amboise is between +you and the King, and you won't be the first man in the world who could +not see beyond a pair of grey eyes." + +"Come, Villon, no Paris jests." + +"This was pure nature and no jest. I stood near her there in the +shadow of the gate as Roland drew in to the bay on the edge of the +bank, and she forgot Francois Villon, the guard, and everybody, as a +woman does when her soul speaks to her heart. Not a word had she said +till then, not one, but stood breathing deep breaths; there were red +spots on the cheek-bones, with those little white teeth of hers hard on +her lip. But when you leant aside and gripped the boy she cried--but +what matters what she cried?" + +"Is not friend more than family?" said La Mothe. "Tell me, my friend." + +"So you would win old Villon as well as the girl? Well, here it is +then--'Thank God I was wrong, oh, thank God I was wrong: God be thanked +for a good man,' and the tears were tumbling down her cheeks. My +friend," and Villon's voice deepened soberly, "I who am old have been +young, and I tell you this, if a man has any true salt in him at all, +heaven may well open for him when a woman like Ursula de Vesc calls him +good with tears on her cheeks." And La Mothe had the wisdom and humble +grace to answer nothing at all. It was Villon himself who broke the +silence with a whistle. + +"I am forgetting, fool that I am, though I think you too would have +forgotten with a pair of grey eyes weeping at your elbow. What do you +call this?" + +From the cloth pouch which hung from his girdle he drew a small twig +and handed it to La Mothe. It was spray of wild sloe cut from a +thicket and trimmed to the shape of a cross, with one stiff thorn, +broad based and sharp at the point as a needle, projecting at right +angles from the intersection. The marks of the knife were still fresh +upon it, the bark so soft and sappy that it must have been cut from the +living plant within the hour. La Mothe shook his head as he turned it +over on his palm. + +"This? What do you call it?" + +"Many things; the shadow of death for one; revenge, I think, for +another; hate, and a warning certainly, unless I am a fool as well as +all the hard things Monsieur d'Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am a +fool, perhaps I had better have left that lying where I found it. +Almost death, that's just what it is." + +"Villon, what do you mean?" + +"I mean you would find just such another bit of villainous innocence +under Bertrand's saddle-flap. The poor brute was driven mad by it. I +picked this up where Michel's stop-gap dropped it." + +"That hedge-side beggar?" + +"A hedge-side beggar who carries a signet slung round his neck. His +jacket opened as he stooped and the ring swung out. The hedge-side +beggar boasts a crest, Monsieur La Mothe: a martlet with three mullets +in chief. Now do you understand?" + +"No." + +"It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two brothers, the last +of their family, and Guy de Molembrais trusted our revered King--yes, I +see you know the name." + +Know the name? La Mothe knew it as he knew the justice of the King. +Had he not given his satire a loose rein over the safe-conduct which +drew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessness +which brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith? If +Villon was right then this little inch or two of new-cut twig might +indeed be all he said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and a +warning against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. But +was he right? + +"Are you quite sure?" + +"Quite," and Villon nodded. His face was very grave: not for an +instant had he slipped into his sardonic mood of ironical jest. "And, +mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how and +when he can." + +"Does Saxe know?" + +"Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at the +way you pounded his horse." + +La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the grey +where he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to the +stables. But if his intention was to charge Molembrais with his +cowardly attempt on the boy's life it was baulked. At the door Michel +met him, his rheumy eyes still blinking from his drunken sleep. + +"Where is that fellow who took your place?" + +"That's what I want to know, master. Took my place, did he? I'd place +him, I would, making an old man drunk to rob him of his bread." + +"Who was he?" + +"No good, that's all I know. Gipsy scum! rob an old man, would he? +I'll gipsy him if I find hair or hoof of him. Lord, master, how liquor +do make a man thirsty. You must ha' found it so yourself?" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY + +Never was the cynical philosophy of the proverb, Virtue is its own +reward, made more clear than in the indifference with which Amboise +greeted the rescue of the Dauphin. Of course, there are those who +contend that virtue is in itself a sufficient reward, but there is +certainly a second possible reading, and this reading La Mothe found +true. No one said what a fine fellow he was, no one stared in +admiration of his promptitude or in awe of his courage. Amboise was +cold, chillingly cold. + +Hugues, perhaps, was an exception, and if Villon was right Ursula de +Vesc had also been deeply moved. But that, La Mothe told himself as he +wandered disconsolately through the dull and gloomy corridors of the +Chateau, might have been nothing more than the transitory emotion of an +excited girl moved to an expression repented of when the mood cooled. + +So, as lovers have done ever since this hoar world was young, he gave +himself up to melancholy and found, as more than lovers have found, a +satisfaction in a grievance. Then, while he fumed, three half-grown +spaniel puppies, followed more sedately by a full-grown brother, came +scampering around a corner, and the lover remembered he was a sportsman +who loved dogs as well as little Charles himself. It was almost the +sole hereditary trait in the lad, and the passion for animals was as +strong in the Dauphin as it was in the King. + +Round the corner, full cry, they raced, slipped upon the smooth flags, +tumbled, rolled over, and with a common impulse fell upon one another +as puppies will in the sheer joy of living. But the elder dog, if he +still had the heart of eighteen or younger, did not forget he was +twenty-four with responsibilities and a dignity to maintain. Passing +gravely by the riot of paws and flapping ears he halted a yard away +from La Mothe, pushed out a sensitive, twitching nose, sniffed the hand +held out in greeting and as gravely licked it. Love at first sight is +not confined to humanity, and thanks to the unfailing miracle of +instinct the dog makes fewer mistakes than man. Inside of two minutes +he had adopted La Mothe into the very select circle of his friends. + +"I have heard of you," said La Mothe, pulling the soft ears gently. +"You sleep in the Dauphin's room o' nights as Hugues does at the door, +and now and then you lay your head on her knee, while she strokes and +pets you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not born a dog, tell me +that?" + +At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their play, sat up panting +a moment, and then in a tumultuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe. +Charlemagne vouched for him, Charlemagne who was their oracle as +grown-up brothers so often are, and they could let loose the exuberance +of their puppydom without a fear that a sudden cuff would teach their +youth that wild delights find an end in sorrow. Over each other they +sprawled in their heedless eagerness to get near to this new +playfellow, one, a little weaker than the rest, lagging a half-tail's +length behind, and La Mothe was so busy trying to find a hand for each +to mumble that he never knew how long Ursula de Vesc stood watching him. + +Nor was she in any haste to break the silence. A puzzling factor had +come into her life, and she was impatient of the enigma. The solution +was not a question of curiosity but of safety, and a safety not her +own. On one side was Commines, Louis' devoted adherent, devoted not +alone in service, but in blindness, the blindness which questions +neither means nor purpose; on the other side was Villon, Louis' jackal +and open ears in Amboise. Between these two so profoundly distrusted +stood Stephen La Mothe. Between them, but was he of them? That was +the problem. + +That morning, from Hugues' report of the visit in the darkened quiet of +the Chateau, and remembering how familiarly Villon had introduced La +Mothe overnight, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy of the +rendezvous with Commines argued some sinister threat. But now she +doubted, and as she watched La Mothe's careless play with the dogs the +doubt grew. Hugues had kept his eyes open: the gapped bank and the +narrow strip of grass between the bay and the river into which the grey +horse had been thrust, without a hesitating thought of the inevitable +result which must follow a slip or a swerve, spoke not alone of +personal courage, but said plainly that La Mothe was ready to risk his +life for the Dauphin. Neither Commines nor Villon would have done +that, they would have let him perish and raised no hand to save him. + +Where, then, was the sinister threat? And had not the devotion which +she had so contemptuously scoffed at the night before already proved +itself to be no empty word? Yes, she had scoffed, and he had answered +her scoff at the risk of his life. How, then, could he be one with +Commines and Villon? The thought that she had so misjudged him flushed +her as with a sudden heat, the grey eyes grew tenderly troubled in her +self-reproach, and unconsciously she drew a deeper breath. Slight as +the sound was the dogs heard it; round they spun from their play, their +mouths open, their tongues hanging, and next moment were leaping upon +her skirts with little yelps of greeting. + +"Mademoiselle!" and La Mothe sprang to his feet. "I did not hear you +coming: how could I have been so deaf?" It was on his tongue to add, +"I, who have been listening for the sound of your feet these hours +past," but he wisely checked himself in time. + +"Are you going to win all Amboise in a single day?" she answered, +stooping so that the jubilant puppies almost scrambled into her lap. +"You do not ask after the Dauphin?" + +"I fear I had forgotten him," he replied, and though there was no +intentional significance in his voice Ursula de Vesc was woman enough +to understand the subtle compliment. "How is he?" + +"If you forget, we do not. He is as well as a nervous boy can be after +such an ordeal. He is looking forward to seeing you this afternoon to +try to say to you what we all feel. Monsieur La Mothe, let me----" + +"Nervous he may be, but he is no coward," interrupted La Mothe hastily. +He foresaw what was coming and had all a shy man's horror of being +thanked. "He sat his horse like a little hero. There is no such +courage as to wait quietly for death." + +"And what of the courage which goes to meet death?" Pushing the dogs +from her Ursula de Vesc looked up, her face very grave and tender in +the shadows, as the spring of tears glistened under the lashes. Life +had brought her so little to be grateful for that the happiness of +gratitude was very great. + +"No, you must let me speak this once, I said hard things to you last +night, and my thoughts were still harder: to-day you have answered me, +and I am ashamed. Devotion? Gratitude? It is we who owe you these, +and we have nothing wherewith to pay. Monsieur La Mothe----" + +But again La Mothe interrupted her. + +"Think kindly sometimes and I am more than paid. Forgive the +presumption, for why should you think of me at all? Forget the hard +thoughts, mademoiselle, and let that pay in full." + +"There can be no more hard thoughts. How could we think hard thoughts +of our friends?" + +"Friends? If that might be." + +With the quick instinct which belongs to well-bred puppydom, and is not +unknown even in children, the dogs had caught the graver note which +changed her voice. By common consent they ceased their restless play +and, seated on their haunches, their sleek heads aslant, watched her +with wistful eyes; here was something their love could not quite +understand. + +"Friends? Amboise has more need of friends than Landless of the Duchy +of Lackeverything." The girl had risen slowly to her feet as she +repeated La Mothe's words, and now as she paused the shadow again broke +in lines of troubled care along her forehead. "Monsieur La Mothe, what +was the end of the story you began last night?" + +"It has no end as yet. The end is here in Amboise, and my hope is we +may find it together. I am sure we will if you will but help me. But +the story is true." + +"How can you say that?" she burst out passionately. "Where do you find +one little, little sign of love in Amboise? I can see none, none at +all. Nothing but neglect, suspicion, even hate. Oh! it is terrible +that a father should so hate his son. And yet you say there is love." + +"I say what I know. Trust me, and give me time to prove it." + +"We do trust you, indeed we do. Love in Amboise? Is it for that you +are here?" + +"Yes," answered La Mothe soberly. "It is for that I am here?" + +"And Monsieur d'Argenton? Is that why he is here too?" + +For a moment La Mothe returned no reply, but stood passing his fingers +through Charlemagne's soft hair. The lie direct or the lie inferential +would parry the question and possibly serve both Commines and the King; +but how could he keep his hands clean in Amboise and lie even by +inference to Ursula de Vesc who had said so simply, "We trust you"? It +was impossible, not to be thought of for a moment, but neither was the +whole truth. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton and I are not upon the same errand," he said at +last. "Some day, when you know me better, and trust me for something +better than a little brute courage which any man in my place would have +shown, I will ask you a question. When you have answered it--and I +know what the answer will be--I will tell you why Monsieur d'Argenton +is in Amboise." + +"Monsieur La Mothe, ask your question now." + +"No, the time has not come. But I will ask this: Help me that the +Dauphin may trust me, and together we will make the end of the story +Love and Peace and Faith." + +"Love and Peace and Faith," she repeated, her eyes filling for the +second time. "They have long been strangers to Amboise. God send our +France such a trinity." + +And again La Mothe had to check himself lest he should reply, "To you +too, mademoiselle." To bring just such a trinity into her life, Love +which worketh Faith, and the Peace which is born of both, was the one +supreme good which the world could offer out of all the gifts in its +treasure-house. But, as he said of his question, the time had not yet +come, so he changed the blunt directness to the more oblique "Not to +France alone," and was rewarded by seeing the serious wistfulness shift +into a gay smile, as she curtsied mockingly with a "Merci, monsieur!" +very different from the same words of the previous night. Then she +added, as the dogs, following her lighter mood, sprung upon her anew: + +"Here I have two of them already, but certainly they give one little +peace. Have they been formally introduced? This is Diane, who will be +a mighty huntress in her day. This we call Lui-meme because," she +paused, flashing a mischievous glance at La Mothe, "well, just because +his temper is not very good. He is a bully and uses his teeth on poor +Charlot, who is the weakest of the three and the one we love best. But +Charlot has one bad habit, he is very inquisitive, and it will get you +into trouble some day, Charlot dear": whereat Charlot cocked his ears +and looked wise. + +Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for himself, and said +them with the dignity of a Dauphin of France struggling through the shy +manners of a self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating both +dignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frankness which told +La Mothe that Ursula de Vesc's influence was already at work. The cold +distaste had already disappeared, nor was there any suggestion of a +compelled gratitude. Commines and La Follette had not returned from +their hawking, and only Father John and the girl were with the Dauphin. + +He had been conversing with the priest, but broke off abruptly when La +Mothe was announced. + +"Monsieur," he said, his hand stretched out as he went hastily to meet +him, "there are some services hard to repay. No, I don't mean +services, services is not the word. Services are for servants and I +don't mean that, but perhaps you understand? And perhaps, too, some +day you will teach me to ride as well as you do?" + +"There is little to teach," answered La Mothe. "And as I told Hugues, +it is Grey Roland who should be thanked." + +"What the heir cannot do, being as yet a child," said the priest, "the +grateful father can and surely will." Then he laid his hand on the +Dauphin's shoulder. "Were you greatly afraid, my son? At such a time, +with death so near, fear would not shame a man, much less a boy." + +"When Bertrand swerved I was afraid just for a moment, for I did not +know what was going to happen, but not afterwards." + +"But afterwards, in that awful moment when hope was gone and the world +slipped from you, when there was nothing real but God and your own +soul, what were your thoughts then?" + +The boy made no reply, but shifted uneasily under the hand which still +rested upon him. The heavy eyes which had brightened while he spoke to +La Mothe grew dull and peevishly sullen again as, according to habit, +he glanced towards Ursula de Vesc. Following the glance La Mothe saw +the girl shake her head warningly, apprehensively even: but Charles had +not the obstinate Valois chin for nothing. + +"Perhaps you have forgotten? At such times the mind is not very clear. +Or perhaps it was like a dream? Dreams, you know, are forgotten when +we wake." + +"I remember very well. Yes, Ursula, I shall tell him since he asks. I +wondered whether a son who hated his father, or a father who hated his +son, would be most certainly damned." + +"My son, my son," cried the priest, horrified. "How could you allow +such a terrible thought?" + +"Oh!" And the boy shook off the restraining hand impatiently. "You +come from Valmy and are like all the rest of them. Monsieur La Mothe, +let us go and thank Grey Roland." + +But as he followed the Dauphin out of the room La Mothe asked himself +whether, even with Ursula de Vesc's help, the end of the story could +possibly be Love, Peace, and Faith. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST + +"I told you at the first you were not going the right way about it." + +"And you were wrong," answered La Mothe. "I am only ten days in +Amboise, ten days which seem like so many hours, and already Charles +trusts me as he trusts Mademoiselle de Vesc." + +Pushing out his loose-hung under lip Villon eyed his companion +quizzically, but with a little pity through the banter. They were +alone in the common room of the Chien Noir, and on the table by which +they sat were two bottles of the famous '63 wine, one empty, the other +with its tide at a low ebb, but La Mothe's horn mug was still unemptied +after its first filling. With some men this would have been an +offence, but not with Francois Villon. "Good-fellowship is not in wine +but in words, or surer still, in silence," he would say, "and another +man's drinking neither warms my heart nor cools my thirst. Besides, +there is the more left for the wiser man." + +"Ten days of opportunity, and you are content that a boy trusts you! +Lovers were not so coldly contented in the good old days of the Paris +pavements. Soul of the world! but there is no talk like Paris talk. +La Mothe, you will never be a man till you hear it. Cling-clang go the +feet, and cling-clang sing the flags under them, cling-clang, +cling-clang, and I'll never hear it again--never. Content, d'you say? +I'll not believe it. I'll not think so little of you. The Good God +never meant man to be content. How would the world move?" + +"I'm winning what I came to Amboise to win." + +"A snap of the finger," and Villon filliped his own noisily, "for what +you came to Amboise to win. The garden grows more flowers than +fleurs-de-lis, and better worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? I +think there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily----" + +"No Paris jests, Villon." + +"Trust Francois Villon! Jest?" His eyes twinkled humorously over the +edge of his tilted horn cup as he finished the second bottle. "In all +divine creation there is nothing so solemn as the heart of youth in its +first love. It is the first, is it not, La Mothe? Gods of Olympus! +was I ever as young as you? I think Paris aged me before I was +breeched. But to go back to my garden. Do you dislike the simile--a +Madonna lily?" + +"The subject is distasteful." + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc distasteful? Monsieur La Mothe, I apologize. In +all my Paris days I was never such a hypocrite as to make love to a +woman who was distasteful. But then, is any woman distasteful if a man +be only in the right mood?" + +"Villon, that is untrue------" + +"My friend, I know my past better than you do. Distasteful? Pah! it +is an ugly word." + +"What you say of me is untrue. I honour Madedoiselle de Vesc----" + +"Much she cares for that! 'No, thank you!' said the cat, when they +gave her frozen milk. Honouring is cold love-making. And now you have +proved that you don't go the right way about it. 'Mademoiselle,'"; and +Villon minced a melancholy falsetto, "'I respect you deeply; +mademoiselle, I honour you humbly from a distance; you are the highest +star in the heavens, and I a worm of the earth! Permit me to kiss your +venerated finger-tips.' Honour! Bah! get nearer to them, man; nearer +to them; the closer the better; honour is too far off. Listen, now, +while I teach you a better way." + +"Thank you for nothing," said La Mothe drily, but unoffended. In these +ten days he had learned which of Villon's jests were innocent of +intention to hurt, and which carried a poisoned barb. "Love may be +bought in Paris, but not in Amboise." + +"But it costs more," retorted Villon. "In Amboise it costs a man's +whole life, whereas in Paris," he paused, shrugged his shoulders, +turned the drinking mug upside down and shook it whimsically, +"emptiness ended all: emptiness of pocket, emptiness of--but there are +seven separate emptinesses and any one was enough. Now listen and do +not interrupt again. There be many ways of gathering peaches, but your +way of kneeling at the foot of the tree with your hands folded like a +saint in stained glass is the worst of all. It is only in theory that +women, even lily Madonnas, love men to be saints; when it comes to +practice----" + +He broke off, chuckling the soft complacent chuckle La Mothe so greatly +disliked, and putting the empty mug to his nose drew in the perfume of +the wine with a deep breath. The lids drooped slowly over his shining +eyes, and in the backward groping along the crooked byways which had +led from Paris pavements to the mercy of Louis by way of an escaped +gallows he forgot both La Mothe and Amboise. The voice of Paris the +beloved, Paris the ever mourned for, was in his ears; the jargon of the +Rue Maubert, the tinkle of the glasses through the doubtful but merry +songs of the Pet du Deable, whispers of gay voices which had long +passed beyond these voices, and the leering face, part satyr and part +poet, grew wholly poet in its remembrance. It is the blessing of +nature, and one of its most divine gifts, that memory brings back the +best from the past and leaves the worst covered. Even our snows of +yester year are roseate with the glow of imagination. + +"The Madonna lily! Blessed is the man who gathers one and finds warm +blood in its pure veins. The gift of a good woman who loves and is +loved. Aye, aye, God send us all heaven while we're young. The +Madonna lily! Once there was such a one in the garden of life, pure, +sweet, and beloved. But the perfume was not for Francois Villon, and +the swine in him turned to the husks of the trough. Catherine de +Vaucelles; Catherine, dead these many years, dead but never forgotten, +a saint with the saints of God, and the rest--damned." He spoke to +himself rather than to La Mothe, but after a little spell of silence he +looked up, gravely in earnest. "You go too slowly. Any day the King +may crook his finger. What if he calls you to Valmy, then sends you +God knows where, God knows for how long, and you return to Amboise to +find some one else has gathered your lily while you lagged? That would +be a chilly winter in the garden of life where you left young spring." + +La Mothe sat silent. What reply was possible? That the advice was +well meant he knew, but he had never before realized that a peremptory +recall might come any moment from Valmy. And it was not impossible. +Louis, aged and ailing, spurred, too, by the desire for the comfort of +his son's love while life was still good to the taste, would be +impatient of delay. These ten days which had passed with the swiftness +of a summer's morning would be long as a wintry month to the lonely +father. But to the devout lover, in him haste savoured of presumption. +Ursula de Vesc was his good friend and comrade; could he hope for more +than that in so short a time? In making haste might he not lose all he +had gained? Besides, in the service and worship of the one dear woman +in the world, a man is his own High Priest, and none save himself may +enter into the Holy of Holies. And what could this peach-picker of +Paris pavements know of such a Holy of Holies? Nothing, absolutely +nothing. So he sat silent, doubly tongue-tied by doubt and reverence. + +But for these, Villon, who read his face with disconcerting ease, had +no great respect. + +"Eh!" he said briskly, "is the advice good?" + +"Is good advice easy to follow?" + +"Yes, when it is palatable, which is not often: commonly it has a +bitter taste in the swallowing. Or do you think it will be all the +same fifty years hence? By all the Muses, there's an idea! I must +write the 'Ballad of Fifty Years to Come.' Let me see--let me see--'m +yes, the first verse might run like this: + + "Where is La Mothe, that lover gay, + Or Francois Villon, poet splendid! + Madonna of the eyes of grey, + Or Charles whom Bertrand nearly ended? + D'Argenton, are his manners mended? + Or wisest Louis, swift to pardon + Though so grievously offended? + Ask of the Scents of Amboise garden! + + +"There!" and he drummed the empty mug on the flat of the table in mock +applause which was not all unreal, "what do you think of that for the +first draft? It does justice to me and to you, chronicles little +Charles' escape, kicks your Monsieur d'Argenton in passing, and takes +off its hat to the King all in a breath." + +"Tear it up," answered La Mothe. "Will the King thank you for hinting +he will be dead and forgotten fifty years hence? When you speak of +Louis, you should always say, 'O King, live for ever!'" + +The drumming ceased, the gay laugh died out of Villon's eyes, and he +sat ruefully silent. To hint at death to Louis, even remotely, was an +unpardonable sin. + +"You are right," he said at last, and said it with a sigh. "All the +same, the idea is a good one, and ideas are scarcer than poetry and +always will be. I have heard your verses, my young friend. Here is +Saxe. Saxe, have you brought that third bottle? To drink less than +his average is a crime against a man's thirst." + +But Saxe was empty-handed. + +"Monsieur de Commines desires speech with Monsieur La Mothe in the +Chateau garden." + +"Monsieur de Commines? Bah! Go and be birched," said Villon +peevishly. The failure of his ballad had vexed him, and he was ready +to vent his spleen on what lay nearest. "You deserve it for your +milk-and-water love-me-a-little-to-morrow. Had it been the old Paris +days the Madonna lily would have said 'Come!' to Francois Villon in +less than a week." + +"Paris flowers do not grow in Amboise garden," answered La Mothe, and +added "Thank God!" in his heart. + +Commines was standing at the entrance to an arch of roses which, +pergola fashion, covered a sunny walk. On three sides rose the +Chateau, grey and sullen, on the fourth was an enclosing wall. In +shaded corners a few belated gillyflowers, straggling and overgrown, +filled the air with perfume, but La Mothe's gaze was caught by a group +of Madonna lilies, slim and graceful, rising from a bed of purple +fleurs-de-lis, their ivory buds new opened, and the recollection of +Villon's comparison thrilled his imagination with its aptness. Grace +for grace, beauty for beauty, in fulfilment and promise, they were +Ursula de Vesc herself. + +But almost with his first sentence Commines proved that Villon had +shrewd forethought as well as a poet's eye for a fitting simile. + +"If it is not Mademoiselle de Vesc it is Francois Villon; if it is not +philandering it is wine-bibbing," he said harshly. "Stephen, the King +thinks you are wasting your time in Amboise and I think so too. What +have you discovered in your ten days?" + +"All that there is to learn, Uncle." + +"I see. That Ursula de Vesc has a pretty face? Stephen, Stephen, you +are not in Amboise to play the fool." + +La Mothe flushed and was about to answer angrily, but remembering that +Commines spoke for the King rather than for himself he restrained his +impatience. + +"Uncle, is that just?" + +"Well, what have you discovered?" + +"That there is no such vile scheme as the King imagines." + +"Can you prove that?" + +"To me there is proof. Ten days ago, when the boy thanked me for +pulling him off Bertrand's back, he as much as said he had nothing to +pay me with. Now if this lie of a plot against the King were the +truth, would not a self-willed boy like the Dauphin, boastful as boys +are, proud and galled by the debt he thought he owed me, have hinted +that the day would come when he could pay in full, and sooner than some +expected? He surely would. His pride would have run away with his +discretion. Besides, Uncle, what have you discovered in your ten days?" + +But Commines returned no answer, and to La Mothe his gloomy face was +inscrutable. He knew his master; knew, without being told in so many +words, that it was the King's purpose to set Charles aside; knew that +the King believed justification for such a course was to be found at +Amboise; knew above all, knew with the knowledge of other men's bitter +experience, that there were no thanks for the man who failed, even +though that failure proved a son innocent of crime against a father. +It was not innocence the King desired but guilt. + +And yet, now that La Mothe had brought him face to face with the +question, what had he discovered? Little or nothing. Using all the +arts and artifices which ten years' service under such a master of +subtle craftiness as the eleventh Louis had taught him, he had cajoled +and bribed, probed and sifted, even covertly threatened at times. But +all to no purpose. An indignant sarcasm from Ursula de Vesc, a +politic--and wise--regret for the estrangement from La Follette, a +petulant outburst from Charles, childish and pathetically cynical by +turns, the vague whispers inseparable from such a household as was +gathered together in Amboise were all his reward. But the King +demanded proof; the King demanded articles of conviction which would, +if necessary, satisfy an incredulous world that the terrible tragedy +which followed proof was the justice of the highest law. + +"Disaffection is everywhere," he said at last; "disloyalty which only +lacks the spur of opportunity to drive desire into action. If these +things are on the surface, worse lies hidden. You know the proverb of +Smoke and Fire? I see the fire laid, I smell the smoke: it was for you +to find the spark, you who have had a free hand in Amboise. But you +play nonsense games with Charles, hanging upon the skirts of the +unscrupulous woman who tutors him to revolt, or drink in taverns with a +scurrilous thief turned spy to save his neck from a deserved hanging. +Do you think you serve the King by philandering in a rose garden, or +playing at French and English in the Burnt Mill? Francois Villon! +Ursula de Vesc! Stephen, you make yourself too much one with them--an +unhung footpad who prostitutes the powers of mind God gave him to the +devil's use, and a woman----" + +"Uncle, if even your father had spoken evil of Suzanne would you have +listened to him?" + +"Suzanne? What has Suzanne in common with Ursula de Vesc?" + +"Only that I love her as you loved Suzanne," answered La Mothe. + +"Ursula de Vesc? Stephen, at the least she is the King's enemy." + +"Yes, he told me so himself." + +"And at the worst----" + +"There is no worst," said La Mothe doggedly. "There is no plot against +the King, no plot at all." + +"And your proof is that when a clever woman bade a boy control his +tongue he obeyed her! Will that convince Louis? Would it convince +yourself but for this calf-love of yours? Stephen, Stephen, you do not +know the gulf on which you stand. What answer am I to return to the +King?" + +"Uncle, is it my fault that I am living a lie in Amboise?" + +"Grey Roland changed all that for you ten days ago. There was the game +in your hands, and you threw it away! A touch of the heel, a single +twitch of the bridle--there, there, say nothing: perhaps at your age I +would have had the same scruples. But what answer am I to return to +the King?" + +"That I will do all he bade me; do it with all my heart to the very +letter," answered La Mothe. And with that Commines had to be content. + +"You go too slow," said Villon. "You go too fast," said Commines. +Between such cross fires what was a poor lover to do? There was once, +La Mothe remembered, a man who had an only son and an ass. But the +problem is older than the imagination of any fabulist, and as new as +the newest day in the world. "Thou shalt die," said the Lord God. +"Thou shalt not surely die," said the devil. + +"I will take my own way," he said. "It is my life I have to live, not +theirs." And that afternoon came his opportunity to prove that a man +knows best how his own life should be shaped. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION + +Only the very foolish or the very weak man seeks to hide from his own +soul the full, naked, unpalatable truth about himself. The fool +follows the principle which governs the libel upon the intelligence of +the ostrich, and vainly tries to persuade himself that what he does not +see does not exist, while the weak man dares not open the doors of the +cupboard hidden in every life for shivering terror of the secrets he +knows are there. Wiser wickedness deliberately airs his skeleton now +and then, and thereby the grisly presence grows less grisly, and the +hollow rattle of the bones less threatening. The articulation remains +the same, but the tone, so to speak, is more subdued. + +And Stephen La Mothe, being neither a fool nor altogether weak, was not +afraid to admit to himself that Commines' angry contempt had described +the day-by-day life at Amboise with sufficient accuracy, at least so +far as the Dauphin and Ursula de Vesc were concerned. The bitter fling +at his friendship for Villon did not trouble him. It was simply the +high light added to the picture to bring out its general truth. + +Yes, he had played games of make-believe with the boy, such as Louis +had spoken of half in tolerance and half with the vexation of a clever +father who resents that his only son is not as clever as himself. He +had--no, he had not philandered in the rose garden. The associations +of the word stirred him to revolt. Dairy-maids might philander, +kitchen wenches and such-like common flesh might philander, but never +Ursula of the grey eyes, Ursula of the tender, firm mouth. Ursula +philander? Never! never! The thought was desecration. What was it +Louis had said? All women are the same under the skin. It was a +cynic's lie, and Louis had never known Ursula de Vesc. + +Lifting a lute he touched the strings lightly. He was in one of the +smaller rooms of the Chateau, one the girl used more, almost, than any +other, and little suggestions of her were scattered about it. On a +bench was a piece of woman's work with the threaded needle pushed +through the stuff as when she laid it aside, flowers she had gathered +were on the table, the portiere masking the door was her embroidery. +Perhaps all these forced an association of ideas. Picking the strings +out one by one half unconsciously, the air of the love song followed +the shift of the hand, and equally unconsciously his voice took up the +rhythm, first in an undertone, then louder and louder: + + "Heigh-ho! Love is my sun, + Love is my moon and the stars by night. + Heigh-ho! hour there is none, + Love of my heart, but thou art my light; + Never forsaking, + Noon or day-breaking, + Midnights of sorrow thy comforts make bright. + Heigh-ho! Love is my life, + Live I in loving and love I to live: + Heigh-ho!----" + + +"Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, have you deceived us all these +days?" + +Down went the lute with a clang which jarred its every string into +discord, and La Mothe sprang to his feet. + +"Deceived you, mademoiselle! How?" + +"That first night--I do not like to remember it even now, but Monsieur +Villon told us you were both poet and singer, but you denied it. And +now I hear you singing----" + +"Not singing, mademoiselle." + +"Singing," she persisted, with a pretty emphasis which La Mothe found +very pleasant. "We shall have a new play to-night. A Court of High +Justice, and Monsieur La Mothe arraigned for defrauding Amboise of a +pleasure these ten days. I shall prosecute, Charles must be judge, and +your sentence will be to sing every song you know." + +"Then I shall escape lightly; I know so few." + +"There! You have confessed, and your punishment must begin at once. +Villon was right: Amboise is dull; sing for me, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"But," protested La Mothe, "Villon was wrong as well as right in what +he told you that night." + +"What? A minstrel who wanders France with his knapsack and his lute +and yet cannot sing?" If the raillery yet remained in the gay voice, +it was a raillery which shifted its significance from pleasant badinage +to something deeper, and the tender mouth which La Mothe was so sure +could never lend itself to philandering lost its tenderness. More than +once he had caught just such expression when the perilous ground of the +relationships between father and son had been trodden upon in an +attempt to justify the King. Then it had been impersonal, now he was +reminded of his first night in Amboise, when her cold suspicion had +been frankly unveiled. But the hardening of the face was only for a +moment. "Truly, now," she went on, "have you never made verses?" + +"Very bad ones, mademoiselle." + +"A poet tells the truth! The skies will fall! But perhaps it is not +the truth; perhaps you are as unjust to your verses as you are to your +singing." Seating herself in a low chair, she looked up at him with a +dangerous but unconscious kindness in her eyes. "Now sit there in that +window-seat and let me judge. With the sun behind you you will look +like Apollo with his lyre. No, not Apollo. Apollo was the sun itself. +Why are men so much more difficult to duplicate in simile than women?" + +"Not all women. I know one for whom there is no duplicate." + +"A poet's divine imagination!" + +"A man's reverent thankfulness." + +The grey eyes kindled, and as the unconscious kindliness grew yet more +kindly La Mothe told himself he had surely advanced a siege trench +towards the defences. As to Ursula, she could not have told why these +last days had been the pleasantest of her life, and would have +indignantly denied that Stephen La Mothe was in any way the cause. +Women do not admit such truths as openly as men, not even to +themselves. But Amboise was no longer dull, the rose garden no longer +a mere relief from the greyness of the hours spent behind the grim +walls which circled it. The sunshine was the same, the budding flowers +were the same, the glorious shift from winter to summer, but they were +the same with a difference, a difference she never paused to analyze. +Spring--the spring of her life--had come upon her unawares. + +But a more acknowledged element in the pleasant comfort of these days +had been a sense of support. One of the most corroding sorrows of life +is to be lonely, alienated from sympathy and guidance, and in Amboise +Ursula de Vesc had been very solitary. La Follette was politic, +cautiously non-committal; Hugues of a class apart; Commines an avowed +opponent; Charles too young for companionship; Villon a contempt, and +at times a loathing. Into this solitariness had come Stephen La Mothe, +and the very reaction from acute suspicion had drawn her towards him. +Repentance for an unmerited blame is much nearer akin to love than any +depths of pity. Then to repentance was added gratitude, to gratitude +admiration, and to all three propinquity. Blessed be propinquity! If +Hymen ever raises an altar to his most devoted hand-maid it will be to +the dear goddess Propinquity! Yes! these days had been very pleasant +days. + +But an unfailing charm in a charming woman is that one can never tell +what she will do next. Though the grey eyes kindled and the kindliness +in them grew yet more kindly, though the soft embroideries in the +delicate lawn were ruffled by a quicker breath, the natural perversity +of her sex must needs answer perversely, and Ursula de Vesc blew up his +siege trench with a bombshell. + +"Monsieur La Mothe, were you ever at Valmy?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." There was no shadow of hesitation in the reply, +though the abrupt change of subject was as startling as the question +itself. + +"Of course. Music opens all doors. Monsieur La Mothe, I congratulate +you." + +"That having been in Valmy I am now in Amboise?" + +"Upon better than that. Some day I may tell you." + +"But this is the best possible, and I congratulate myself. No! Good +as this is, there is a better than the best! Mademoiselle----" + +"But you sing as well as make verses, do you not--you, whose music +opened the gates even of Valmy? Indeed, I heard you just now. You are +another Orpheus, and Valmy a very similar interior. You don't like me +to say so? Very well, my lute is in your hand, and I am waiting. Did +they teach you in Poitou to keep ladies waiting?" + +"Poitou?" repeated La Mothe; "but I never said I had been in Poitou." + +"Oh! but as a minstrel you wander everywhere, or--what was it?--as a +poor gentleman seeing France, and so to Poitou. Anjou, Guienne, +anywhere would do as well--except Flanders, where Monsieur de Commines +comes from, and where I wish Monsieur de Commines had remained," she +added. + +"You dislike Monsieur de Commines? Mademoiselle, if you knew him +better; how I wish you did. There was once a friendless boy--" + +"Is this another fairy tale?" Though she interrupted him with so +little ceremony, there was no asperity in the voice. It was as if she +said, "Even good women have their limitations. I may forgive Philip de +Commines, but you cannot expect me to praise him." + +"As true a story as the other." + +"And you believe in that other?" + +"With all my heart." + +"Then why does the father not show himself fatherly?" + +"Is it not the part of the son to say, 'Father, I have sinned'?" + +"I see," she said, some of the old bitterness creeping into her tone, +"the prodigal of twelve years old who is rioting in Amboise--you see +how he riots--should ask forgiveness," and as she spoke Stephen La +Mothe, with a sudden sense of chill, remembered that other prodigal of +twelve years old who was hung on the Valmy gallows that the roads of +France might be safe. If Commines was right, the parallel was +complete--horribly complete. But she gave him no time to dwell upon +the coincidence. "You put a heavy charge upon me," she went on, the +furrows deepening on her forehead. "Would to God I could see what is +best, what is right. I must think. I must think. Play to me, +Monsieur La Mothe, but not too loudly, and do not call me rude if I do +not listen. I know that must sound strange, but at times music helps +me to think. Is it not so with you?" + +The question was apologetic, and as such La Mothe understood it. He +understood, too, the straits in which she found herself. So powerful +was her influence over Charles, the boy would certainly act on her +advice. Her knowledge of Stephen La Mothe was greater than he +supposed. If he was right, and she held her peace, this breach between +father and son would not only remain unhealed but would be widened by +Louis' natural resentment at the rejection of his covert overtures; but +if La Mothe was mistaken she knew the old King well enough to be +certain that he would use the boy's unwelcome advances against him in +some cunning fashion. Which way lay wisdom? Or, as she had put +it--raising the question to a higher plane--which was the right? + +"If you please," she said imperiously. "Yes, I mean it. Play David to +the evil spirit of my doubt," and with a laugh to cover his sense of +embarrassment La Mothe obeyed, touching the instrument very softly. + +But she could not have told whether he played a drinking-song or a +Miserere. With her, as with many, the quiet rhythm of the music +stimulated thought, and gradually the perplexity cleared from her mind. +Stephen La Mothe was not a fool, that counted for much. He was honest, +that counted for much more. The King was notoriously ailing and, being +superstitious, might well repent; no high motive, but a probable one. +Philip de Commines' visit to Amboise was not by chance, and nothing +less than his master's orders would have kept him so long from Valmy. +If Stephen La Mothe was right, then these orders must surely have a +connection with the King's changed disposition towards the Dauphin. +She would watch Commines, doing nothing hastily, and by his actions +would shape her course. + +With the relaxation from concentrated thought the swing of the music's +rise and fall caught her ear. It was a ballad air, and new to her. +Shifting her chair, she looked up at La Mothe as he bent over his +instrument. Streaming through the windows behind him the cunning +sunshine lit the brown of his hair to a red-gold. She had never seen +just such a colour in a man, and the Apollo simile was not so unapt. + +"Sing," she said suddenly, and again La Mothe obeyed, catching up the +air almost unconsciously. + + "Lilies White and Roses Red, + Gracious sweetness past compare, + Beauty's self to thee hath fled, + Lilies White and Roses Red: + Lover's service bows its head, + Awed by witchery so fair, + Lilies White and Roses Red, + Gracious sweetness past compare." + + +"Are they your own verses?" + +"No, I wish they were. I only think them." + +Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked aside and there was +silence. Her thoughts, or that brief glance--Apollo was a god, good to +look upon--had so warmed her cheeks that the refrain of the Triolet was +almost justified. The lines of anxious care were smoothed from the +forehead, and the half-smile of the new-drawn Cupid's bow was a little +tremulous. A sudden determination moved La Mothe. Never had he seen +her so gracious, so womanly, so completely the one sweet woman in all +the world. Pushing the lute aside, he leaned forward. + +"Mademoiselle," he began earnestly, "do you remember ten days ago I +said there was a question I would dare to ask you when you knew me +better?" + +"I remember," she said, turning a little from him that the light might +not fall upon her face to betray her. She said she remembered, but the +truth was that in the tumult of her thoughts the recollection was +vague. "Yes, I think I know you better." + +"It is a very bold question, and one which might well offend. And yet +you know I would not willingly offend you?" + +"Yes, I am sure of that." The rustling of the lawn and laces on her +breast was a little more tempestuous, but the voice was very level, +very quiet. As to Stephen La Mothe, he felt that earth and sun and +stars had disappeared and they two alone were left out of all the world. + +"So bold, so presumptuous," he went on, "that it is hard to find words +at all. But you forgive me in advance?" + +At that she smiled a little. She did not think there would be much +need for pardon. Was there any question Apollo--Stephen La Mothe, that +is--might not ask? She knew now why these ten days had been the +happiest of her life. + +"Yes, Monsieur La Mothe, you are forgiven beforehand." + +"Then--is there any plot in Amboise against the King? From you a +simple 'no' is enough. I ask no proof, a simple word, nothing more." + +Unconsciously he had forced a pleading into his voice, an urging, as if +it was not so much the truth he sought as a denial at all costs; but as +she turned in her chair, rising as she turned so that she looked down +upon him, he broke off. It would have taken a much bolder man than +Stephen La Mothe to have maintained his covert accusation--and what +else was it?--in the face of the angry surprise which needed no +expression in words. + +"Was that your question? You have spied upon us all these +days--suspected us--accused us in your thoughts? You have pretended +friendship, devotion--God knows what monstrous lie--and all the while +you spied--spied. But you shall have your answer in your single word. +No, Monsieur La Mothe; such women as I am do not plot against their +King, nor teach sons to revolt against their fathers." + +"Mademoiselle----" he began. + +But not even the scornful indignation vouchsafed him a second glance as +she swept past him without a word. At the door she paused and, half +turning, looked back across her shoulder, a spot of scarlet on either +cheek. + +"I had forgotten my message. I had already told Jean Saxe, in case I +failed to find you. The Dauphin bids you join him at the Burnt Mill at +three o'clock; but if it were not that the Dauphin's word is a command, +even to you I would say be otherwise engaged, Monsieur La Mothe, since +I must be of the party." + +"But, Mademoiselle----" + +He spoke to an empty room, and if Ursula de Vesc closed the door +between them with a greater vigour than the politeness strict +deportment demanded she may surely be excused. It may be that even the +angels lose their tempers at times over the follies of a blind humanity. + +As to Stephen La Mothe, he stood staring at the closed door as if he +were not only alone in the room but in the very world itself; or, +rather, as if the world had suddenly dropped from under his feet and +the shock bewildered him. She had been so gracious, so very sweet and +gracious. He had been forgiven in advance; why such bitter offence? A +single word was all he had asked--one little word. Then he flushed all +over with a peculiar pricking sensation down the spine. Could it be +that she expected a very different question; one whose answer might +have been a Yes? If that were so--but it was absurd, and he called +himself many hard names for having such an idea a single moment. To +have thought such a thought of Ursula de Vesc was as preposterous as +saying she would philander in a rose garden. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +FRENCH AND ENGLISH + +Before the coming of the Maid, that is to say more than fifty years +before Stephen La Mothe gave himself the heartache over his misreadings +of the most read chapter in the book of nature, there stood upon the +banks of the Loire, about a mile from Amboise, the flour mill of one +Jean Calvet. For six generations it had passed from a Calvet to a +Calvet, son succeeding father as Amurath an Amurath, and the Moulin +Fleche d'Or was as well known to the countryside as Amboise itself. +The kirkyard or the grinding stones; humanity must needs find its way +to both. + +When harvests were fat, and corn plentiful, its stones hummed from +daylight to dark to the blent music of the creaking wheel and the +splash-splash of the water which drove it. In lean years, when war or +famine was abroad, and thanks to England these years were not few, the +sluice was lifted, and in place of the hoarse murmur and complaint of +the grinding stones and lumbering wheel there was the soft purr of the +millrace, and the Calvet of his generation lived, like a turtle, on his +own fat, waiting for better days. And sooner or later these always +came, and with their coming grew the prosperity of the Golden Arrow. +Corn and the human heart must needs be ground while the world lasts, +and perhaps it is as much out of the grinding of the latter as the +former that life is strengthened. Then came a day which brought an end +to more than the prosperity of Jean Calvet the sixth. + +Some clocks wear out, running down with little spurts of life and +longer intervals of dumbness; others end with a sudden crashing of the +pendulum while in its full swing, and a wild, convulsive whirr of the +jarred wheels. One moment the sober tick tells that all is well, the +next--silence. So was it with Calvet's mill. + +In the fortune, or misfortune, of war an Englishman, one Sir John +Stone, riding that way with his band of marauders, little better than +licensed brigands, found Amboise too tough a nut for his teeth, and +harried the Calvets in pure wantonness. Over the tree-tops the +garrison of Amboise could see the smoke of the burning, but they were +too weak to venture succour. + +Calvet must fend for himself lest Calvet and Amboise both end in the +one ruin. There was little defence, but that little was grimly in +earnest and yet more grim the revenge of the attack. For that +generation both pity and mercy had fled France. Jean Calvet the +younger, he who should have been the seventh of his line, was coursed +in the open like a hare, but turned at the last and died at bay as a +wolf dies. Behind the barred door were Jean the sixth, his two younger +sons, and the dead man's wife. The woman, grey-faced but tearless, +fought as the men fought, using her Jean's cross-bow from the narrow +upper windows. All that rage, desperation, and hate could do was done, +and when the door fell in with a crash Jean the younger had been +avenged four times over. John Stone took as little by his wantonness +as he deserved. + +Then came the end. There was a rush up the stone stairway, a brief +struggle to gain the upper level, a minute's surging back and forth, a +briefer, fiercer fury of strife among the cranks and meal-bags, a few +rough oaths, a woman's scream, and then silence, or what by contrast +passed for silence, since the sudden quiet was only broken by deep +breathing and the sucking of air into dry throats. England had gained +an ignoble victory. + +Fire followed as naturally as the spark follows the jar of flint and +steel, and with a hundred and fifty years to dry its beams, its +cobwebbed walls hung with mouldy dust from the grinding of as many +harvests, its complex wooden troughs and grain-shoots parched to +tinder, the old mill was a ready prey. All that could burn burnt like +a pile of dry shavings. But the walls, the stairway, and the upper +floor were of stone, and stood; and but for one thing the peace which +followed the coming of the Maid might have set the waterwheel creaking +afresh. That one thing, typical of the times, forbade the thought. +When the men of Amboise cleared away the rubbish they found the bones +of Jean Calvet the sixth piled in a grim derision upon his own +millstones, and so these stones never turned again. Who could eat +bread of their making? + +But the blackened shell was one of the Dauphin's favourite haunts, nor +could a better stage for one of those plays of make-believe which had +called down the old King's bitter irony have been well devised. So far +as possible the mill had been restored to its old condition. The +rubbish had been cleared from the ancient watercourse; the tough old +wheel, freed from the weeds and soil which bound it, was set running as +in the past, and a palisade of stout pickets erected to fence out the +curious. The side furthest from the roadway, with its clumps of +hazels, alder thicket, and chestnut wood in the distance was left open. +Here, amid surroundings which lent a sombre realism to the pretence, +Charlemagne could carve out a kingdom, Roland sound the horn of +Roncesvalles, or the Maid herself win back to France the crown the +boy's forefather had lost. + +But, dearer even than these, he best loved to reproduce in little the +tragedy which had laid the mill desolate, and it was La Mothe's +participation in that mock combat which had aroused Commines' contempt. +What boy of imagination has not revelled in such sport, living a +glorious hour beyond his age? And not a few of every nation have, in +their turn, made the glory real at the call of the country that the +blood of new generations may take fire. And Stephen La Mothe saw no +shame in such a play; saw, rather, a stimulus and an uplifting whose +effects might not altogether pass away when the play ended. So he was +France or England as the Dauphin bade him, and by turns died valiantly +or fought victoriously. + +But chiefly, and to La Mothe it had its significance, the Dauphin +played the part of Jean Calvet. All children, and not children only, +love to be upon the winning side, and it told something of the trend of +the boy's deeper nature that he would rather die for France than live +for England. So would it have been the afternoon of the day La Mothe +had followed his own course to his own disaster had not Charles once +more proved the truth of Villon's observation. The dull eyes saw more +than men supposed. + +"You and Ursula have quarrelled," he said, with all a boy's blunt power +of making the truth a terror. "All the way from Amboise you have not +spoken a word to each other; and you will quarrel still more if I shut +you up in the mill together. Do you be Stone, with Blaise and Marcel, +while I and Monsieur La Follette and Hugues will keep the stairs." +Then a gleam of unaccustomed humour flickered across his face; a sense +of humour was rarely a Valois characteristic. "No, I am wrong. Do you +be Calvet; I want a real battle to-day, and you will fight all the +better with Ursula looking on." As for Ursula de Vesc, she drew her +skirts together and ran up the unprotected flight of stairs humming an +air--not Stephen La Mothe's triolet, you may be sure--as if she had not +a care in the world. + +So the forces arrayed themselves, Charles and the two lads from the +stables behind the clump of bushes which always served as an ambush, +and La Mothe at the doorless entrance to the mill, where he was to give +the alarm and then retreat to the upper floor where La Follette and +Hugues were posted. La Follette, who had been a lover in his day, +would have kept watch below and taken Hugues with him, but Ursula de +Vesc, in the upper room, told them tartly that the Dauphin would be +displeased if the usual plan were departed from, and so, in no very +playful humour any of them, they waited the attack. + +Presently it came. Out from his ambush, a hundred yards away, raced +the Dauphin, Marcel and Blaise at his heels, their stout wooden swords +bared for the grim work of slaughter. "The English! the English!" +shouted La Mothe. "Frenchmen, the enemy are upon us!" But as he +turned to gain the upper floor there came a cry which was not part of +the play, a cry of fear and despairing rage, "The Dauphin! the Dauphin! +Monsieur La Mothe, save the Dauphin," and midway on the stairs Hugues +dashed past him. + +"Hugues, what is it?" + +"An ambush. The Dauphin; they will murder the Dauphin----" and Hugues +was through the doorway with La Mothe and La Follette following, and +Ursula de Vesc, white and trembling, at the stair-head, more in +surprise than any realization of danger. But only for an instant, then +she ran to the narrow window where Hugues had waited, watching. + +Midway from their hiding-place, confused by the sudden outcry, stood +the Dauphin and the two lads, and towards them ran Hugues with all his +speed, La Mothe not far behind. La Follette waited at the door, +uncertain and bewildered. But from a further covert, the thicket of +more distant alder, a troop of ten or a dozen horsemen had burst, +galloping at the charge, nor could there be any doubt of their sinister +purpose. It was a race for the boy, with the greater distance to +neutralize the greater speed, but they rode desperately, recklessly, as +men who ride for their lives. + +"Run, Monseigneur, run," cried Hugues, panting. "See, behind--behind," +and almost as he shouted the words he and La Mothe, younger and more +active, reached the group. "Out of the way, fools," he gasped, +shouldering the stable lads aside; then to La Mothe, "Take the other +arm," and again there was a race of desperation, but this time with the +mill as the goal. Nearer and nearer thundered the hoofs, out from his +scattered following forged their leader, his spurs red to the heel, his +teeth set hard in the shadow of the mask which hid his face. "Faster, +for God's sake faster," groaned Hugues, "Faster, faster," shouted La +Follette from the doorway, and Ursula de Vesc, at her point of vantage, +hardly dared to breathe as she knit her hands so closely the one into +the other that the fingers cramped. Then the chase passed out of +sight, and she ran to the stair-head, waiting for she knew not what. +It was just there that Calvet the younger had died, and now there was +as little mockery in the tragedy. Beyond the doorway she heard a +"Thank God!" from La Follette, then shadows darkened it, and the +Dauphin was thrust in, staggering. On the instant La Follette +followed, paused, glancing backward as if in hesitation. But one duty +was imperative. Catching the boy in his arms, he half carried, half +forced him up the stairway, while in the open space below La Mothe and +Hugues, letting Blaise and Marcel slip between them, turned side by +side to face whatever was without. What that was she knew, and as she +watched him in the gap an instant, before hastening to the Dauphin's +aid, the girl's heart went out to Stephen La Mothe in the agony of a +bitter repentance. If death pays all debts surely the darkening of the +shadows brings forgiveness for all offences? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN + +But meanwhile there was a pause. Below, in the defenceless doorway, +Hugues and La Mothe stood shoulder to shoulder for one of those fiery +instants which try a man's nerve rather than his courage. For the +moment the Dauphin was saved. But they had no illusions. It was only +for the moment, and both knew that in the moment to follow the danger +would not be for the Dauphin alone. But only one, Stephen La Mothe, +gave that a thought, and it was not for himself. Ursula de Vesc? The +masked scoundrel who, panting with the rage of disappointment, faced +them three yards away, one hand still gripping the reins of the horse +by whose head he stood, the other a naked sword, had his half-score of +cut-throats behind him, and could afford to leave no witness to his +outrage. There would be no pity for Ursula de Vesc. + +"Damnation," cried La Mothe almost in a sob, and, forgetting that he, +too, wore a sword, he would have sprung upon him barehanded in his +despair had not Hugues forced him to keep his place. + +"Not yet," he whispered. "Wait; perhaps--later----" and the moment of +possibility had passed. The troop was upon them. + +But their leader held them back. + +"Wait," he said in his turn. "We may save time. Be wise, and give us +the Dauphin. We are a dozen, you only three or four. We are sure to +have him in the end." + +"On what terms?" It was Hugues who answered. + +"Terms?" cried La Mothe. "Hugues, there can be no terms." + +"Your pardon, Monsieur La Mothe," said Hugues. "You are a gentleman, +but I am only a servant," and in his excitement La Mothe never paused +to ask himself why Hugues should so classify a hedge minstrel of the +Duchy of Lackeverything. "It is a fine thing, no doubt, to die for +your honour, but what have I to do with honour? Life is life. The +boy, on what terms?" + +"Your lives. And you gain nothing by refusing. The boy is ours in any +case." + +"Never," said La Mothe, struggling to shake off the restraining hand +that pinned him, helpless, half behind the doorpost. "Never while I +live." + +"Just so," answered Hugues, tightening his grasp; "not while you live. +But afterwards? and what better are we then, or the Dauphin either? +Give me three minutes, monsieur, to persuade him, just three minutes," +and in La Mothe's ear he whispered, "For God's sake be quiet or you +will ruin us all." + +"Three minutes? Play me no tricks, my man." + +"But, monsieur," and Hugues' voice was a whine as he spoke. "What +trick is possible? You are a dozen, we three or four. And are we not +caught like rats in a pit?" + +"Like rats! You have said the word! Take your three minutes, rat, and +don't forget that like rats we'll kill you." + +Urging his point vehemently, pleadingly, and with every plausible +argument at his command, but never slackening his grip, Hugues drew La +Mothe a yard or two into the blackened ruin. There he held him with a +wary eye to a possible surprise. Blaise and Marcel were on the upper +floor and only La Follette was in sight, standing guard at the +stair-head. + +"Listen," he said. "Monseigneur is dearer to me than to you. Do you +think I would give up one hair of him while I live, I, who sleep at his +door of nights? Never, not one hair! But between us we may save him +yet. Shake your head, curse me for a coward, for a scoundrel, try to +throw me off, strike me if you like. Yes, yes," he insisted, raising +his voice, "it is our lives; why lose our lives for nothing?" Then, in +a whisper, "They will give the alarm from the fields; it is only a mile +to Amboise----" + +"But it is a mile--a mile to go, a mile to come back----" + +"It is the one chance," answered Hugues loudly, fawning on La Mothe +with a hand which aped persuasion. The words had a double meaning and +held La Follette quiet, La Follette who might have ruined all through +incomprehension. "You know the bench where Mademoiselle sits to watch +the play? When I cry Now! rush up and fling it across the gap of the +stair-head. It will hold them back for a time. Then, for God's sake, +Monsieur La Mothe, fight, fight, fight. Fight to the last. It is for +life, it is for France, it is for Mademoiselle." + +"And you?" + +"I will hold the door." + +"But that is death." + +"It will give you a minute, or two, or three." + +"Then it is my place; I have a sword." + +"I love him best," answered Hugues. To him was the one unanswerable +argument; he loved him best, and love had the right to die for love's +sake. "You understand? When I cry Now! run--run." + +"Hugues, Hugues, let me----" + +"Do you think a valet cannot love?" + +"It is time," said a voice from without. "Are you ready, rats?" + +"Yes, monsieur, yes, yes. I have him persuaded Just one little moment. +Monsieur La Mothe, NOW! Now!" + +"No, Hugues, no, let me----" + +"Damn you, man, would you murder the Dauphin for a scruple? Now! I +say, Now!" + +"I have a sword----" + +But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel dropped by Marcel in his +flight for the stairs and was already in the doorway. + +"If you want the Dauphin, come and take him. God save the Dauphin! +France! France!" and drawing a deep breath he stood on guard, one +wooden sword against a dozen of steel. + +"Bravo, Hugues," cried La Follette from above. "Hold the scoundrels +while you can, and God be with you. Come, La Mothe, come, come." + +And what could La Mothe do but obey? For a moment he glanced this way +and that, uncertain, drawn to the one man who stood alone against such +odds, yet knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make Hugues' +sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the stairs; but not before +the doorway was darkened; not before he heard the dull clash of steel +upon wood; not before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that the +offering up of the sacrifice had begun. + +And as it began so it ended. But how desperately the breach was held, +how desperately Hugues fought with his mockery of a sword, with his +bare hands, with his very breast, they could only guess when he was +found later with the staff in splinters, his palms and arms hacked and +gashed, his bosom agape with dumb mouths which told their tale of love +and splendid courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all his +wounds in front; he died for loyalty, for love's sake, giving his life +without a grudge. Could a Roland or a Charlemagne have done more? + +Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, dragging him up the last +three stairs, "Draw, man, draw, we will fight them here." But La Mothe +shook him off. + +"This first," he said, and catching up the broad, unbacked bench which +day by day had served Ursula de Vesc as a resting-place he flung it, +flat downwards, across the railless stair-head. "It's done, Hugues, +and never fear but we'll fight," he cried, offering the only comfort he +could to the man who, down below, gave his life for them all. "Now, +Follette, I am ready." + +But Hugues still held the door, and for the first time La Mothe had +leisure to look round him. In the background were Blaise and +Marcel--barehanded, silent, helpless. The younger, Marcel, was crying +openly but dumbly, the tears running unheeded and unwiped down his +cheeks; the other, dogged and dour, with teeth and fists clenched, was +of braver stuff, a fighter, but without a weapon. Midway, still +exhausted from his flight, Charles lay on his elbow, propped against +Ursula de Vesc, who stooped above him with one arm round his shoulders +as support. The boy's long narrow face was paler beyond his natural +pallor, but his mouth was firm-set, his eyes bright and dry. The +girl's features were hidden, and Stephen La Mothe was not sure whether +he was glad or sorry. To have read coldness or reproach in her eyes at +such a time would have been bitter indeed. + +It was but a glance, then La Follette touched his arm. Down below +there was no longer the rasp of steel on wood. Hugues was fighting now +barehanded, but he had been better than his word--the three minutes had +been prolonged to four. Then came a cry, "Ah, God!" and La Mothe heard +Ursula de Vesc sob. For a moment she looked up and their glances met, +but there was little time to read her message, little time to see +anything but the pain in the grey eyes. A rush of feet on the stairs +called him, and side by side with La Follette he bent across the well. +The bench half covered the opening, but there were slits of a foot or +more wide at either edge, opening the way for attack. + +But the rush ceased almost as soon as it began. This new obstacle was +unlooked for, and between the slits those above could see the savagely +passionate faces of the besiegers staring up at them. Then one, bolder +or more enterprising than the rest, crept up cautiously step by step, +measuring his distance as he advanced. + +"Cover me," he said to the next lower. "Strike at whatever shows +itself," and thrust blindly upwards. It was their first sight of bare +steel, and Ursula de Vesc drew in her breath with a shiver as she saw +the red smear upon its flat. "Oh! Hugues, Hugues," she moaned, and +the Dauphin, catching at her hand with both his, shrank closer. + +"Damnation!" cried La Mothe, striking fiercely at the blade as it +darted from side to side or sawed back and forth. But when he would +have struck a second time La Follette curtly forbade him. + +"You may break your sword, and he can do no harm from where he is." + +So they discovered for themselves, and the foremost crept yet a step +higher. But when he struck afresh La Follette, lunging aslant and +downwards, caught him below the wrist. With a curse he let the blade +fall clattering, and there was a pause. But if he were bolder, those +behind had not been idle. A voice from the background cried out to +clear the steps, and before those above understood the altered tactics +a picket, drawn from the palisade, was thrust between the bench and the +wall. It was La Follette who first grasped the danger. + +"Blaise--Marcel!" he cried. "Here on the bench both of you and hold it +down." + +But only one answered the call. Marcel was on his knees in the corner +praying for the miracle which should be his own handiwork, not the +first man nor the last who has called on God to bear the burden his own +shoulder refuses. Blaise was of better stuff. "Here I am, monsieur," +he cried, but before he could bring his weight to bear a second picket, +sharpened at the point, was rammed up and forward with two men's +strength, driving the bench aslant till its end dipped and it fell with +a crash, scattering those below, but with little hurt. The way was +open, but Hugues' foresight had added five minutes to the four. + +"For the Lord's sake," cried Blaise, staring into the welter below, +"give me something in my bare hand. Rats, he called us, rats, and I +won't die like a rat, I won't, I won't." It was the cry of primitive +nature and the Dauphin answered it. + +"Here," said he, rising on his knees as he unbuckled his own small +sword. "You are stronger than I am. Be a man, Blaise." + +"You'll see, Monseigneur, you'll see. Come up, you curs, come up. +Rats, you said? Come up and meet a man." + +"Three men," said Mademoiselle. "Monsieur La Mothe, is there nothing I +can do?" + +"Nothing, mademoiselle," he answered, and turning met her eyes with a +smile. He knew he was forgiven, and thanked Hugues in his heart that +he had lived so long. But for Hugues he would have died at the door, +died in ignorance. The comfort was the dead man's gift to him, and +now, in the paradox of nature, because of that comfort it would not be +so hard to follow him. + +But if to die comforted would be less hard, there was something much +more than comfort to live for, and to La Mothe the odds did not seem +utterly hopeless. Three resolute men could surely hold the well hole +till succour came. Resolute? Much more than resolute--desperate. +Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. Had he not the best cause +the world holds to be resolute to desperation? Hugues had died for +love's sake, please God he would live for it. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE LAST STAND + +Below the attack halted, but up the stairway came the noise of rough +laughter and rougher words, words which made Stephen La Mothe's blood +grow hot and his nerves tingle as, gritting his teeth, he stamped his +feet so that the girl might not hear them also. Resolute? Desperate? +Yes, much more than resolute, much more than desperate, and with much +more than a man's life to be lost. And all were of one mind. Follette +he was sure of, and at his right Blaise, the stable-lad, panted in +short breaths, swinging his unaccustomed weapon softly. "Damn them!" +La Mothe heard him say. "Will they never come?" and when the nine +minutes had crawled to twelve they came. + +But not with a rush, not as those above had reckoned. The siege had +grown cautious. This time there was a system. Up, on the very edge of +the steps, broad, wide, and shallow for the easier carrying of heavy +loads upon the back, came the two with the palisades, up, until the +pickets were a full yard through the well-hole, but with those who held +them out of reach, and with a shout, the wood rasping the ancient +flagging, each swept a quarter circle. It was the work of an instant. +As the pickets crashed against the wall the voice from behind cried, +"Now lads!" and the rush came. There was the clang of iron-shod feet +on the stones, a glimmer in the half obscurity, and behind the pickets +the stairway bristled with steel. + +"Praises be!" cried Blaise, and crouched on his heels. Down he leaned, +down, forward, and lunged clumsily. That, too, was the work of an +instant, an act concurrent with his cry, but when he straightened +himself a picket had dropped into the gloom, and he who held it lay +upon it, coughing and choking. "Rats!" said Blaise, slashing viciously +at the blade nearest him. "Dieu! but the rat bit the cur dog that +time! Come on, you curs." + +And the rats had need to bite. The well-hole was double-lined; those +in front fought upward, while those behind protected them and stole a +step higher if the defence slackened. Nice play of fence there was +none. In such a packed confusion the brute strength of Blaise the +stableman counted for more than the finest skill of fence in the world. +And with the brute's strength he seemed to have the brute's +indifference to pain. Twice, stooping low, he parried with his arm, +taking the slash with a gasp but thrusting as he took it, and each +thrust struck home. But those behind filled the gaps, those below +pressed upward stair by stair, and La Mothe, breathless, but without a +scratch, knew what it was to be blood-drunken as the din of steel +filled his ears and he saw the flushed and staring faces opposite rise +minute by minute more level with his own. The three were doing all men +could dare or do, but the end was nearer and nearer with every breath. +The end! God in heaven! No! not that--not that; and in his +drunkenness he dashed a thrust aside as Blaise had done, stabbed as +Blaise had stabbed, and laughed drunkenly that he had sent a soul to +its Maker with all the passions of lust and murder hot upon it; but +happier than Blaise he took no hurt. + +"Mademoiselle," said La Follette without turning his head, and speaking +softly to save his breath, "go you and Monseigneur to the corner behind +me," and La Mothe knew that he too saw the coming of the end. There in +the corner, with Love and France behind them, they would make their +last stand. + +"I have Monseigneur's dagger," she answered. Again La Mothe understood +the inference left unspoken, understood that she as well as he had +heard the brutal jests which had set his blood boiling. That she had +the dagger was a comfort; but what a splendid courage was hers. Marcel +had even ceased to pray. + +For very life's sake La Mothe dared abate the vigilance of neither eye +nor hand, and yet by instinct--there was no sound--he knew they had +risen to obey. By instinct, too, he knew that Ursula de Vesc had drawn +nearer, and it was no surprise to hear her voice behind him. But it +was not to him she spoke. + +"Now, Blaise, thrust, thrust!" + +There was a rip of torn cloth, a flutter in the air--the flutter as of +a bird on the wing--an upturned point was caught in a tangle of white +linen, and through the tangle Blaise rammed his sword-blade almost to +the hilt and laughed, panting. + +"Rats!" he cried, tugging his arm backwards with a horrible jerk. "Go +to your hole, cur!" and more blood-drunken even than La Mothe he broke +into a village song. + + "'Rosalie was soft and sweet; + Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss: + Hair and month and cheek and feet, + Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss.' + + +"Mademoiselle, fling in that praying lout from the corner and make some +use of him; it's all he's fit for." + +But the gap was filled; there were two on the top-most step, and La +Follette, not only wounded in the thigh but slashed across the ribs, +was giving ground. + +"Be ready, La Mothe," he said. His teeth were clenched and his chest +laboured heavily. "Be ready, Blaise." + +"Ready," answered La Mothe, saving his breath. His heart was very +bitter. The twelve minutes were seventeen, succour could not be far +off, but the end had come. "Do you hear, Blaise?" + +But Blaise was past hearing. While he fought with his right his maimed +left hand, cut to the bones, had torn his smock open from the throat, +and the hairy chest, smeared with his blood, glistened in broad drops +from the sweat of his labours. In such a hilt-to-hilt struggle his +ignorance was almost an advantage. He had nothing to unlearn, no rules +of fence to disregard, and his peasant's strength of arm whirled aside +an attack with a paralyzing power impossible to any skill. Right, +left, downward swept the blade, his knees and hips half bent as he +leaned forward, crouching, his left arm swinging as he swayed. Right, +left, downward, his blood-drunkenness growing in savage abandonment +with every minute. Yes, he was ready--ready in his own way--but past +hearing. + +"Damn the English," was his answer to La Mothe, his mind back in the +fifty-year-old tragedy. The play was no make-believe, and he was +Michel Calvet, son to Jean the sixth, the Michel whose elder brother +had been coursed like a hare and killed in the open. Then his song +rose afresh, but gaspingly, raucously, as if the notes tore his chest. + + "'Rosalie, I love you true; + Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet. + Lov'st thou me as I love you? + Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet.' + + +"Rats," said he! "Come up, y' cur dogs, come up." + +"La Mothe," breathed La Follette, "when I say Now!" + +Yes, the end had come. + +"Damn the English," cried Blaise hoarsely. With a mighty stroke he +swept aside the opposing points, drew a choking breath, crouched lower, +and, with the Dauphin's sword at the charge, he flung himself into the +gap breast-forward, missed his thrust, splintered the blade against the +wall, and with a wild clutch drew all within reach into his grip. For +an instant they hung upon a stair-edge, then, in a writhing, +floundering mass, breast to breast, breathless, half dead or dying, +they rolled to the floor. From behind La Mothe heard Ursula de Vesc +cry, "Oh God! pity him!" in a sob. But he dared not turn, his own +blood-drunkenness fired him to the finger-tips and he lunged furiously, +getting home a stroke above a point lowered in the surprise. Again +there was a rush of iron-shod feet upon the stones, but a rush +downward, a moment's pause below, a crossing babel of passionate, +clamouring voices, insistence, denial, and yet more denial, then a +silence--or what seemed a silence--a few hoarse whispers and a cry or +two of pain. Yes, the end had come. In the corner stood the Dauphin +and, half in front, Ursula de Vesc, her arm stretched out across his +breast in the old attitude of protection. Marcel lay beside them in a +faint. + +"Hugues?" There was a question and a cry in the boy's one word. + +"Charles, Charles, have you nothing to say to the brave men who almost +died for you?" + +"Hugues loved me," he answered, and at the bitter pathos of the reply +La Mothe forgot the ingratitude. There were so few who loved him. But +the girl could not forget. + +"Monsieur La Follette, Monsieur La Mothe," she began, but broke off +with a cry. "Oh, Monsieur La Follette, you are wounded? What can I +do? Words can come afterwards, and all my life I will remember, all my +life. Are you dreadfully hurt? Can I not do something?" But though +she spoke to La Follette her eyes, after the first glance, were busy +searching Stephen La Mothe for just such an ominous stain as showed in +brown patches upon La Follette. But there was none. Breathless, +dishevelled, his clothing slashed, he was without a scratch, and the +strained anxiety faded from her face. + +"I can wait," answered La Follette, "we must get the Dauphin to the +Chateau. La Mothe, see if they are gone," and he glanced significantly +down the stairway. La Follette knew something of war, and there must +be sights below it were better Ursula de Vesc should not see lest they +haunt her all her life, sleeping or waking. + +But the Dauphin, his nerves strained and raw, had grown petulant. + +"It is safe enough. I heard them ride off. I want Hugues. I want +Hugues." + +"And Blaise?" + +"Oh! Blaise!" He broke into a discordant laugh. "I told him to be a +man and, my faith! he was one. Do you think, Ursula, that Father John +will ask my thoughts a second time?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +DENOUNCED + +"It was an epic," said Villon, "a veritable epic, and if you were truly +the Homer I called you half the towns in France would claim you for a +citizen. As it is you have only been born twice, once in--where was +it? No matter, it is of very little importance; it is the second that +really counts, and that second birthplace is--Amboise. A man's soul is +born of a woman just as his body is. And a man's soul is love. Until +love comes he is a lumpish mass of so much flesh without even a spark +of the divine." + +"Then you," said La Mothe gravely, "have seen many incarnations?" + +"Many!"--and Villon's eyes twinkled--"but with each one the pangs of +birth grew less violent. You will find it so yourself. But our epic. +Though I cannot write it I will sketch it in outline for you. Book the +First: Hugues!" He broke off, shaking his head soberly, every trace of +his humorous mood gone. "Poor devil of a Hugues! Francois Villon, who +made verses, will be remembered, and Hugues, who made history, +forgotten. Why cannot I write epics that we might both be remembered +together? But no! a tinkle of rhyme leavened with human nature and +salted by much bitter experience--that is Francois Villon! I know my +limitations. A man can give out nothing better than is put into him. +Well, so long as we give our best I don't believe the good God will be +hard upon us. Now, then. Book the Second: Martlets and +Mullets--there's alliteration for you." + +"Martlets and Mullets? Villon, what do you mean?" + +"Have you forgotten our friend of the spiked thorn?" + +"But the Dauphin swears these were Tristan's men." + +"Tristan? Impossible! Tristan is too sure, too careful an artist to +spoil his work. Heaven knows I do not love Tristan, but I will give +him this credit: when he sets out on a piece of scoundrelly work he +carries it through. No, no, I'll wager my Grand Testament to the +epic--which will never be written--that it was Molembrais' second cast +of the net, and when he drags Amboise a third time there will be fish +caught. What's more, La Mothe, there is a traitor in Amboise--a +traitor to the boy. First there was Bertrand, then the Burnt Mill: +these don't come by accident. But Tristan? Tristan botches no jobs. +But to come back to our epic. Book the Third: Blaise! How many dead +were there?" + +"Four." + +"And Blaise, the stableman, has two at the least, if not three, to his +credit. When Charles is king--pray heaven Louis does not hear me at +Valmy--he should make Blaise, the stableman, a Marshal of France, or +perhaps Master of the Horse would suit him better," and Villon chuckled +gleefully. He had always a huge appreciation of his own wit, however +slender. "There's a lucky dog for you, to grip death round the neck, +hugging him to the breast with both arms, and yet get nothing worse +than a scratched wrist, a slashed palm, and a dent in a thick skull. +Book the Fourth: but here is Monsieur d'Argenton and I had better---- +No! I'll stand my ground. The rose garden of Amboise is free to all +king's jackals." + +"Villon, Villon, why are you so bitter-tongued?" + +"Listen to Monsieur de Commines for five minutes and you will know why. +And it is not I who am bitter, but the truth. Jackals both, I say." + +They were, as Villon had said, in the rose garden. Dusk, the dusk of +the day on which Hugues had made history to be forgotten, was +thickening fast, but the air was still warm with all the sultriness of +noon. To that confined space, with the grey walls towering on three +sides, coolness came slowly. The solid masonry held the heat like the +living rock itself, and no current of the night wind blowing overhead +eddied downward in refreshment. + +But solid as was the masonry, and mighty the walls in their frowning +strength, there is but little of them left, and of the rose garden not +a trace. Time, the great iconoclast, has touched them with his finger +and they have passed away like the humble maker of history, while +Francois Villon's tinkle of rhyme, leavened with human nature, still +leaves its imprint on a whole nation. Perhaps the reason is that the +makers of history could have been done without. In these generations +the world would be little the worse, little changed had they never been +born, and have lost nothing of the joy or brightness of life. In his +own generation the patriot is more necessary than the poet, but let +four centuries pass and the poet will wield a larger influence than the +patriot. + +But thick as was the dusk, a dusk thicker than the actual degree of +night because of the prevailing shadow, La Mothe saw that Commines was +disturbed by an unwonted excitement. Not from his face. It was deeply +lined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, the mouth +harsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man breathes who has outrun his +lung power, and his uneasy fingers clenched and unclenched incessantly. +Those who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs and grew +watchful. But it was upon Villon that the storm fell. + +"For an hour I have been searching for you--in the Chateau, in the +Chien Noir, in every tavern in Amboise----" + +"And you find me amongst the roses! How little you know my nature, +Monsieur d'Argenton!" + +"I know it better than I like it," answered Commines grimly. "You +lodge at the Chien Noir?" + +"It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and I can commend to you +its wine of '63. Monsieur La Mothe drinks nothing else." + +"As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make many. But I am not +here to talk of Monsieur La Mothe's drinking bouts, though they explain +much. You are in the King's service?" + +"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes." + +"No quibble; you are paid to be faithful?" + +"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes." + +"Villon, curb your impertinences. I'll not endure them." + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, there is a proverb which says, 'Physician, cure +thyself.' What did I tell you, Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutes +are not up yet." But Stephen La Mothe discreetly answered nothing. +One of the first lessons a man learns in the ways of the world is to +keep his fingers from between other men's millstones. + +"You lodge at the Chien Noir," went on Commines, ignoring the retort; +"you are in the King's service and have been paid with your life. Why +are you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme is +hatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grown +besotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free hand +in Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child's +play--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand across +La Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, and +the cold severity passed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don't +think I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank God +you are safe, I thank God he has given me back my son Stephen; but what +am I to say to the King?" + +"Ho! ho!" said Villon; "so it is son Stephen nowadays? Then the play +is almost played out?" + +"Most of all I blame you," and Commines, his arm still round La Mothe's +shoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of passion. "How is it +you are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure the +King shall hear the truth." + +But Villon was unabashed. "What is the truth, Monsieur d'Argenton? +Even your friend Tristan would not hang a man without first telling him +what for. What is this truth of yours?" + +"There is a plot against the King's life." + +"In Amboise?" + +"In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de Vesc, Hugues----" + +"It's a lie," cried La Mothe, shaking himself free from Commines' arm. +"A lie, a lie. I have Mademoiselle de Vesc's own word for it that it +is a lie." + +"And I have proof that it is true." + +"Proof? Whose proof?" + +Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had overstepped his purpose. +Before making his disclosure to La Mothe he had searched for Villon in +the hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mind +willing to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexed +anger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error, +first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen La +Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened. + +"Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interest +have I but the King's service?" + +"Uncle, you said proofs--whose proofs?" + +"What is that to you? Do you forget that you are to obey my orders?" + +"Proofs, Monsieur d'Argenton, whose proofs?" + +"All do not blind themselves as you do." Round he swung upon Villon, +shaking a stretched-out finger at him viciously. "Drinking himself +drunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for +her own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprang +forward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs you +would cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she +has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songs +till the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint." + +"A saint," answered La Mothe hoarsely, "a saint. I say so--I say so. +A saint as good, as sweet, as pure----" He paused, looking round him +in the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch +of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good as +these lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieur +d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc." + +"Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat at +the feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could not +have said it better myself." + +But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this very +unreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation. +Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, a +word or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, a +little sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a damning +reality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such an +amplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel would +serve no good purpose. + +"Words, Stephen," he said more gently, "mere words, and what are +rhetoric and declamation against proofs?" + +"Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly. + +Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the ground +slipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "So +far it is you who have answered with rhetoric and declamation." + +"Word-of-mouth proofs." + +"Here in the Chateau?" + +"No," answered Commines reluctantly, "not just in the Chateau but at +its very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeks +ago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It was +the very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. The +King is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In his +sick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judging +afterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for no +cause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances, +and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follow +next. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some one +must act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle de +Vesc. That was weeks ago, and you," again Commines turned upon Villon +in denunciation, "you must have known." + +"Lies, all damnable lies," said La Mothe, choking. "Who is the liar? +You won't tell me? But I must know; I must and shall. Not in the +Chateau, but at its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it Jean +Saxe, Uncle, is it Jean Saxe? It is! it is! Jean Saxe the--the---- +Villon, you said there was a traitor to the Dauphin in Amboise, was +that Jean Saxe? A traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who else +could it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave Molembrais his chance +ten days ago, Jean Saxe who knew of the play in the Burnt Mill to-day, +Mademoiselle told him----" + +"More proof," said Commines. "She and Jean Saxe are in collusion." + +"Collusion to kidnap the Dauphin? Mademoiselle de Vesc and Jean Saxe +in league against the boy? Uncle, you are mad and your proof proves +too much. If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursula +de Vesc's No! against him." + +"Good boy," repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, to the world at +large. "The very first time I saw him I said he was the image of +myself. Monsieur d'Argenton, what is Jean Saxe's story?" + +"That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalf +of the Dauphin, but vaguely at first. There was great discontent, said +Hugues, and greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteed +though he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking who was secure +if once the King had determined on his destruction. Even loyalty was +no safeguard. In the King's sick suspicion his most faithful servants +might be the first to suffer. Not a day passed but there was a +hanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both high and low. For a +man to keep his own life at all cost was no murder." + +"True," said Villon. "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! Yes, monsieur?" + +"That was the gist of it; vague as you see, but significant. Then, two +days ago, Hugues spoke a second time, urging Saxe to a decision. If +the Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, all France +would say, Thank God! The generous nature of the boy was well known. +There would be rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him to +promise----" + +But La Mothe could control himself no longer. Through Commines' +indictment, coldly, almost phlegmatically delivered, he stood +motionless and silent, his hands clenched, every muscle tense with +restraint. It was the fighting attitude, the attitude of a man who +waits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but a blow which will +surely come. Now the restraint snapped. + +"Villon, for God's sake, do you believe this lie?" + +It was an exceeding bitter cry, and the pain of it pierced through even +Commines' armour of calmness. But Villon, though he shivered a little, +only shook his head. His face, dimly seen, was full of a grave concern. + +"Some one has spoken to Saxe," he said. "Hugues or another. I know +Saxe well, he has not brains enough to imagine so great a truth." + +"A truth!" cried Commines, catching at the phrase he waited for. +"Stephen, Stephen, all along I warned you she was dangerous." + +"Very dangerous," said Villon, "I have felt it myself. No man is safe. +In '57--or was it '58?--there was just such another. Her mother kept +the little wine shop at the corner of----" + +"Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxe +had told the truth." + +"That the King and France are both sick; yes, Monsieur d'Argenton." + +"No, no, but that Saxe had been approached." + +"By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that." + +"You hear, Stephen? Does that satisfy you?" + +"But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added a little on his +own account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken. + +"Then what is the truth?" + +"You ask that of a poet? As well ask it of a courtier--or a king's +minister," he added, and turned to La Mothe. "Were I you I would set +them face to face this very night." + +"But she has already denied it." + +"All the more reason. A truth will wait till morning, but a lie should +be killed overnight. Lies breed fast and die hard." + +"But she may refuse." + +"If I know women," said Villon, "Mademoiselle de Vesc will refuse you +nothing." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +"WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER" + +But while Stephen La Mothe still hesitated Commines took action. He +recognized that sooner or later there must be a confronting. Ursula de +Vesc, however deeply implicated, was no patient Griselda to accept +judgment without a protest. Tacit admission would condemn the Dauphin +equally with herself, and she might be trusted to fight for the Dauphin +with every wile and subterfuge open to a desperate woman. In her +natural attitude of indignation she would certainly force a crisis. +The sooner the crisis came the better, and amongst those for whom that +was better Philip de Commines was not the least. With all his heart he +loathed the part he was compelled to play, even while determined to +play it to its ghastly end. But to some men, Commines amongst them, +the irrevocable brings a drugging of the sensibilities. When that +which must be done could not be undone he would be at peace. + +The sooner the crisis came the better, too, for Stephen La Mothe, and +Commines' sympathies went out to him with an unwonted tenderness. The +lad's nerves were flayed raw, and for him also there could be no peace +until the inevitable end had come. But just what that end would be, +and how it was to be reached, Commines feared to discuss even with +himself. + +But the first necessity was that Ursula de Vesc's complicity should be +brought home to her. Let that be done, and La Mothe's despair might +clear aside all difficulties, though, without doubt, the poor boy would +suffer. There is no such pain as when love dies in the full glory of +its strength. But then would come the ministrations of Time, the +healer. Mother Nature of the rough hand and tender heart would scar +the hurt, and little by little its agony would numb into a passive +submission. + +It was a truth he had proved. Suzanne's death had been as the plucking +out of the very roots of life. In that first tremendous realization of +loss there had been no place left for even God Himself. But that had +passed. The All-Merciful has placed bounds on the tide of human +suffering: Thus far shalt thou go, and no further. The maimed roots of +life had budded afresh, and if no flower of love had shed its fragrance +to bless the days, there had been peace. So would it be with Stephen +La Mothe. But the Valley of Tribulation must first be crossed, and it +would be the mercy of kindness to shorten the passage, even though the +plunge into its shadows was the more swift. For that there must be +conviction, and for the conviction a confronting. Villon was right, +Ursula de Vesc and Jean Saxe should be set face to face within the hour. + +"Monsieur Villon," he said with unaccustomed courtesy, "I agree with +you. Hugues is dead, the Dauphin too high above us, but Mademoiselle +de Vesc has the right to know the peril she stands in. Will you do us +all a kindness and bring Jean Saxe to the Chateau? Monsieur La Mothe +and I will----" he paused, searching for a word which would be +conclusive and yet without offence, "will summon Mademoiselle de Vesc." + +"It is an outrage," said La Mothe stubbornly, "and I protest against +it, protest utterly." + +"Stephen, try and understand," and Commines laid his hand upon the +younger man's shoulder with something more than the persuasive appeal +of the father who, to his sorrow, is at variance with the son of his +love. It was the gesture of the friend, the equal, the elder in +authority who might command but elects to reason. "Consider my +position a moment. By the King's command I stand in his place in +Amboise. If he were here----" + +"God forbid!" said Villon. "The King is like heaven--dearly loved afar +off." + +"But his justice is here----" + +"And his mercy?" + +"And his mercy," repeated Commines coldly, "the mercy that gave you +life when justice would have hung you as a rogue and a thief. Of all +men you are the last who should sneer at the King's mercy. And now +will you call Jean Saxe, or must I go myself?" + +"As my friend La Mothe decides," answered Villon. "I advise it myself. +Give a lie a night's start and you will never catch it up." + +"Stephen, son, be wise." + +With a gesture of despair La Mothe would have turned away, but Commines +held him fast. His faith was unshaken, but the natural reaction from +the day's tense emotion had sapped its buoyancy, leaving it negative +and inert rather than positive and aggressive. The half-hour's +slackless concentration of nerve and muscle in the defence of the +stairway had drained him of strength and energy like the crisis of a +fever. For him Ursula de Vesc's curt No! stood against the world; but +Philip de Commines was the King's justice in Amboise, and against Jean +Saxe's accusation her denial would carry no weight--no weight at all. +But, though the gesture was one of helplessness, Villon chose to +construe it into consent. + +"Good!" he said cordially, "it is best, much the best. In half an hour +I will bring Saxe to--let me see, the Hercules room, I think, Monsieur +d'Argenton? It is small, but large enough for the purpose, and as it +has only one door it can be easily guarded." + +"No guards," said Commines harshly. "There must be no publicity." + +Villon laughed unpleasantly. His shifting mood had, almost for the +first time in his life, felt kindly disposed towards Commines as he saw +his evident solicitude for La Mothe, but that was forgotten in the +contemptuous recall of a past he held should no longer rise against +him. What the King forgave the King's minister should forget. The +thrust had wounded his vanity, and now, as he saw his opening, he +promptly thrust back in return. + +"You are the King's justice in Amboise and would have no man know it! +That is true modesty, Monsieur d'Argenton! No, don't fear, there will +be no publicity. Monsieur La Mothe, he calls you son; but friend is +more than kin, more than family, remember that Francois Villon says so." + +Commines' answer was an upward shake of the head, a lifting of the +shoulders hardly perceptible in the darkness. + +"It is the nature of curs to snarl," he said. "But his impertinence +grows insufferable and must be muzzled." Linking his arm into La +Mothe's he drew him slowly along the garden path. Both were +preoccupied by the same desire, to win the other to his own way of +thinking, but it was the more cautious elder who spoke first. He would +appeal to the very affection Villon had gibed at. + +"Stephen, dear lad, with all my heart I grieve for you. Would to God +it were anything but this. Mademoiselle de Vesc has always opposed me, +but that is nothing; has always striven to thwart me, but for your sake +that could be forgotten; has always flouted and belittled me, but for +your sake that could be forgiven. You are as the son of my love, and +what is there that love will not forgive--will not forget? These weigh +nothing, nothing at all. In the face of this--this--tremendous crime +against the King, against all France, I count them nothing, less than +nothing. Dear lad, you must be brave. This worthless woman----" + +"No, Uncle, no, not that, never that!" La Mothe's voice was as level +and quiet as Commines' own, and the elder knew thereby that his +difficulty was the greater. Quietness is always strong, always assured +of itself. "I do not believe Saxe speaks the truth." + +"Saxe is the spark, and I told you I smelt smoke. Even Villon admits, +much against his will, that some one has approached Saxe." + +"But not Hugues, and if that is untrue then all is untrue." + +"No: there is no logic in that. Hugues or another, it matters little +who it was. It is the fact that damns, and Saxe is explicit. And how +can Villon be sure it was not Hugues?" + +"Uncle, Uncle, you can't believe it, in your heart you can't believe +it. All these days you have seen her, so gracious, so gentle, so +womanly. It can't be true, it can't. There is some horrible mistake." + +"Saxe is explicit, and Villon agrees with him," repeated Commines, +driving home the inexorable point. "Nor can I help myself; the King +has left me no alternative." + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc has denied it to me, and I believe her." + +"You believe her because you love her." + +"No," answered La Mothe simply, "I believe her because I have faith in +her, but even though she were all Saxe says, and more, I would stand by +her because I love her." + +Commines paused in his slow walk, slipped his hand from La Mothe's arm, +and they stood silent side by side. Then in his perplexity he moved a +few paces away, halted, turned again and faced La Mothe. + +"Poor lad, and I have no alternative. The King and my duty alike allow +me none. Stephen, in self-defence I must be frank with you. It is my +firm belief that the King has evidence he cannot show openly----" + +"And so a pretext will be enough? God in heaven! is that justice?" + +"No, there must be something more than a pretext, something more than a +lie; but Saxe will be enough." + +"It will be enough if Saxe's lies cannot be disproved?" + +"If Saxe cannot be disproved," corrected Commines. "I cannot admit +that Saxe lies." + +"And what then?" + +Again Commines turned away. Humanity's Iron Age was as stern, as +selfish, as callous, as cruel as in the days of Attila the Hun. +Christianity, after its almost fifteen centuries, had no more than, as +it were, warmed it through with its gentle fires. There was as yet no +softening. It was true that some increasing flowers of civilization +obscured the brutality, some decorations of art glorified it, but +underneath the beauty and the art the native ruthlessness remained +unchanged. Might founded a throne upon the ruin of weaker nations, +cemented its strength with the blood of innocence, set the crown upon +its own head, and reigned in arrogant defiance of right or justice. + +From the barbarous Muscovite in the north to the polished Spaniard in +the south the conditions scarcely varied. Everywhere there was the +same spirit. A Louis pushed wide the borders of France by theft and +the law of the stronger arm, a Ferdinand offered up his holocaust to +the greater glory of God, a Philip yet to come would steep the +Netherlands in blood to the very dikes that the same God might be +worshipped in violation of the worshipper's conscience, in England a +Crookback Richard had neither pity nor scruple when a crown was the +reward of ruthlessness and murder. + +Nor in the high places of religion was there a nobler law. A Sixtus, +at that very moment, was letting loose the horrors of an unjust war +upon Florence and Ferrara in the name of the Prince of Peace, while the +sinister figure of Alexander Borgia sat upon the steps of the Papal +throne biding its time. If the meek inherited the earth, it was +commonly a territory six feet long and two in breadth. Everywhere the +ancient rule was still the modern plan: those took who had the power, +and those kept who could. There were exceptions, but exceptions were +rare. Even at the Round Table there was only one Galahad. + +Commines did not differ greatly from his age, or he would have been no +fit minister for Louis. A tool is no longer a tool if it is not +obedient to the hand which guides it. Let it fail in the work set it +to do and it is cast aside into forgottenness or broken up as waste. +He had no liking, he had even a loathing, for the part allotted to him, +and he played it unwillingly; left to himself, he would not have played +it at all. Ursula de Vesc might have lived out her life in peace so +far as he was concerned; but Ursula de Vesc stood in his master's path, +and however distasteful it might be she must be swept aside, now that +Saxe made it possible so to do, and yet hold a semblance of justice. +Only through her could the Dauphin be reached, therefore Commines +steeled his nerves. + +But to Stephen, partly for his own sake, and yet more for the memory of +the dear dead woman, his heart went out in a greater tenderness than +that of cold sympathy. Human love in the individual has been the salt +which has kept the body politic from utter rottenness. How to soften +the blow to Stephen was his thought as he paced slowly through the cool +darkness of the night: how to do more than that, how to link Stephen to +his own fortunes, which would surely rise after the successful +execution of this commission of tragedy. Slowly he paced into the +darkness, turned, and paced as slowly back again, to find Stephen +standing motionless where he had left him, his hands linked behind his +back, his shoulders squared, his face very sternly set. + +"And if Jean Saxe's lies cannot be disproved? What follows then?" + +"Stephen, we must save her together." He paused, but La Mothe made no +reply. What could he answer? To continue protesting her innocence +with nothing but his own word and hers to back the assertion was but +beating the air; to ask, How shall we save her? would, he thought, +tacitly admit her guilt. So there was silence until Commines went on +slowly and with an evident difficulty; he would need all his diplomacy, +he realized, all his powers of sophistry and persuasion if he was to +carry Stephen La Mothe with him along the path he proposed to follow. + +"Let us face facts," he began, almost roughly. "Saxe will leave me no +alternative. No! say nothing, I know it all beforehand, and with all +my soul I wish this had not fallen to my lot. And yet, Stephen, it is +better I should be here than Tristan; Tristan has a rough way with +women. Poor lad, that hurts you, does it? Yes, I am better than +Tristan, even though Saxe leaves me no alternative. But we shall save +her together," and this time Stephen La Mothe, out of the horror of the +thought of Ursula de Vesc given over to the mercies of such a man as +Tristan, found it in his heart to ask, "How?" The answer came +promptly, but with grave deliberation. + +"By the King's mercy." + +"What mercy had the King on Molembrais? Will he be more merciful to a +woman?" + +"Then by his gratitude. Stephen, for her sake we must win the King's +gratitude together." + +"I do not understand." + +"Behind the girl, but joined with her, stands----" + +"The Dauphin? My God, Uncle, not that way." + +La Mothe's voice was strange even to his own ears, so harsh and dry was +it, the voice of age rather than of youth, and, indeed, he felt as if +in this last hour he had suddenly grown so old that the world was a +weariness. + +"There were three in this plot," answered Commines, unmoved from his +slow gravity, "Hugues, the Dauphin, and Mademoiselle de Vesc. Hugues +is dead, but two still remain." + +"His own son, his own, his one son? No, no, it cannot be, it cannot." + +"I grant that it is incredible, but Saxe leaves no loophole for doubt." + +"I do not mean that. I meant it could not be that the King--I cannot +say it; his one son." + +"He has no son but France. Do you remember what I told you that night +in my room? Better the one should suffer than the many. And now there +is a double reason, a double incentive to us both. Mademoiselle de +Vesc's life hangs upon it. Follow the chain of reasoning, and, for +God's sake, Stephen, follow closely. There is more than the life of a +girl in all this. Jean Saxe cannot be suppressed even if we dared +attempt it; Francois Villon, the King's jackal, who holds his life by a +thread, knows everything. Of all men he dares not keep silence, of all +men he would not keep silence if he dared, scum that he is. Within two +days the King will know all Saxe's accusations, and if we do not act +for ourselves another--Tristan or another--will come in our place. We +will have destroyed ourselves for nothing, and there will be no hope +for the girl, none. Can you not guess Tristan's methods with women? +But, Stephen, if we act, if we return to Valmy and say, 'Sire, we have +done our duty to the nation, with heavy hearts and in bitter sorrow we +have done it: even though we have laid love itself on the altar of +sacrifice, we have done it, give us this one life in return'--can the +King refuse? Remember, if it is not we it will be another, and if we +have no claim to ask, there will be no life given. Nor can we have any +claim but obedience. I see no other way, no other hope." + +The touch upon his arm was half appeal, half admonition, wholly +friendly, but La Mothe winced as he shrank from it. There are times +when human sympathy is the very salvation of the reason and the one +comfort possible to the bruised spirit, but now the solitary instinct +of the sick animal was upon him and he longed to be alone. Some +sorrows are so personal they cannot be shared. Nor was it all sorrow. +There was the passion of a fierce resentment, the bitter protest of +helpless nature against a wanton and callous outrage. + +As plainly as if Commines had said it in so many words he understood +that, sinless or sinning, Ursula de Vesc was to be sacrificed to some +state advantage; he understood, too, that neither Commines nor the King +cared greatly whether she was innocent or guilty, and that but for his +sake Commines would have given her hardly a second thought. Saxe lies! +What matter? The state must progress. Saxe lies! What matter? +Better one suffer than the many. Saxe lies! What matter? We will +save her together by the one way possible. + +Did he remember that first night in Amboise? Had he ever forgotten? +Even in his plays of make-believe had he ever forgotten? The mind has +a way of laying aside the unpalatable in some pigeon-hole of memory; it +is out of sight, not forgotten. Yes, he remembered. Then it had been +obedience to the King, service to the man to whom he owed everything +and a duty to France. Now, more tremendous than all, Ursula de Vesc's +life was thrown suddenly into the scale. That was Commines' plain +statement. Nor was he conscious of any resentment against Commines. +If Jean Saxe held to his story Commines could have no alternative, and +if not Commines, it would be another, another less kindly. + +No? His rebellion, the bitter upheaval of spirit, was against the +conspiracy of iron circumstances which hedged him round on every side, +a rebellion such as a man might feel who finds himself in silent +darkness bound hand and foot with grave-clothes, while his brain is +still quick and every nerve quivering with the passionate desire for +life. "I see no hope," said Commines, "no hope but the one way," and +Stephen La Mothe knew that one way was murder. Abruptly he turned upon +his heel. + +"The half-hour must be almost up," he said; "let us go to her." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT + +"Say to Mademoiselle de Vesc that Monsieur d'Argenton requires to speak +with her in the Hercules room." It was the Judge who spoke. Already +Commines stood in Louis' place to search, sift, find, and his tone was +as cold and curt as the words were brusque. Then, as an afterthought, +he added, "You can say, too, that Monsieur La Mothe is with him." + +"No," said La Mothe; "omit that part of it." + +For a moment Commines hesitated, annoyed by a tone curter and colder +than his own, but after a glance at La Mothe's set face he motioned to +the servant to go. That was not the moment to precipitate a conflict. + +"Stephen, why not? It is the truth." + +"Great heavens! do we want the truth?" answered La Mothe. + +"But we are not friendly, she and I, and she may not come; you said so +yourself. Remember, we must have no scandal, no publicity." + +"Yes, what you have to do will be best done in the dark." + +"Stephen, be just. You know I mean that Saxe's story is not one to be +blazed abroad. Besides, nothing will be done to-night." + +"But to-morrow, or next day?" + +"It was not for the Dauphin's sake you risked your life this afternoon." + +"That is quite true. It was for Mademoiselle de Vesc, and it may be +risked again." + +"Stephen, what do you mean?" But La Mothe, striding ahead as if +impatient to face the issue and have done with uncertainties, returned +no answer. There could be no answer until he saw how events fell out. + +The Hercules chamber was named after the tapestry which hid the dull +grey plaster of its walls. From the one door--and that there should be +but one was unusual in an age when to provide for the strategy of +retreat was common prudence--where the infant Hero strangled with +chubby hands the twin serpents sent for his destruction, the story of +his labours told itself with all the direct simplicity of medieval art. + +No chronology was followed, the embroiderer having chosen her scenes at +pleasure or as the exigencies of space demanded. Here, Samson-like, he +tore the Numean lion jaw from jaw, his knee sunk in the shaggy chest, +his shoulders ripped to the bone as the hooked claws gripped the +muscles, his mighty torso a dripping crimson in the scheme of colour. +There he cleansed the Augean stable in a faithfulness of detail more +admirable in its approach to nature than its appeal to the +sensibilities, the artist having left nothing to the imagination; +beyond was the more human note, and Omphale bound him to her by a +single thread stronger than all the chains ever riveted in Vulcan's +forge. Next, with perhaps a significance of symbolism, the shirt of +Nessus tortured him to madness with its scorching fires till the huge +limbs writhed and the broad, kindly face was all a-sweat with agony, +but--and now it was the door again--the benediction of peace crowned +the end. The labours, the sorrows, the fiery trials were behind the +back for ever, the faults and failures were forgiven or atoned for; +after the stress of toil, the weariness of struggle, came the +blessedness of rest; after humanity, divinity and the imperishable +glory of high Olympus. Crude in its art, angular in its execution, +there still was something of the soul of the worker stitched with the +canvas. To Stephen La Mothe, touched at times by a poet's +comprehension, it seemed not altogether a myth,--a type, perhaps; only, +being very human, he hungered with a bitter hunger for the crowning of +the peace and the divinity of love while life was life. It requires a +robust faith to believe that Olympus can bring anything better than the +best of earth. + +A carved oak bench, black with age, stood beneath the centre of the +three narrow windows piercing the outer wall; a four-branched copper +lamp gave light from the polished table in the middle of the room; here +and there, flanking the oaken bench, at the ends of the room, and at +either side of the wide fireplace, were chairs and stools. A few +wolfskin rugs dotted the floor. Villon and Saxe had not yet arrived. + +"Mademoiselle begs that she may be excused to-night; she is very tired." + +"But she cannot be excused," began Commines, when La Mothe intervened. + +"Say that Monsieur La Mothe very greatly regrets she should be +disturbed when so weary, but as it is of importance to Monseigneur he +trusts she will excuse Monsieur d'Argenton's importunity." + +"I told you how it would be," said Commines as the servant left the +room, "you might as well have given your name first as last." + +But La Mothe shook his head. "There is a difference, and she will +understand." Then the restraint he had put upon himself with so much +difficulty snapped for a moment: "Uncle, for God's sake, be gentle with +her." + +"I will be all I dare, but I trust neither Saxe nor Villon," and as he +spoke the two entered the room. + +In spite of a strong effort at self-control the inn-keeper was visibly +ill at ease, while Villon, on his part, was complacently, almost +offensively, cheerful. In a characteristic Puckish humour he had +played alternately on Saxe's hopes and fears, but refusing all definite +information beyond the bare statement that Monsieur d'Argenton had sent +for him peremptorily. Why? How could Francois Villon say why? He was +no confidant of the Lord High Jackal of all the King's jackals. Saxe, +who was so friendly with couriers from Valmy, should know why. +Perhaps, humble though he, Jean Saxe, was, he had rendered the King +some service of late? and at the hint Saxe glowed, with expectation. +Who was so generous a paymaster as Louis! Perhaps, on the other +hand,--and the wrinkles of Villon's many wrinkled face deepened into +puckers,--Jean Saxe knew too much. That was dangerous. Amboise was +like Valmy, more entered than came out. Louis had many ways of paying +debts. There was Guy de Molembrais, for instance----, but Saxe was +frankly sweating and Villon broke off. The second hint was clearer +even than the first, and Saxe felt that both were true. + +But when he would have spoken Commines impatiently motioned him to be +quiet, flinging a "Wait!" at him as one might a command to a restless +dog, and at the evil augury the drops gathered anew round the edge of +his close-cropped hair; gathered and swelled until they trickled down +the cunning, stupid face. Villon, he noticed, and found another evil +significance in the act, drew away from him, leaving him solitary just +when the warm nearness of human kind would have been a comfort. + +They had not long to wait. Hearing a movement in the passage Villon +threw open the door, closing it again behind Ursula de Vesc. Then he +leaned against it like one interested but indifferent in his interest. +The girl was pitifully pale. Double lines of care creased the +smoothness of the forehead; the weariness she had plead had been no +pretence, but was written plainly in the languid gait, the drooped +lids, and the dark patches beneath the eyes. By her side walked +Charlemagne, and half a yard behind the three puppies trotted sleepily, +Charlot lagging last; even in his anxious preoccupation La Mothe +noticed it was Charlot, the best beloved of the three because it was +the weakest. + +Her first glance was for La Mothe, her second, and this time she bowed +slightly, was towards Commines, then it fell upon Saxe, and the brows +were raised in a mute interrogation, but there was neither apprehension +nor dismay. Stepping forward La Mothe placed a chair beside the table, +and, crossing the room, she sat down with a murmur of thanks, then she +turned to Commines. Drawing back a step La Mothe, half behind her, +rested, his hand on the chair-back, and the stage was set. + +"Mademoiselle," began Commines, "Saxe, whom you know, told me a strange +story to-day, and it seemed to us it was your right to hear it as soon +as possible." + +"Us? Who are us, Monsieur d'Argenton?" + +"Monsieur La Mothe and myself." + +"I agree with Monsieur d'Argenton that it is your right to hear it," +said La Mothe, "but in everything else I disagree. For me your one +word to-day was enough." + +"So that is why Monsieur d'Argenton is in Amboise?" + +"The story is this," went on Commines, studiously ignoring the cold +contempt in her voice. But she interrupted him. + +"Let Saxe tell his own story; why else is he here? It is always safer +to get such things first-hand. Now, Saxe?" + +Turning her shoulder on Commines she confronted Saxe. She knew she +was, somehow, on her defence, but not the offence alleged against her. +All day La Mothe's unexpected question had troubled her, and vaguely +she had connected it with the attempt upon the Dauphin at the Burnt +Mill, though how she, the Dauphin's almost one friend in Amboise, could +have knowledge of the attempt she could not understand. With the +failure of the attack she had thought the incident closed, but now Jean +Saxe had a story to tell, a story in some way linked to Stephen La +Mothe's question, a question which flushed the pallor of even her +weariness when she remembered how widely it had differed from what her +thought had been. + +But Jean Saxe was in no haste with his tale. Jean Saxe shuffled his +feet, licked his dry lips, and caught at his breath. His throat was +drier than Villon's had ever been, and Villon's was the driest throat +in Amboise. A modest man, though an innkeeper, Jean Saxe did not know +which way to look now that he was, for the moment, the centre of the +world. Either the grey eyes, their lids no longer drooping, searched +him out, or Commines' stern gaze stared him down, or, worst of all, he +met the sardonic light with which Villon beamed his satisfaction at a +scene quite to his humour, and so Jean Saxe was dumb, remembering that +Louis had many ways of paying his debts, and more went into Amboise +than came out again. For the trusted servant of so generous a King +Jean Saxe was not happy. + +"Come, Saxe, come. Tell me what you told me this afternoon, neither +more nor less. There is nothing in it to your discredit." + +"Yes, monseigneur, certainly. I have nothing to hide. I have always +been the King's most humble, faithful, devoted----" + +"Leave that aside. Come to your tale and tell the whole truth." + +"Of course, monseigneur. Hugues came to me----" + +"When did Hugues go to you?" It was Ursula de Vesc who spoke. From +his place behind her La Mothe could see the upward defiant tilt of the +head as she asked the question. + +"Let him tell his story his own way," said Commines, "or you will +confuse him." + +"As you will, but Hugues is dead and cannot defend himself," and the +defiance passed as, with a sigh, the girl sank wearily into her chair, +felt La Mothe's hand where it rested upon the back, and leaned hastily +forward, then settled slowly into her place again. As for Stephen La +Mothe, the beating of his heart quickened, but he stood unmoved. The +touch comforted them both. + +"Hugues came two days ago----" + +"That was the second time. When did he come first?" + +"Three weeks ago, monseigneur." + +"Are you sure?" + +"It was a week before your lordship came to Amboise. I remember it +perfectly because----" + +"Never mind why; that you remember and are sure of the day is enough. +I want you to be exact. It was a week before Monsieur La Mothe and I +arrived?" + +"Yes, monseigneur." Saxe had thrown off his nervousness. He no longer +shuffled his feet but stood breast square to the world. Commines' +questions had loosened the thread of his story, and he was ready to run +it off the reel without a tangle. "He said the King was very sick in +Valmy, so sick and full of suffering that every hour of life was an +hour of misery. It would be pure happiness, said he, pure charity and +a blessing if such a life were ended. He was sure the King himself had +no wish to live." + +"That," said Ursula de Vesc, her eyes fixed on vacancy, "is so very +like what we all know of His Majesty." + +"Yes, mademoiselle. Then he went on to say that those who helped the +poor suffering King to relief would be his best friends, and it ought +to be no surprise if there were such friends." + +"Were there names mentioned?" + +"No, monseigneur, not then." + +"But this afternoon you told me----" + +"I thought Saxe was to tell his story his own way?" broke in Ursula de +Vesc, tartly. + +"Mademoiselle de Vesc, you cannot know the peril you stand in." + +"Peril from what, Monsieur d'Argenton?" + +"from the justice of the King." + +"If it be only from his justice then I stand in no peril. But I, and +all who love the Dauphin, know well how the King's justice deals with +Amboise. Saxe, go on with your story your own way. No names were +mentioned that day? What then?" + +"Hugues said the King's sickness made him peevish and suspicious, so +that he doubted even his own friends. No one was safe, neither high +nor low, and no one could tell who would follow the same road as +Monsieur de Molembrais, whose safe-conduct couldn't save him. 'Even +you, Saxe,' he said, 'faithful as you have been and true servant to the +King, not even you are safe, and you know a man's first duty is to +himself.'" + +Francois Villon could not forgo the favourite tag of philosophy whereby +he had shaped his own career, "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! and that was +the first time, Saxe?" + +"The first time," repeated Saxe. "I think that was all he said then, +monseigneur, or the gist of it, for he repeated it over and over again." + +"Then come to the second. When was it?" + +"Two days ago, monseigneur." + +"Tell it your own way; or, stay a moment. Mademoiselle de Vesc," and +Commines turned to the girl, his face both grave and troubled, "help us +to be your friends, help us to save you from yourself before it is too +late. Much can be forgiven to a generous devotion however misplaced. +The King, I am sure, will see it in that light. I beg, I pray you, +pray you to speak before Saxe speaks. If not for your own sake, then +for the Dauphin's, for----" he paused, and, lifting his eyes, glanced +at Stephen La Mothe bolt upright within touch of her, "for the +happiness of a life help us to help you." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR + +At the appeal La Mothe's grip upon the chair grew more tense, and his +hand so shook that the whole chair was shaken as he felt the girl +stiffen against his knuckles. What his hopes were he did not dare +admit, though the foundations of his faith were never shaken. Better +even than the girl he understood how great was the issue Commines +played for in his effort to move her from her silence. Was it an +honest appeal or was it a trap? Would the love of a father accept a +hinted repentance, a veiled regret as sufficient? or did Commines, +astute and unscrupulous in his master's service, invite a contrition +that he might triumphantly declare, Here is proof? A single word +spoken in reversal of her afternoon's denial would justify---- But +swiftly as thought grew from thought Ursula de Vesc was yet swifter in +her reply. + +"I think you mean to be kind, Monsieur d'Argenton, and for that I am +grateful. Saxe, we are waiting." + +"Two days ago Hugues came to me again. I was in the stables----" + +"Where Hugues flung you into the horse-trough last month for speaking +disrespectfully of the Dauphin?" + +"Mademoiselle, you must not interrupt; later you can question Saxe if +you wish." + +"I wished to show you what good friends they were, these two. Hugues +cannot speak for himself." + +"He had need of me," said Saxe sullenly, "and that was the reason he +came to me as I say. I was grooming Grey Roland. 'He saved a King for +France,' said Hugues, with his hand on his neck, 'and what a King he +will make, so grateful, so generous. Not a man who helps him will be +forgotten. And it won't be long now. Saxe,' he said, 'you should join +us while there is time.' 'Who are us?' said I. But he wouldn't answer +that. 'You could hang us all if you knew,' he said. So I told him +that unless I had at least one name I wouldn't listen to him. What was +he but a servant? So he stood rubbing his chin awhile, then he said, +'We need you, Saxe, for you have the horses we want and you know Valmy, +so I'll tell you who is the brain of it all and the keenest next to the +Dauphin himself--Mademoiselle de Vesc.'" + +"A lie," said La Mothe, "the damnedest lie that ever came out of hell. +Finish your lies, Saxe." + +Sternly Commines turned upon him. "You are here only on sufferance; +either leave the room or be silent." + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, it is every man's right----" began La Mothe; but +Ursula de Vesc, turning in her chair, laid a hand upon his arm. + +"Wait," she said, smiling up at him bravely; "but I am grateful to you +all the same. So I am the brain of it all, Saxe?" + +"I only know what Hugues told me," answered Saxe, looking straight +before him. Of the two he was the more disturbed. His scalp tingled, +and again the little points of perspiration were glistening on his +forehead. Her quietness frightened him. To have shouted down a +passion of protest, a passion of terrified, angry denial, would have +been more natural. "He said you sent him on both days, you and +Monseigneur. You were both afraid the King would suspect the truth----" + +"The truth!" repeated the girl, and for the first time her voice shook; +"but it is all a lie, as Monsieur La Mothe says, a clumsy lie, and yet +I see that it may serve its purpose. It is not the truth the King +requires. Monsieur d'Argenton, I tell you formally that what Saxe has +said is absolutely untrue." + +"Saxe is explicit, you can question him when he has finished," answered +Commines coldly. For him the King stood behind Jean Saxe, and no mere +denial would content Louis or set his fears at rest. "Go on, Saxe. +The King would suspect the truth?" + +"So he said, monseigneur, and so there was need for haste," said Saxe. + +"Then why wait two days before telling Monsieur d'Argenton? Why wait +two days before warning the King? Why wait until Hugues was dead?" + +"There was a courier from Valmy to-day," said Villon, speaking for the +first time, and, as it seemed, irrelevantly. + +Commines turned upon him sharply. "What has that to do with it? He +brought letters from the King addressed to me. Monsieur La Mothe knows +their contents." + +"And for Jean Saxe," retorted Villon; "letters from the King for Jean +Saxe and Monsieur d'Argenton!" + +"Ah!" said mademoiselle the second time, "so that is why Monsieur +d'Argenton is in Amboise." + +"That is why," answered Commines, his hand stretched out in +denunciation. "At Valmy we more than guessed your treason. But it was +hard to believe that a woman could so corrupt a boy, that a son could +so conspire against a father, and I came to Amboise probing the truth. +And every day proof has piled upon proof, presumptive proof I grant, +but proof damning and conclusive nevertheless. Every day the King has +been held up to loathing and contempt. Every day the woman--you, +Mademoiselle de Vesc, you--egged on the boy to worse than disaffection. +Every day the son reviled the father, even to telling God's own priest +that his one thought was hate--everlasting hate. The spirit to hurt +and the accursed will were there, more shameless every day, more +shameless and more insolent; but until to-day, until Jean Saxe spoke, +there was no proof that the courage to act, the courage to carry out +the evident ill desire was callously plotting to set France shuddering +with horror. But Saxe has spoken. That he should have spoken earlier +is beside the point. He has spoken at last and the truth is stripped +bare." + +"No truth," said mademoiselle, "no truth; before God, no truth." She +was rigidly upright in her chair, her eyes blazing like cold stars, her +face very pale. Every limb, every muscle, was trembling, her hand +pressed under her breast as when La Mothe had seen her for the first +time. "No truth except that the Dauphin has said unwise things at +times and I also. To that I confess." + +"You confess because you cannot deny," answered Commines, "and had +Hugues not tampered with Saxe the truth might never have been known +until all France stood aghast at the tragedy. That Hugues is dead +matters nothing. His death does not affect the issue. He would have +denied it had he lived. But now we know without a doubt that you and +he, and that unhappy boy, the Dauphin--Villon, who is that fumbling at +the latch? Let no one in, and bid whoever knocks begone whence he +came." + +But instead of obeying Villon flung the door wide. The Dauphin was on +the threshold, half dressed, his shoes unbuckled, his laces awry, his +face cadaverous in its pallor. He had been crying, and the traces of +the unwiped tears lined his cheeks. Underneath the dull eyes, duller +than common, were livid hollows, and he shook from head to foot in a +nervous terror. + +"Hugues," he said, his voice a-quaver. "How am I to do without Hugues? +He always slept at my door, and now I have no one--no one at all. +Ursula, what has happened? What are they saying to you?" + +Mechanically obedient to the dominant power of custom rather than to +any conscious will, Ursula de Vesc had risen at the boy's entrance. +But the strain of an enforced calmness is greater than that of any +passionate outburst, and only the support of the table kept her on her +feet. Against this she leaned, her open hand flat upon it. + +"Monseigneur--Charles--oh! why did you come just now?" Her voice broke +as it had not broken when confronting Saxe or braving the bitter +denunciation Commines had poured upon her. But the boy's presence +fretted her realization to the quick. It was not she alone before +whose feet the gulf had opened so suddenly. "Go back to your room. +Some one will take Hugues' place,--good, brave, loyal Hugues." + +"Sleep in peace, Monseigneur," said La Mothe, "I will take Hugues' +place to-night." + +But Commines thought he saw his way to end a scene which had grown +embarrassing, and at the same time take the first step along a path +which could have but one end. + +"There is no need for that. One of my men will guard the Dauphin." + +"Your man? A man from Valmy sleep at my door? Thank you, Monseigneur +d'Argenton, but I do not wish to sleep so soundly as that." + +"And yet you wished your father to sleep sound?" + +"My quarrel with my father is between the King and the Dauphin," +answered the boy with one of those sudden accessions of dignity which +were as characteristic as they were disconcerting. "Do you, sir, know +your place and keep it. Ursula, what is Saxe doing here at this time +of night?" + +Though he addressed Mademoiselle de Vesc by name, Charles looked round +him as he spoke. The question was for the room at large. But no one +answered him. It was no part of Commines' plan to make a public charge +against the Dauphin. There was no need to make such a charge, it could +only provoke a scene of violence, of denial, of protest, of +recrimination, and raise a storm whose echoes might pass beyond the +walls of Amboise. Not that way would he earn the King's thanks, so he +held his peace. But the Dauphin was not to be cowed by silence. + +"Ursula, what have they been saying to you? All these men against one +woman is cowardly. If I were a man like Monsieur La Mothe----" + +"Hush, Charles; Monsieur La Mothe is our friend." + +"I know. He saved us both to-day, me for the second time. Monsieur La +Mothe, when I am king, I won't forget. But why is Saxe here? Villon, +you are his friend, why is Saxe here?" + +Villon had closed the door behind the Dauphin, resting his back against +it as before. His shrewd clear eyes had watched every phase of the +scene from its beginning. Twice he had spoken, twice or thrice he had +laughed his soft unctuous chuckle as if his thoughts pleased him. Now, +directly addressed, he came forward a step, and his bearing was that of +the actor who hears his cue. + +"No friend, Monseigneur; the honour would be too great. Who am I to +call myself the friend of a prophet? Or perhaps it was Hugues who was +the prophet; Hugues who is dead and cannot speak for himself." + +"Speak no evil of Hugues," said Charles, "he--he----" and the boy's +lips quivered, the tears starting afresh under his swollen lids as the +memory of his loss came home to him, "he loved me, he died for me, and +oh, Ursula! will they take you from me too?" + +"No, Charles; surely not. But I think Monsieur Villon has something +more to say. Why do you call Hugues a prophet?" + +"Because he foretold Guy de Molembrais' death three days before it +occurred--or was it four? You should know, Saxe?" + +"I only know what he told me," answered Saxe doggedly, but the fresh +ruddiness of his face had faded, and he sucked at his lips as if they +had grown suddenly dry. He knew Villon and Villon's ways of old, knew +his bitter tongue, knew his shrewdness, and feared both. + +"Just so," said Villon cheerfully, "and a week before Monsieur +d'Argenton came to Amboise he told you no one was safe from the King's +sick suspicions, not even if he carried a safe-conduct, and +instanced----" + +"Villon is right!" cried La Mothe. "Monsieur d'Argenton--Uncle--thank +God, Villon is right. Guy de Molembrais was alive a week before we +left Valmy. Saxe has lied, lied, lied. Do you see it, Uncle? I knew +he lied. Oh, you hound! you hound! And you had a letter from Valmy +this afternoon? That accounts----" + +"Hush, Monsieur La Mothe, hush." Rising from her chair Ursula de Vesc +almost put her hand over La Mothe's mouth in her efforts to silence +him. "You have said enough; do not say too much--too much for +yourself. Charles, Charles, let us thank God together," and, turning +from La Mothe, she caught the boy in her arms, drawing him to her +breast in a passion of relief. It was not difficult to see what her +chief anxiety had been. "Monsieur d'Argenton, surely you are satisfied +now?" + +Was he satisfied? By no means. But Commines was spared the +embarrassment of an immediate reply. The door, which Villon had just +quitted, was thrown hastily open and a servant entered, a sealed +envelope in his hand. Ignoring the Dauphin utterly--and it was +indicative of the estimate in which the boy was held--he turned to +Commines. + +"From Valmy, for Monsieur d'Argenton, in great haste. The messenger +has left a horse foundered on the road." + +"From Valmy? But this is not the King's--there! you can go. See that +the messenger is well cared for." + +With his thumb under the silk thread which, passing through the seal, +secured the envelope, Commines paused and, in spite of all his trained +self-control, his face changed. Of all the emotions, fear is, perhaps, +the most difficult to conceal because of its widely varied shades of +expression. With some it is a tightening of the nostrils, with others +a compression of the lips, a change of colour, or a line between the +brows. It may even be the laugh of an assumed carelessness, a pretence +at jest, but upon one and all it leaves some sign. The seal was not +the King's seal, and the handwriting was strange to him. + +"Saxe, if you have lied, it will go hard with you, understand that. +No, I can hear nothing now; tomorrow, perhaps, or next day. Monsieur +Villon, place him in safety for to-night, he must not be allowed to +leave the Chateau." + +"But, monsieur--monseigneur, I mean--it was the King--" + +"Hold your tongue, you fool," said Villon, hustling him through the +doorway; "would you make bad worse, or do you want to hang twice over?" + +But even when the door was shut behind them Commines stood irresolute. +There are times when to be alone is the instinct of nature, and this +was one of them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, some +reverse, a disaster even. Louis' last letter, received that very day, +had been harsh in tone, curt to severity, its few words full of a +personal complaint which his pride had concealed from Stephen La Mothe. +It had been more than a rebuke, it had been a warning, almost a threat. +Now upon its heels came this, and he knew that of the three who watched +him curiously two were his open enemies. If it was his dismissal, his +downfall, there would be no pity. But to be alone was impossible. The +situation had to be faced there and then. "With your permission. +Monseigneur?" he said, and tore the envelope open. + +It was a short letter, as many fateful letters are, and Commines read +it in a glance, then a second time. "My God!" they heard him say twice +over, drawing in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him suddenly. +Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the paper, then as +unconsciously smoothed it out again. The instinct to be alone had +possessed him like a prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick of +finding an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitariness he +desired had come upon him. He forgot he was not alone, and the truest +solitude is the isolation of the spirit when the material world slips +from us, and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to face +with his own soul. So he stood, the paper shaking in his shaking +hands, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he shifted his eyes, and as +they fell upon the Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc's arms, the skirt +of the white robe half wrapped round him, his head almost upon her +breast, he straightened himself with an effort. + +"Monseigneur," he began, "the King----" but the words choked in his +throat. His coarse, healthy face had gone wan and grey, now it flushed +and a rush of tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of the +head he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe saw him struggling for +self-control. "The King is dead," he said hoarsely. "God have mercy +on us all; the King is dead--dead." + +From the boy his eyes had travelled upwards, following the protecting +arm which lay across the slender shoulders, and it was Ursula de Vesc +who answered. Charles had caught her hand in both his and held it +pressed against his breast. It was clear that he did not understand, +but the full meaning of the tragedy of death is not comprehensible in a +single moment, nor was the girl's answer much more than an exclamation. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton! The King? The King dead?" + +"Dead," he said dully, "the greatest King that France has ever known, +the greatest mind that was alive in France. In France? In Europe! +There was none like him--none. A great King, great in his foresight, +great in his wisdom, great in his love for France; a great King, and he +is dead. But yesterday, this very day even, he held the peace of +nations in the hollow of his hand, now---- Why, how poor a thing is +man. Dead! dead! But his monument is a great nation, a new France; +and who shall hold France in her pride of place amongst the nations +where his dead hand raised her? Dead; the Great King and my friend." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +"IT IS A TRAP" + +This time no one broke the silence, and for a little space the quiet +was like the reverent stillness of a death-chamber. The awe +inseparable from sudden death possessed them. And yet, after the first +shock of natural horror, La Mothe was conscious of a great relief. Not +till then did he realize how tense the strain had been, how acute the +fear. But at the slow dropping of Commines' bitter-hearted words there +came a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to find a gladness in +such a cause of grief. For the loss to France he cared little. To him +Louis had been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not Louis, then +another, and France would still be France. But as Commines turned away +and, following that other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal, +hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he leaned against +the wall, the lad's heart went out in sympathy to the man who had lost +his friend. And surely over and above his greatness of mind there must +have been some deep heart of goodness in the dead man when he moved +affection to such a grief. But at last the silence came to an end, and +again it was Ursula de Vesc who spoke. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, you will, of course, go to Valmy at once?" + +"To Valmy?" Commines brushed his hand across his forehead with a +characteristic gesture and paused, hesitating. "Why--I--Monseigneur, +have you nothing to say?" + +"What is there to say?" answered the boy. "Do you think he loves me +any better than he did? Why are you in Amboise at all?" + +It was only a bow at a venture, the ill-tempered fling of a petulant +boy, but the shaft struck home. Why was he in Amboise? His hope was +that the full purpose of his lengthened stay at the castle would never +be known, the truth would ruin him with the new King, ruin him utterly. +Hastily he searched his memory how far he had committed himself. Not +too deeply, he thought, so far as Charles was concerned. Ursula de +Vesc was of less consequence, and Saxe could always be made a +scapegoat. Saxe had lied, Saxe had deceived him, and, except Stephen +La Mothe, no one knew how ready he had been to be deceived. Perhaps +Saxe had also deceived the father? Yes, he would take that line, if +necessary; Saxe was the evil genius of them all, but the first +essential was to placate the boy with a generality. Liars and +successful diplomatists are rapid thinkers, and no too obvious a +silence followed Charles' blunt question. + +"Monseigneur, for ten years I have been your father's trusted and +faithful servant----" + +"Ursula, I am tired and shall go to bed. Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe, +but I do not think you need sleep at my door. To-night I shall be +safe. All the same, I would be Dauphin again if it could bring Hugues +back. I don't understand what it means to be King; perhaps in time I +shall see the difference. Good night, Ursula. I do not know what they +were saying to you, but they had better leave you in peace. Good +night, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"The King is dead; long live the King! and service to the dead is soon +forgotten," said Commines bitterly as the door closed. The significant +ignoring of his presence had stung him to the quick. It might be said +it was only the rudeness of an ill-taught boy, but the boy was King of +France, and the suggestive omission was an evil augury to the hopes of +his unsatisfied ambition. + +"Can you blame him? He is a very loyal boy, and was quite honest when +he said he would be the Dauphin again if that would bring Hugues back, +and as Dauphin he has been miserably unhappy." + +"He is very fortunate in your love, mademoiselle." Commines had never +heard Villon's opinion, but it was his own, and he acted upon it +promptly. Win the girl and the boy will follow. + +"I loved him for himself and for his unhappiness," she answered simply. +"But will you not return to Valmy at once? Surely death does not end +all service!" + +"My duty and service are to the living," replied Commines shortly. "I +shall remain in Amboise. The dead take no offence." + +"You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Monsieur d'Argenton, but +the King was so jealous and, may I add, so generous, it would vex his +ghost to think he was so soon forgotten." + +"Mademoiselle, I serve France, and to-night France is in Amboise." + +"Is the letter from Coictier, his doctor, Uncle?" Hitherto La Mothe +had kept silence. He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found +himself in a difficulty. In spite of his gratitude and reverence for +Commines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounder +judgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned a +dead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of a +moment. Surely the grave should first shut out all that was mortal of +the old obedience? And yet, because of that unfailing gratitude and +profound faith, he could not join with the girl in her open +condemnation. But crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his head +as if the question was distasteful. + +"No." + +"From the King's son-in-law, Monsieur de Beaujeu, then? He would, of +course, send you word immediately. Or Leslie? or Saint-Pierre?" + +But after each name Commines made a gesture of dissent, pushing the +paper into his pocket at the last to end the questioning. + +"Not from any of these?" said mademoiselle. "Who, then, has written? +Surely the Dauphin has a right to know?" + +"Tristan," answered Commines, and, turning, he looked her full in the +face. + +"Tristan?" she said icily, drawing herself back with a movement which +La Mothe recognized by an unhappy experience. "You choose your friends +strangely." + +"But he is no friend," protested La Mothe, full of scorn and +indignation for Commines' sake at the shame of the suggestion. "It +would be impossible with such a man. And Monsieur de Commines has told +me more than once that Tristan is jealous of his influence with the +King, and is his bitterest enemy." + +"And yet out of all Valmy it is Tristan--and Tristan only--who is +friend enough to send the terrible news to Monsieur d'Argenton? Is +that not strange? Monsieur d'Argenton, you are a learned man; is there +not some proverb about distrusting the Greeks when they bring presents?" + +"Tristan would never dare to spread such a report never, never." + +"But Tristan's master might. You don't think so? Forgive me if I am +suspicious, but can you wonder, you of all men? In Amboise we have +learned to doubt everything, even the friends who are ready to die for +us," and, with a sudden impulse, as natural and gracious as it was +touching, she held out her hand to La Mothe, a wistful, kindly +tenderness, deeper than the emotion of gratitude, moistening her eyes. +Very gravely he stooped and kissed it with a "Thank God, mademoiselle!" +To say more was unnecessary, for in the three words he said everything. +It was the formal wiping out of the day's misunderstanding, the +knitting together of life-threads torn apart, and where there is such a +knitting the union is firmer, closer, stronger, more indissoluble than +before the rent. "Monsieur d'Argenton," she went on, the voice a +little tremulous and yet with a clearer ring, "once before, when the +King doubted the loyalty of Paris, did he not spread abroad such a +rumour that he might test the spirit of the people?" + +"Yes, but there was a deep policy in that." + +"And is there no deep policy now! Is it for a shallow reason you have +spent two weeks in Amboise, or that Jean Saxe has coined his lies with +such carefulness of detail? May we hear Tristan's letter?" + +For a moment Commines hesitated. He had regained his full +self-control, and it was with a growing surprise that La Mothe heard +him debate the situation with Ursula de Vesc as with an equal. But not +only was he impressed in spite of his prejudice against her, but he was +too shrewd a politician to put aside any suggestion which commended +itself to his reason just because he despised its source. And the girl +was right. If there had been a deep policy in setting afloat the Paris +rumour, there was a yet deeper policy now, a policy more subtle, +darker, and pregnant with tragedy. Belief in the King's death might +well loosen the tongues of those who had plotted against him, and their +unguarded triumph furnish the very confirmation which had been vainly +sought in Amboise these ten days. While he hesitated Ursula de Vesc +urged her point afresh. + +"Monsieur d'Argenton, in the Dauphin's name I might claim to see the +letter, I might even demand and compel it as a right; but there will be +no need for that?" + +"No need at all," he answered. "This is the letter. As you see, it is +very short: + + +"'MONSIEUR,--A great misfortune has overtaken us, the greatest +possible. The King is dead. It is being kept secret, but I send you +the warning that you may make yourself secure in Amboise. Note +carefully how the Dauphin takes it. I commend you to the keeping of +God.--TRISTAN.' + + +You see it is explicit." + +"And Saxe was explicit, but he lied." She was too much of a woman to +spare him the thrust, but it was the only revenge she took, and having +taken it, she sat silent, her brows knit, her fingers playing +unconsciously with Charlemagne's soft ears. The dog's head was on her +lap, motionless, the gentle brown eyes fixed upon her face. Charlot +lay asleep at her feet, breathing little heavy breaths of contentment, +as if enough of his brain was awake to enjoy the sleep of the remainder. + +"Yes," she said slowly, "I agree that the King's Provost-Marshal is +explicit, but I do not read his letter as you do. Perhaps it is +because Amboise has made me so suspicious. It is a sorrowful thing to +say, but we have been taught that safety lies in distrust of Valmy. It +is horrible, but it is not our fault, and I distrust now. Tristan is +your enemy and ours. The King, the great King, is not above setting a +trap. I think I see a double snare; a snare to catch the Dauphin, to +catch all who are his friends in Amboise, and a snare to catch the +great King's minister himself. Perhaps it is foolish, I know it is +presumptuous, but let me read the letter my own way; you can show me +afterwards where I am wrong. It is clever, but it is the cleverness of +the man who thinks only of his own interests, who makes no allowance +for love, loyalty, or single-hearted duty, and judges others by +himself. Is that your great King, Monsieur d'Argenton?" and Commines, +answering nothing, recognized the life-likeness of the portrait. + +"But no!" she went on, "your great King is dead, the letter says so, +and this is your friend Tristan who sends you the warning that you may +make yourself secure in Amboise! What does that mean? You know that +better than I, but I suppose it means that, first in the field, you may +win the Dauphin's confidence and govern France through the boy. That +is a great gift from an enemy, Monsieur d'Argenton, and what would the +King say if he were alive? But the King is dead! Then why are you to +note carefully how the Dauphin takes the news? For whose benefit are +you to note it? For your own? But you are to make yourself secure in +Amboise! For Tristan's? But how does it touch Tristan? For the King, +who is dead? That is absurd. For the King, who is alive? for the +King, who dictates the letter that he may lay hold of some chance word +and torture it into God knows what vile use against the boy? Bear +witness, gentlemen, both of you, there was no such word. And what is +the ending of the letter? He commends you to the keeping of God! +Tristan, the hangman, commends Monsieur d'Argenton to the keeping of +God. There will be much need for His keeping if you make yourself +secure in Amboise while the King lives. Do you not smell the King's +unctuous, perverted religiosity in that sentence, Monsieur d'Argenton? +It is a snare, a snare for us all, and if I were you I would ride to +Valmy this very hour, though I foundered a dozen horses on the road. +Monsieur La Mothe, am I not right?" + +"Entirely right," said La Mothe heartily. He might have gone further +and, following the precedent set by Adam in Eden, have said, "Eternally +right!" for what lover ever thought his mistress in the wrong? But +this time there was more than a lover's agreement. "Uncle, surely you +see that Mademoiselle de Vesc is right, right every way? If that +scoundrel has lied, then there is a trap set, but if it is the truth, +surely your place is at Valmy?" + +"Why?" asked Commines, but as he spoke he read the letter afresh, +weighing each sentence separately. "Why not at Amboise?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +COMMINES TAKES ADVICE + +Respect kept La Mothe silent. How could he say bluntly, 'You owe +everything you possess in the world to the man who is dead--position, +title, office, wealth. Are these forgotten?' In his embarrassment he +glanced at Ursula de Vesc. Owing Commines neither respect nor +gratitude, she had no such scruple. + +"Death is always terrible," she said softly, "or we make it terrible by +our own terrors, but there will be a new terror added if love and the +loyalty of gratitude die with the life. Is eaten bread so soon +forgotten, Monsieur d'Argenton?" + +Almost abstractedly Commines looked up from the paper in his hand. If +he heard her, he gave no sign of having heard; certainly he showed no +resentment at the implied censure. His mind was busy balancing +prospects and possibilities. If Charles were king, Ursula de Vesc +would be a power behind the throne. If, as she said, Louis--and not +for the first time--played one of his grim jests full of a sinister +possibility, to remain at Amboise would be fatal both to himself and to +the boy. The King might say the Dauphin grasped at the crown while the +father lived, and Philip de Commines abetted him. After all, Valmy was +safest. Not many days before, Louis had told him with brutal frankness +that the hand which pulled him from the gutter could fling him back +again. Yes, Valmy was safest. But what account was he to give of his +mission? The letter, whether false in its news or true, was a +sufficient reason for his return. It was most natural, human, and +loving that the faithful servant should stand by the bier of his dead +master. It would even be a point in his favour if the King lived. No +doubt Tristan had said, 'Test him and he will go over to the Dauphin.' +Well, he would give Tristan the lie and prove that Louis came first, +living or dead. Yes, Valmy was safest. + +But his mission? For the time it had failed. Saxe, as Stephen had +said, had proved too much. He must make Saxe the scapegoat. The +obvious lie damned him. It was crass stupidity to put into Hugues' +mouth a lie which carried its own disproof with it. To force an +accusation based upon the remainder of the story would be unpolitic. +His best course would be to relieve the King of all his fears at +Amboise. There was no plot, the Dauphin was loyal and obedient: not +affectionate, that would be proving too much like the fool Saxe, and +Louis would never believe it. Then there was the King's letter to +Saxe. It must not be forgotten. That shrewd rascal, Villon, was right +when he said some one had sounded Saxe, only the some one was not +Hugues the valet. The letter must be ignored, or, better still, it +might even help to make his--Commines'--position more secure than ever. +It was Louis' habit to disavow his failures. He would, of course, +repudiate Saxe and disavow the mission to Amboise, and because of the +disavowal he would, openly at least, welcome the Dauphin's loyalty. +That was Louis' way. Yes, Valmy was safest. + +"I must leave Amboise at once," he said at last, and speaking as if the +intention had always been in his mind. "If this misfortune has +overtaken us all, which God forbid, we must meet it with courage and +resignation. May He who alone is able comfort the bereaved son of so +good and so great a father. My hope and prayer, mademoiselle, is that +you are right and the King is making trial of our love and loyalty. In +either case my place is at Valmy. La Mothe, order a horse to be +saddled without delay." + +"There is one ready in Saxe's stable," answered La Mothe. Then, lest +he should be asked the unpleasant question how he came by that +knowledge and for what purpose the horse was in readiness, he added +hastily, "What shall we do with Saxe?" + +"Keep Saxe safe until you hear from Valmy; let no one but Villon or +yourself have speech with him. Such a liar would calumniate the King +himself. Now, Stephen, the horses in ten minutes." + +"Horses?" said La Mothe blankly. Was he also to leave Amboise now that +a new dawn was breaking? + +"Yes, tell two of my men to be ready. I do not trust Tristan, and will +take no risks. An accident might happen to a lonely man on an +all-night's ride." + +"And yet," said the girl as La Mothe left the room, "you were ready to +trust Tristan ten minutes ago?" + +"But you have opened my eyes. Why? That is the one thing I cannot +understand. We have always been opposed, always at enmity, and never +more bitterly than to-night. Mademoiselle de Vesc, why did you not +take your revenge and let me ruin myself?" + +"I might give you a woman's reason and say, Because!" she answered, +speaking more lightly than she had yet spoken; then as she paused a +moment the pale face flushed, and the beginnings of a smile played +about the mouth, only to die away in a tender gravity. "And yet, to +tell the truth, it was a woman's reason: it was because there was once +a friendless, helpless boy, and Philip de Commines--you were neither +Argenton nor Talmont then, monsieur--opened his heart to him." + +"But, mademoiselle, to be honest, that was for a woman's sake." + +"And," she answered, the flush deepening and the gentle tenderness of +mouth and eyes growing yet more tender, "to be honest, this is for a +man's sake." + +Again there was silence, and in the quiet the two who had been enemies, +and might be again for the same cause, drew into a closer, better +comprehension upon a common ground. At heart they were akin--the +politic unscrupulous opportunist vowed to the compulsion of his +ambitions, and the girl who through all her threat of danger had given +no thought to herself. For the sake of the man; for the sake of the +woman: they are the twin cogwheels, working the one into the other, +which keep this great machine of life, this sordid material world, upon +a sure, if slow, ascent from the baser to the nobler, from the kingdoms +of this world to the glory of the Kingdom which is to come. + +"A good lad," said Commines at last, speaking as a man speaks who is +moved in his depths. "Simple in his faith, simple in his reverence for +the best as he understands it, simple in his simpleness of heart: a lad +so loyal that he can see no disloyalty in others. God bless him for a +good lad. He came here a boy, but Amboise has made a man of +him--Amboise and you together." It was Francois Villon's second birth +over again, but in different words. "Mademoiselle, it will be my +charge to commend him to the King." + +"For God's sake, no!" she burst out. "Leave him the man he is, +Monsieur d'Argenton, leave him his simplicity of faith. Commend him to +the King? I would rather he ploughed the fields for bread than served +your King. Here he is. Good-bye, Monsieur d'Argenton, may you find +all well at Valmy; good night, Monsieur La Mothe, we shall meet again +in the morning, or is it already the new day?" and with a smiling +curtsy to each she was gone. To Stephen La Mothe it seemed a cold good +night after all that had come and gone between them that day, the +misunderstood question in her work-room, the shadow of death in the +Burnt Mill, and, above all, their nearness as he had stood behind her +chair. But she had her purpose. She might spare Philip de Commines, +she might even forgive him, but she would not touch his hand in +friendship. + +In silence Commines returned to his room, La Mothe following; in +silence made himself ready for the road; in silence they both went +together to the great gate and passed without. Perhaps it was that +each felt the need of quiet to adjust his thoughts. But once the heavy +door, bolted and studded with iron, had clanged behind them, and the +stars were clear overhead, Commines linked his arm with La Mothe's, +drawing him close with the affectionate equality and confidence of the +old days when they were father and son, brother and brother, friend and +friend in one. Let their union in blood be what it may, it is the most +perfect relationship man and man can know, and differs from the +sweeter, more tender relationship of man and woman in that nothing is +sought, nothing granted. + +"Stephen, lad, we have been at odds, you and I, and it has hurt us +both, but that's over. I think we were both to blame. Perhaps I have +grown old, and so forgot that youth must have its day; perhaps you +could not understand my duty to the King, or how, when a man is ridden +by a dominant purpose, he must go straight forward and make or break a +way to the end. And yet you were doing something of the same yourself. +With you it was love in duty; with me, duty in love. For, Stephen, +make no mistake. Notwithstanding what it shames me to remember, I love +and reverence the King as the truest friend France has. May God spare +him to France until the boy has grown to be a man. Woe to thee, O +land, when thy King is a child. Henceforward I think the Dauphin has +nothing to fear; all that man can do to draw father to son and son to +father I will do. Stephen, your mission here is ended." + +But in the darkness La Mothe shook his head; this was the real Philip +de Commines, the Commines he had known and loved. The crust of +selfishness which overlies the heart of every man given overmuch to one +purpose, even the most honourable, had broken up, and the generous +warmth of the kindly nature within asserted itself. To such an one La +Mothe could speak as he could not speak to the shrewd politician, or +the leader of men. + +"Not ended yet, Uncle. With you I pray the King still lives, and that +is more than I could honestly have said in the Hercules room yonder +with Saxe spinning his lies. Tell him that within twelve hours I shall +have fulfilled to the very letter the orders he gave me. Watch him as +you tell him, you who are so shrewd a judge of men, and I think you +will say that to draw the father to the son will not be difficult." + +"You believe that, Stephen?" + +"I know it, Uncle; but here are the horses." With no more words La +Mothe assisted Commines to mount, standing by his knee as he settled +himself in the saddle. Then Commines stooped and the two men clasped +hands. + +"God keep you, Stephen." + +"And you, too, and may all be well at Valmy," answered La Mothe +earnestly, and added impulsively, "Uncle, have you nothing to say to +me?" + +"Only this, Stephen, thank God for a good woman," and with a last +pressure of the hand Commines rode on into the darkness, his two guards +a length behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE + +For once in his career Phillip de Commines, ambassador and diplomatist, +was well pleased to have failed, or rather, paradoxically, he told +himself that failure was his true success. The King--he had come to +the conclusion that Louis had played one of those grim jests which were +not all a jest and at times had tragic consequences--the King, no +doubt, had been deceived, possibly by Saxe, and to have Saxe proved a +liar beyond question could not but be a relief. So all was well; the +King's fears could be set at rest, and he himself was freed from an +odious duty. Against his expectation he had quitted Amboise with clean +hands. + +Nor even as regards the Dauphin, and the future the Dauphin +represented, was there much to regret. There was even, he believed, +much to hope. Ursula de Vesc controlled the boy, Stephen La Mothe +would influence the girl, and Stephen owed him everything. These were +all so many links in a chain, and the chain bound him not only to +safety but to continuance in his present offices, perhaps even to +advancement. Even though the King had died there was no need to remain +in Amboise to secure himself; La Mothe would do that for him. But the +King was living, the King would welcome his failure, would be touched +by his prompt return to Valmy, and the world was a very good world for +those who knew how to use its hazards and chances rightly. + +The stern justice of the King had swept the highways clear of violence. +According to a grim jest of Villon's, thieves and thievery were alike +in suspense from Burgundy to the sea. Except the ruts of the road, +deep in places as the axles of a cart, or the turbid waters of the +Loire, treacherous in the darkness and swollen by heavy rains in the +upper reaches, travelling was as safe by night as by day, and Commines +met with no delays but those at all times inseparable from such a +journey. Tristan's forethought, as it proved, had provided no +accident. This time there was no halt at the Chateau-Renaud. Through +the little straggling village they rode at a hand-gallop, and except to +bait or breathe the horses on a hill-crest, no rein was drawn until the +dawn had slipped from grey to glory and a new day lay broad upon the +fields. When that hour broke, they had made such progress that they +had reached the place whence Commines had shown La Mothe the three good +reasons why his men would keep their counsel. + +"Dismount and ease the saddles," he said, slipping a foot from the +stirrup as he spoke, "the gates will not be opened for two or three +hours at least. Lead the horses on slowly, I will follow you." + +But he was in no haste. In the small hours of the morning the currents +of enthusiasm, like those of life, run slow. It is then that the +spirit of a man is at its weakest. Or perhaps it was the sight of +Valmy that cooled his optimism. There it lay, grey and forbidding even +with the yellow sunlight of dawn full upon it, and there, stark and +clear, an offence against the sweetness of the new day, were the three +royal gibbets. Their sinister hint was emphatic. The justice of the +King was without mercy, and sombrely he asked himself, Was he so sure +that in his failure he had no need of forgiveness? Was it not rather +true that with Louis failure had always need of forgiveness and was +never forgiven? He was not so certain, now that his blood was sluggish +in the vapoury chill of dawn, but that he had been hasty in quitting +Amboise at all; and yet, what if Tristan, playing on the jealous +suspicions of the King, had set a trap? And even as he speculated with +dull eyes whether there was a trap or no, whether the King lived at +all, and what course was the most politic to follow, a stir of life +woke at Valmy: a small troop passed out from the grey arch facing the +river and took the Tours road. The distance was too great to +distinguish who comprised it. But Valmy was awake, and with Valmy +awake the sooner he faced his doubts the better--doubts grow by +nursing, and given time enough their weight will kill. + +Walking briskly forward he mounted and urged his tired horse to its +best speed. That it should reach Valmy in its last extremity, +foam-flecked and caked with sweat, would appeal to the King's sick +suspicions. It was a petty trick, mean and contemptible, but had the +King not played a still more mean and contemptible trick on him? +Commines knew with whom he had to deal; it was the vulgar cunning his +master had taught him, and any apparent absence of anxious haste would +be a point lost in the game: so their spurs were red, and their beasts +utterly blown, utterly weary from their last climb up the river's bank +when they drew rein before the outer guard-house. The Tours troop was +already out of sight. + +Lessaix himself was on duty, and as he came forward with outstretched +hand Commines required no second glance to tell himself that Ursula de +Vesc had construed Tristan's letter aright. Not so frankly would he +have been greeted if Valmy's master lay dead in Valmy. + +"The King expects you," he said, "and by your horses' looks you have +lost no time on the road." As he spoke he ran his finger-tips up the +hot neck, leaving tracks of roughened, sweaty hair behind the pressure. + +"When did you leave Amboise?" + +"The King expects me? How can that be?" + +Then as Lessaix, scenting a mystery, looked up curiously Commines made +haste to cover his slip, "Or rather, how did you know I was coming?" + +"Tristan told me as he rode out half an hour ago. He said you were on +the way and might arrive any moment. You are to go to the King at +once." + +"So Tristan left half an hour ago?" + +Try as he would Commines could not quite control his voice. He owed +more to Mademoiselle de Vesc than he had supposed. The trap had, as it +were, snapped before his face and he had escaped by a hair-breadth. +Tristan's cunning was as deep as simplicity. His forethought must have +run somewhat thus. Lessaix knows that Monsieur de Commines is expected +any moment and is to go at once to the King, who waits for him; +Monsieur de Commines does not appear, but remains paying his court to +the Dauphin at Amboise. The inference would be clear to all men, and +Monsieur de Commines would be ruined outright and utterly discredited. +Yes, Ursula de Vesc had saved him from downfall, or worse. + +Lessaix, watchful as every man was who called Louis master, caught the +change of tone and again looked up, but this time with something more +than curiosity--an anxious wariness, a fear lest some current of events +he failed to discover might catch him in its flood and drag him down +with its undertow unawares. + +"Monsieur de Commines," he said earnestly, laying a hand on Commines' +bridle-rein as they passed at a foot's pace under the archway, "we have +always been friends, always good comrades, is there--" he hesitated, +uncertain how far he dared commit himself with his good friend and +comrade, "is there anything wrong--astray--here, or at Amboise?" + +"The Dauphin is well, and it is you who should have the news of Valmy. +I know nothing but that the King sent for me in haste. Some question +of new taxation, perhaps; or it may be that England threatens to break +the peace. What did Tristan say?" + +"Nothing but what I tell you, but he laughed as he said it. If I were +you, I would not delay, but would go to the King booted and spurred and +dusty as you are." + +Commines nodded. The advice was welcome, not only because it was meant +kindly but for what it inferred. If disgrace threatened, Lessaix at +least had no knowledge of it. + +"The messenger who left two days ago, has he returned?" + +"Not yet; there was another yesterday." + +"I know. Who is on guard?" + +"Beaufoy, and the password is Amboise." + +Again Commines nodded. Beaufoy? That, too, was all in his favour. +Beaufoy was one of the younger men and not at all in the King's +confidence. If Louis had any sinister coup in his mind, Leslie, or +Saint-Pierre, or Lessaix himself would have been on duty. + +With an alert, quick step, that had in it none of the stiffness or +fatigue of a long night's ride, Commines mounted the stairs, answering +friendly salutes at every turn. As at all times with the King in +residence, the halls, corridors, and ante-rooms were like those of a +barrack rather than of a royal chateau. Here and there he was +challenged and his way barred by a lowered halbert, but it was more or +less perfunctory, and at the password the way was cleared. That +Beaufoy was unfeignedly glad to see him was another satisfaction. Ever +since he had come in sight of Valmy an uncomfortable sense of +friendlessness had haunted him with the unreasoning horror of a +nightmare, and Beaufoy's welcoming smile was like the wakening into +sunshine. + +"_Dieu merci_! but I am thankful you have come," he said, but speaking +softly so that no sounds passed through the curtained door at his back. +"Four times within the hour the King has sent asking for you. It is +like the cry of one of his own parrots, 'Commines! Where is Commines?'" + +"Who have seen him this morning?" + +"His two janitors of the eternal, if it be no sin to say so--the priest +and Tristan. Fortune keep their last ministrations far from me!" + +"Then the King is awake?" said Commines, unbuckling his sword-belt and +handing it to Beaufoy. + +"Awake, but in bed as a good Christian ought to be at this time of day. +Faith! Monsieur d'Argenton, you are in fortune's pocket; four times +within the hour he has asked for you--four times, as I'm a starving +sinner without a hope of breakfast." + +"The better appetite later!" Letting the curtains fall behind him +Commines pushed the door open softly, closed it softly at his back, and +advanced a step. But in spite of the caution of his quiet Louis heard +him. + +"What's that? Who's there? Beaufoy--Beaufoy----" + +"Sire, it is I--Commines." + +"Commines!" he repeated, the sharpness of his frightened voice +dwindling breathlessly. "Commines, Philip, what--what news from +Amboise?" + +"The very best, Sire." + +"The very best! Ah, God, my son! my son! The very best? Oh, France! +France! Philip, tell me--tell me your news. But is the door +shut--shut fast?" + +Through a prolonged life Commines never forgot that scene and never +answered, never dared to answer, even in the secret of his own mind, +the question, What news from Amboise was the very best? + +A single shutter had been drawn half aside, and in the semi-obscurity +the chalk-grey face of the King showed ghost-like against the vaulted +darkness of the curtained bed. The fret of spirit through these ten or +twelve days had sapped him, worn him like so many days of consuming +fever. With one hand, the elbow propped upon the coverlid, he pushed +the draperies aside, the other was fumbling with its finger-tips at his +convulsed mouth. In impatience, or that he might breathe the freer, +the ribbons which knotted his woollen nightrobe at the throat had been +unfastened, leaving the lean, parchment-coloured chest and throat, +corded with starting sinews, nakedly open. As he leant aslant, the +curtains arching overhead, his eyes roundly open in the shadows of +their sockets, he was like a corpse new risen from its tomb and full of +horror from the dreams which had dogged its sleep. + +"The very best! Tell me everything, Philip. Or, no!" The shaking +hand ceased plucking at the lip, and the shrunken arm, bare to the +elbow where the gown had slipped, was thrust out, beating the air as if +to push aside some terror. "Tell me the one--the essential----God's +name, man! can you not understand?" + +"The best news possible, Sire." Commines' eyes were growing accustomed +to the gloom and no detail escaped him. "The Dauphin is innocent, is +loving--loyal." + +The King shrank as if he had been struck and the cadaverous face grew +yet more ghastly. Shifting uneasily on his elbow he pushed the +curtains wide apart, rasping the rings sharply on the rod, and drawing +back his hand fumbled anew at his mouth. + +"Loving, loyal--living." There was a perceptible pause, and the third +word was harsher, drier than the others, and spoken with a jerk as if +forced from the throat under compulsion. "You received my letter +written two days ago?" + +"Yes, Sire, and a second last night. Thank God, with all my heart, +it----" + +"Let it wait. The messenger of two days ago, has he come back?" + +"Not yet. I asked Lessaix." + +"Why?" + +"Idle curiosity, Sire." + +"Only fools are curious for nothing, and you are no fool, or were not +when you left to go to Amboise." He paused, and in the silence +Commines searched his wit for some plausible reason for the question he +had put to Lessaix. But Louis probed no further. To hear the truth +would have suited his purpose no better than it would have suited +Commines to tell it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST + +Commines broke the silence with a bold stroke. "He carried more +letters than yours, Sire. A man named Saxe----" + +"Saxe?" said Louis, drawling the word. "Who is Saxe?" + +"An innkeeper in Amboise. Yesterday, an hour or two after I had +received Your Majesty's letter, he came to me with a lying tale." + +"What sort of reputation has this Saxe?" + +"He is an innkeeper." + +"An innkeeper? Innkeepers are decent folk. Travellers trust them +nightly with their property, with their lives even. There is no +discredit in innkeeping. You know, Monsieur d'Argenton, I do not hold +that honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. This +Saxe, now, what was his tale?" + +"One, Sire, that if true would have plunged all France into sorrow, and +you into the deepest grief of all. He accused the Dauphin, a girl +named Ursula de Vesc, and one Hugues, the Dauphin's valet, of plotting +against Your Majesty." + +"Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you understood when you +left Valmy. Did I not tell you to sift, and search, and find? Now +comes this Saxe, a decent, reputable man----" + +"Sire, Saxe lied." + +"Lied?" Loosing the curtain Louis slipped back upon his pillows, +huddled in a shapeless heap, his hands clenched upon his breast, his +chin sunk upon their clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only the +eyes, dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed alive. "Who +says Saxe lies?" + +"All who heard him, Sire." + +"What? There were witnesses?" + +"There was need of witnesses for the sake of the publicity afterwards." + +"Um! I do not say you were wrong, but it has turned out badly. Well?" + +"Saxe proved too much. He swore the Dauphin quoted Molembrais' death +as a reason why all France was----" Commines paused, fearing to offend +by an unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for him. + +"Why France was afraid. Well, that was probable. I see no lie in +that." + +"No, Sire; but Saxe fixed the day definitely, and Molembrais was alive +at the time." + +The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into the +pillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Commines +knew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and because +Coictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violent +emotion might be fatal. + +"Oh, the fool! the--the--the--I must be calm. May all the devils--no, +I must be calm, I must control myself; my miserable, wretched +heart--but to be cursed with such a fool, such a fool!" + +"A scoundrel, Sire, rather than a fool; a villainous, lying scoundrel, +who would traduce the Dauphin himself. Let us thank God he overreached +himself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince your +son is innocent of all blame, is loving and loyal. Let us publicly, +promptly stamp Saxe for the liar he has proved himself to be, lest he +malign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now the +one course possible." + +"Eh, Philip? What was that? Accuse the King himself? Accuse me--me? +Of what, Philip, of what? Where is this Saxe? In whose keeping? +Monsieur d'Argenton, have you been imprudent--careless? By God! you +shall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me--at +me. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he has +lied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of his +loving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news. +Yes, we rejoice--we rejoice--God knows how we rejoice! Philip, the +cordial--there, on the table--that crystal flask. This joyful emotion +is killing me." + +Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a hand +which faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless on +the bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to his +mouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly. +As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of the +chest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblance +of life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for a +moment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst, +been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closed +his eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest the +easier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes still +closed he beckoned to Commines to stoop lower. + +"Saxe--where is Saxe?" + +"In safe keeping, Sire." + +"Safe? He cannot talk?" + +"Quite safe. Only La Mothe and Villon visit him. + +"La Mothe? Faugh! another fool. There is no end to the breed. I +think God made them as He made flies, to be the fret and plague of +life. You vouched for the fool, Philip, remember that." + +"And I still vouch for La Mothe," answered Commines. He felt that he +was now safe, so safe that he might even venture to plead for Stephen. +"Consider, Sire, you who are so just, is it the boy's fault that we +failed to discover what does not exist? Remember, Saxe lied, lied +throughout, and has always lied." He paused, but if he expected to +draw some further comment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent, +his face void of expression, and Commines went on: "That cruel jest the +Provost-Marshal played upon us all cut me to the heart. Sire, Sire, +how could you permit it? All night long I have ridden from Amboise in +despair and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved of so +good and true a friend, so great a King. The awful shock----" + +"There, there, no more of that," said Louis harshly. The reminder of +the grim, inevitable certainty which had lately been so significantly +near was more than he could bear. With an effort he struggled on his +elbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I am +strong--stronger than for years. Coictier says so; but he says, too, +that I should rest, so I will lie back again. Yes, yes, a jest--and +yet not all a jest." From under his drooped lids he looked up at +Commines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what did +Charles say? Charles, who is so loving and loyal. Laughed and thanked +God--eh, Philip?" + +"No, Sire, no. For the moment he seemed struck dumb, as we all were. +True grief is silent. When sorrow is at its sorest, words do not come +easily, and never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin's last +night." Which was true, for Hugues, who had loved him, lay dead. And +Hugues' death gave Commines another inspiration, which, because of the +end in view, he seized upon without a scruple. "But when at last words +came they were worthy of him, worthy of his loyalty both as son and +subject. 'I would be Dauphin again,' said he, 'if I could but bring +him back.'" + +Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis caught Commines by the +arm with a greater strength than had seemed possible in one so frail, +caught him and held him, and if the hand shook, it was not from +weakness. + +"He said that? Charles said that? Who prompted him?" + +"No one, Sire. He spoke his own thought frankly, and every word he +said came from his heart." + +"Philip, as God lives, is that true?" + +"As God lives," said Commines deliberately, "these were the Dauphin's +very words, and he spoke them from his heart. No one prompted him, no +one led him; they were his own thoughts, his only." + +With a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis lay +back. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lips +were firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at this +or that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence at +animation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forced +himself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But the +outcome of the thought surprised and disappointed the watcher. + +"La Mothe?" + +"Sire, I vouch for La Mothe." + +"God's name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for himself?" + +"I had forgotten. To-day's blessed relief drove it from my head. Can +you blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, as +I left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell him +that within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me.'" + +"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you told +me the truth to-day? Charles? My son? That he said those things? +More hangs on it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as I +have made you what you are, do not deceive me." + +"Most true, Sire; I would plead for the Dauphin----" + +"Plead? What need have you to plead, you or any man? Plead? Your +officiousness goes too far. Is he not my son? Who is on duty?" + +"Beaufoy, Sire." + +"Pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy to me--now, this very instant. +Go, man, go! Why do you stand staring there like a wax image? Oh! +pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy--do you not hear? Send Beaufoy, +send Beaufoy this instant! Beaufoy! Beaufoy! And, Philip, have the +fastest horse in Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make haste, +for the love of Heaven, make haste! Beaufoy! Beaufoy!" + +Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden outburst which filled +Louis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. He +thought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agony +of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him. +Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken down +finally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to +draw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why such +anxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond the +door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled. + +"The King--go to him." + +"Ill? Dying?" + +"No, he needs you. Go at once--at once," answered Commines, with a +jerk of his head, and was gone. + +"You called me, Sire?" + +"Pen--ink--paper. There, on the table. Quicker, dolt, quicker!" + +But with the quill between his fingers and the paper flattened on a pad +against his knee, Louis was in no haste to write. Gnawing with +unconscious savagery at his under-lip he stared into vacancy, +searching, searching, searching for the precise words to express his +thought. But they eluded him. It was not so simple to be precise, so +clear that even a fool like Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yet +be so cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of the order, +would not betray him. Commines' voice was clanging in his ears like +the clapper of a bell, and would not let him think coherently. Twelve +hours! Twelve hours! Even now--no, not yet, but soon, very soon, it +might be too late. "Perdition!" he cried, striking his hand upon the +woollen coverlid--he was chilly even in May--"will they never come?" + +And at last they came, not what satisfied him, but what perforce must +suffice, and with a hand marvellously steady under the compulsion of +the iron will he dashed off two or three sentences at white heat, added +his signature in the bold, angular characters which had so often +vouched a lie as the truth, and flung the paper across to Beaufoy. + +"There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your horse is waiting you in +the courtyard. Read your orders as you go, but let no man see them, +not even Argenton. The moment they are executed return to Valmy." + +"Go where, Sire?" + +"To Amboise--Amboise, and ride as if all hell clattered at your back. +Go, man! Go, go!" + +Until Beaufoy had dropped the curtain behind him Louis sat rigidly +upright; then, as if the very springs of life were sapped to their +utmost limit, he sank back in collapse upon the pillows. From the +half-opened shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table, +flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver Christ upon the +cross, propped amongst the litter, and drew his eyes. + +"Twelve hours," he whispered, staring at it, fascinated. "Thy power, +Thy power and infinite love, O Lord! God have mercy upon us! God have +mercy upon me! My son! My son!" + +And riding down the slope to the river Beaufoy read: + +"Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to +Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your +life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST + +For men there is no such ladder to place and fame as their fellow-men. +Over their crushed and trampled backs, or with a hand in their pocket, +ambition or greed can climb to heights which would be hopelessly +unattainable but for the unwilling foothold of another's disadvantage. +La Mothe? Who the deuce was La Mothe? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared. +He had his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between his +knees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with all +the subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy, +which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He was +almost as fully in fortune's pocket as Monsieur d'Argenton! + +Nor was that all. There was even the hope that this poor devil of a La +Mothe might say, "No, thank you!" to the order for arrest, and so give +Paul Beaufoy opportunity to prove to the world at large, and the King +in particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, that Paul +Beaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever with his head, and fit +for something much better than arresting poor devils accused of God +knows what. But that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhile +the world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of worlds, with just +one small fret to mar its perfection--he had had no breakfast! That +must be remedied, and the half hour's delay could be made good by +harder riding afterwards. + +So, midway to Chateau-Renaud, at the junction of the St. Amand road, he +gave a little auberge his custom, comforting nature with an omelet +while a fowl was being put on the spit. But because custom such as +Paul Beaufoy's came that way but seldom the fowl was slow to come by, +yet slower to cook, and more time went to its eating than would have +been to Paul Beaufoy's advantage had the King known the excellence of +his appetite. But the King knew nothing and would know nothing, so no +one was hurt by the picking of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothe +would naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a prick of the +spur would drag back some of the lost minutes. + +Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as light as a bird on +the wing or the paper which was to consign this unknown poor devil of a +La Mothe to he neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantly +the generous beast between his knees answered the call. But--surely +disjunctive conjunctions are the tragedies of the language! They +tumble our castles in Spain about our ears with neither ruth nor +warning. Man would be in Paradise to this day--but Eve ate the apple; +Napoleon would have conquered Europe--but England stood in the way. So +was it with Paul Beaufoy. His lost hour would have been regained--but +but the pace killed, and with Amboise a weary distance away he found +himself stranded and disconsolate beside a foundered horse. And linked +to the tragedy of the disjunctive was this other tragedy. It is the +generous-hearted who pay for the follies of others. Had the +broken-down beast been a cowardly scum it would never have lain a +castaway by the roadside. + +And now, indeed, in the King's vigorous phrase, hell was at his back; +only, as is so often the way with blinded humanity, he never guessed +the truth, but thought it salvation, from behind, down a side-road, +clattered a small troop at a quick trot, and taking the middle of the +highway Beaufoy called a halt. + +"In the King's name!" he cried, holding up the hand of authority. The +intoxication of a first commission is almost as self-deceiving as that +of a first love. In his place Philip de Commines, recognizing that he +was outnumbered ten to one, would have been diplomatic. When there is +no power to strike, it is always unwise to clench the fist, especially +when a hat in the hand may gain the point. But the authority sufficed, +and at a motion from their leader the troop halted. + +"More energy than discretion," said he, with a glance at the disabled +horse. "What can I do for you, and why in the King's name?" + +"My energy and discretion are my affair," answered Beaufoy, more +nettled by his inability to dispute the truth than by the truth itself. +"I am from Valmy upon the King's business, and must have a horse +without delay." + + +"Let Valmy buy its own horses, I am no dealer," was the brusque answer. +But the hands which had caught up the loosened reins promptly tightened +them afresh. "How long from Valmy?" + +"That can matter nothing to you; what does matter is that I am on the +King's business and must have a horse." + +"Having, like a fool, killed your own! But that, as you say, is no +affair of mine. When did you leave Valmy?" + +"I see no reason----" began Beaufoy, but with a backward gesture the +other silenced him. + +"Reasons enough," he said. "Count them for yourself. For the third +time, when did you leave Valmy?" + +"This morning, and I warn you that the King will call you to account +for every minute's delay." + +"You, not me; I did not founder your horse." The half banter passed +from his voice, and the bronzed face hardened. "And we have accounts +enough as it is, the King and I." + +"Pray God he pays his debts and mine, and that I be there to see," +retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of all prudence. "Again, in the +King's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your men +can ride double." + +"Must this! Demand that! Tut, tut! you forget the reasons behind me." +But though he spoke with a return of the banter which goaded the +unfortunate Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert and +there was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy been a Philip de +Commines he would have known that jest with no laughter at its back is +more dangerous than a threat. "Where are you going?" + +"That is my affair and the King's." + +Lurching forward in the saddle the elder man--he was eight or ten years +the senior--shook his clenched gauntlet in Beaufoy's face, his own +crimson from the gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. "The +King! The King! The King!" he cried furiously. "Curse you and your +King! What devil's plot is that lying old tiger-fox scheming now that +you ride to death an honester brute than either of you? Whose murder +comes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give some account of +yourself." + +"If you are a gentleman, if you are not a coward as well as a bully," +answered Beaufoy, his face as white as the other's was flushed, "come +down from your horse and meet me man to man. You'll not ask me to give +an account of myself a second time." + +"That is Valmy all over! Give up my advantage that you may gain! And +who are you with your musts and demands?" + +"My name is Beaufoy----" + +"Then you are not from Valmy," broke in the other, running on Beaufoy's +name, "for no faith, beau, bonne, or belle, ever came out of Valmy." + +With a shrug of his shoulders Beaufoy turned on his heel. "Coward as +well as bully," he began, but at a sign from their leader the troop +gathered round, hemming him in in a circle. + +"Now that my reasons are plainer to you, will you answer my +question--where are you going? No reply? And yet no one understands +the logic of numbers better than your coward of a master. But I'll +have my answer. Are you going to Blois? No! To Tours? No! Amboise? +Ah! your eyes have a tongue of their own. You cannot have lived very +long in Valmy, my ingenuous friend. Why to Amboise? You won't tell? +But, by God, you shall! Do you think I'll be baulked for a scruple?" +His hand crept to his hilt as he spoke; now, with a swift wrench the +blade was out and its point at Beaufoy's throat. "Come, your message?" + +But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the quality of its +defects. The law that might was right had bred a contempt for life, +one's own or another's, it mattered little which. In the great game of +national aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the man +who slew without pity could die without fear. If any second incentive +were needed, Beaufoy found it in the gibe at his name. Beaufoy would +hold good faith let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himself +rigidly he answered nothing. + +"Come, the message! I'll have it, though I rip it out of you. You +won't answer? Then there is no help for it. Once!"--and the point +touched--"twice!"--and the point pricked--"three times! Monsieur, you +are a brave fool, but on your life do not stir. Grip him by the +elbows, Jan. Now you, Michault, go through his pockets. What first? +An empty purse! And yet you must have a horse, must you? Was I to +collect its price at Valmy, my good sir? When I go to Valmy it will be +for more than the life of a horse. Next, a woman's ribbon! No wonder +the purse was empty. A paper! Give it me--a love-letter! I +congratulate you, Monsieur Beaufoy, and return it without reading the +signature. No doubt the empty purse is justified. May she show as +firm a faith as you have done; her cause is the better of the two. Now +that. This time we have it. Monsieur Beaufoy, you have done +everything a brave and honourable gentleman could do. Give me your +parole to hurt neither yourself nor us and Jan will release your arms." + +Panting, every nerve tense with impotent resentment, Paul Beaufoy +looked up into the not unkindly eyes turned down to his. A +physiognomist would have said it was a reckless face rather than an +evil one. The blade had been lowered, but Jan's muscular hands still +held his elbows behind his back in an iron grip; beyond him was +Michault. No prisoner in shackles was more helpless. + +"For this time," he said between his teeth; "but God granting me +life----" + +"Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I trust you as I would never +trust that brute without a soul you call King. Trust the King? God +help the man who trusts King Louis! One very dear to me trusted him, +trusted his pledged word with his life, and I humbly pray God's mercy +has him in its keeping, for he found none in Valmy." Sheathing his +sword he sat back in the saddle and smoothed the looted paper +carefully. "Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring +him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on +your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS." + +Having read the order through from beginning to end, he read it over a +second time, sentence by sentence, pausing to consider each separately. + +"'Go to Amboise.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not wish to ask you anything +a man of honour such as you are cannot answer. Do they know you in +Amboise?" + +"No," answered Beaufoy, after a moment's consideration; "and if I +thought it mattered one way or the other, you would get no answer from +me. I am from the north, and a stranger both in Valmy and Amboise." + +"'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without +delay.' It follows that you do not know this Stephen La Mothe nor he +you?" + +"No," repeated Beaufoy. + +"Nor his offence?" + +"Not even that." + +"God knows there need be no offence at all. 'Tell him his orders are +cancelled.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not ask you what these orders are." + +"And if I knew, I would not tell you." + +"Then you do not know?" + +"No." + +"'On your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.' Is it +fair to ask why?" + +"Again, if I knew, I would not tell you, but I do not." + +"Then it comes to this: you, a stranger in Amboise, are to arrest a +stranger to yourself for an offence of which you are ignorant?" + +"With my orders clear and explicit I have no need of knowledge." + +"Is this order public property at Valmy?" + +"No one knows of it except myself and the King," replied Beaufoy, +clinging desperately to the remnants of his authority. + +The other nodded abstractedly, his thoughts busy elsewhere. He quite +recognized the type of man with whom he had to do--light-hearted, +careless, frivolous even up to a certain point, but beyond that +immovable. To question further would be useless, and almost in +violation of the strange code of honour which permitted unscrupulous +violence but respected the right of reticence in an equal--in an equal, +be it observed; an inferior had no rights, none whatever. + +"'Bring him to Valmy.'" Turning in his saddle he beckoned to one of +his followers, a man older than the rest, shrewd-faced and grizzled. +"What do you think, Perrault; can we do it?" + +"Enter Amboise?" + +"Enter Valmy." + +But Beaufoy could control himself no longer. "Monsieur, whoever you +are, I demand back the King's order. These instructions are for me +alone and I must----" + +"What? More musts? No, no, you have done all a man of honour can +do--except hold your tongue and acknowledge the inevitable. Jan and +Michault, take Monsieur Beaufoy into the field yonder, but quietly, +courteously." + +"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustled +across the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Some +day you shall answer me for this." + +"If the King permits," was the ironic reply. "Be a little more gentle, +Jan. Now, Perrault?" + +"Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy." + +"Not all of us, not you--I alone." + +"Alone? Monsieur Marc, you would never venture----" + +"Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would venture to the gates +of hell for just five minutes with Louis of France, and you know it." + +"But it is impossible." + +"Desperate, not impossible. This," and he shook the paper in his +closed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King's +signet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmy +if I have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast--La Mothe, +through whom I have twice missed the Dauphin! Perrault, I'll do it; by +all the saints, I'll do it." + +"Yes," said Perrault, and there was a wistful tenderness in his rough +voice, "you may get into Valmy, but, Master Marc, you'll never win out +again." + +"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung in +my way? And would Guy have done less for me?" + +But Perrault returned no answer. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +"LOVE IS MY LIFE" + +"Blessed be the man who first invented sleep," said the wise Spaniard. +And yet there are times when even a sleepless night can leave a light +heart behind it. For the first time since coming to Amboise Stephen La +Mothe felt at peace with himself and with all the world, though the +latter is a secondary consideration. As between the two disturbers of +his comfort a man's most triumphant foe is his conscience. And he had +good cause for comfort. When at their very worst, things had gone well +with him, and as he reckoned up his mercies the morning Paul Beaufoy +rode post from Valmy, he found his pouch of life full to the rim with +white stones. + +First: Ursula! There was a little tremulous contraction of the heart, +a little sudden sense of warm sunlight as he said the name over. +Ursula--Ursula! What a kindly cunning mother is Fate: she always gives +the one sweet woman in the world the sweetest of names. For where was +there a sweeter name than Ursula? So soft, so--so--well, just Ursula. +Ursula was safe and had forgiven him. Which of these two mercies was +the greater he hardly knew; the second, perhaps, since it was +undeserved. He was a very humble lover, as all true lovers should be +who realize, with a wondering incomprehension, that in creating woman +last of all the Lord God had concentrated all the wisdom of His six +days' experience, and even then only consummated the perfection after a +seventh day of thoughtful rest. He did not know that the miracle of a +loving woman's forgiveness is as common and natural as the sunshine, +and, let it be said sorrowfully, as necessary to life. + +And Ursula was safe. For that they had to thank Villon. It was he who +had grasped the flaw of Saxe's over-proof, and so tumbled the whole +fabric of lies into a ruin never to be built up again. For both these +mercies he humbly thanked God. It is to be noted by the student of the +ways of men that he never gave the Dauphin's safety a thought. He had +risked his life for the boy, and would risk it again if necessary, risk +it cheerfully, but as an abstract proposition he cared little whether +the Dauphin lived or died. Next after Ursula came Commines. There had +been a bitter moment when Commines had tottered on his pedestal, but +Ursula's hand had steadied him just when the touch was needed. Ursula +again! It was marvellous how the whole of Amboise had its orbit round +Ursula. In the end Commines had justified himself, and in that belief +the loyal heart of Stephen La Mothe found the early May sunshine yet +more pleasant and the air sweeter. + +Nor was there now any fear but that he would leave Amboise with clean +hands. The white horse and the piebald were ambling side by side under +his feet, and all danger of a sprawling tumble between them in the mud +was at an end. And because he would leave Amboise with clean hands he +could without shame say to Ursula de Vesc such things as are the sacred +treasures of the heart's Holy of Holies. At least it would not be an +unworthy love he had to offer, unworthy of her acceptance, since no +man's love could be fully worthy of Ursula de Vesc, but not unworthy in +itself. But first he had the King's commission to fulfil, and if Louis +really lay dead at Valmy surely he might violate the letter of his +orders and say, "These are the message of a father's love." Or, +rather, Ursula came first, always first, even before the King's +commission, and with the thought came Ursula de Vesc herself. + +"Good morning, Monsieur La Mothe." + +"Mademoiselle! you so early?" + +"I do not think many slept in Amboise last night. Did you hear that +Tristan's letter was one of your King's merry jests?" + +"But are you certain?" + +"Absolutely. He was seen on the walls just before the closing of the +gates last night. You know at Valmy they do not wait for the sun to +set. Shall I let you into a secret I would not have told you a +fortnight ago?" The white night, its long hours haunted by anxious +thoughts, had left a wan reflection on her face, but now the pallor +warmed; into the tired eyes a little light of laughter flickered, part +humorous, part tender, and the Cupid's bow trembled on its string. "In +Amboise we are not so forlorn as you think. The innkeeper at +Chateau-Renaud is our very good friend, or how could we have known that +a certain Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, a wandering minstrel with lute and +knapsack on his back, was coming our way?" + +"You knew that?" + +"From the first," she answered, still smiling, but with so kindly a +raillery that not even a lover could take offence. "Did you think you +played the part so well that you deceived us? Or that the Dauphin had +sunk so low as to make a friend of the first hedge-singer who came his +way? We were warned from Chateau-Renaud that you who arrived with +Monsieur d'Argenton on horseback departed alone on foot." + +"That raw-boned roan which passed me on the road?" + +"Yes. And can you wonder if we were suspicious and just a little +frightened? You were from Valmy and Valmy is our Galilee: nothing good +comes out of it." + +"I wonder at nothing but your goodness in bearing with me." + +"You owe us nothing for that. That," the colour mounted to her +forehead; she, too, had grown ashamed of the first night, ashamed and +astonished that she had not understood Stephen La Mothe's transparent +good faith from the very first, "that was precaution. In the Chateau +we could watch the watcher. Then you began that fairy tale and your +face told me you believed it every word. That puzzled me. How could +anything good come out of Valmy? Yet next day you saved the Dauphin's +life and again yesterday. But I am forgetting the King and how we know +the letter was a lie. Cartier, the innkeeper at Chateau-Renaud, has a +son in Valmy and had been to visit him: the King was on the walls when +he left before sunset last night. The hangman's letter was a trap to +catch us all, and the Great King consented to it. What a worthy King! +Oh! I am very human and my bitterness must speak out when I remember +last night. Saxe, Tristan, the King, Monsieur d'Argenton, and against +them one weak coward of a girl. They would have lied my life away last +night; and not mine only, the Dauphin's." + +"Mademoiselle, am I forgiven for my folly of yesterday?" He knew he +was, but for a cunning reason of his own he wished to hear her say so. + +"Can I blame you?" she answered, making no pretence at misunderstanding +him. "You, too, are from Valmy. No, no. I do not mean that. That +was a cruel thing to say; it is you who must forgive me, for you are +not of Valmy, you who stood by me and believed in me even when I seemed +the vile thing they called me." + +"The sweetest and truest woman on God's earth," he said. "I believed +in you even before I loved you--no, that is not true, for I think now I +loved you that very first night when you had nothing for me but the +contempt I deserved. Every day since then you have grown sweeter, +dearer, more reverenced: so strong for others, so full of courage for +others, so full of thought for others and without a thought for +yourself: never one thought for yourself, never one and never a fear. +And every day I have hungered for you; I don't know any other word for +it but just hungered, hungered, hungered that a little of the dear +womanly graciousness might be mine. Though that would not be enough, +not that only: love must have love or go starved." + +Except for a shake of the head in depreciation or denial she had heard +him without interruption. Why should she interrupt what was so sweet +to hear? But though it was the very comfort her heart longed for, +there was no smile on her face, a fresher glow on the cheeks, perhaps, +a fuller light in the eyes, but beyond these a pathetic wistful gravity +rather, as if in the presence of a solemn sacrament. And surely the +revelation of that which is nearest in us to the divine is a true +sacrament of the spirit. But when he ended she put out a hand and +touched him gently, her fingers lingering on his arm in a caress. + +"And I? Oh, my dear, my more than dear, have I not hungered? I think +a woman starves for love as a man never can." From his arm the hand +stole up and caught him round the neck, the other joining it, and his +face was drawn down to her own. "Am I shameless, beloved? No! for +there is no shame in love, and Stephen, my heart, my hero, my man of +men, I love you, I love you, I love you." + +But presently, as she lay in his arms, her head drawn into the hollow +of that which held her near, the grey eyes smiled up at him in a return +to the tender mockery he knew and loved so well, nor was it less sweet +for the moisture behind the lashes. + +"Yesterday----" + +"Hush, beloved, do not talk of yesterday," nor, for the moment, could +she. But she was wilful, and being a woman, had her way. + +"Yesterday you sang; will you ever sing again?" + +"Yes, listen! + + 'Heigh-ho, love is my life, + Live I in loving, and love I to live.' + +Until to-day I never knew how true that is. Ursula, my sweet, you must +teach me the ending, for I have never yet found one to please me." + +"You talk of endings when life has just begun. Tell me, was Homer +blind?" + +"So they say," he answered, marvelling much what new shift of thought +was coming next. + +"I thought so," and the smile deepened until the grey eyes shone +through their thin veil of unshed tears. "And Homer was blind +yesterday or he would have seen I expected a very different question." + +"Yes, laugh at my foolishness; I love to see you laugh, you who have +laughed so little all these days. But I think the time of laughter has +come for us both." + +"Until you go back to Valmy." + +"And that must be soon." + +On the instant she belied his optimism, for the laughter faded from her +eyes leaving her once more the woman of many sorrows, and with a sigh +she released herself from his clasp. + +"I hate Valmy; I have a horror of it and of your terrible King. He +always seems to me like some dry-hearted, cold-hearted beast rather +than a man. Is there nothing human in him?" + +"He is more human than you think. Ursula, I know it, so you need not +shake that dear, wise head of yours." + +"You say so because you are so human yourself. Dear, I love you for +your charity." + +"Love me for what you will so long as you do love me," answered he. +"And do not be afraid. I am quite sure I am not making any mistake. +The King trusts me as he never trusted Monsieur de Commines." + +"And how well he trusts him we saw last night," she said, with a little +bitter irony which surely might be pardoned. "But how can I help being +afraid? Are you not all I have in the world?" + +"Charles?" + +"Do you think Charles counts for anything now? And yet he is a dear +boy who has the good taste to approve warmly of Monsieur Stephen La +Mothe. Did I not tell you, that day you were playing with the dogs, +that you would win all our hearts?" + +"And Monsieur Stephen La Mothe," said Stephen jestingly, "approves so +warmly of the dear boy's approval, that if it would not be presumptuous +he would ask his leave to beg his acceptance of a little remembrance of +these last days." + +"Ask his leave! Poor boy, he would be delighted. Dauphin of France +though he is, he gets so few presents. What is it? Let me guess. +Your lute! and you would sing----" + +"No, not my lute, wicked that you are. And if I sang at all it would +be Blaise's song adapted to this most blessed of blessed days. + + Ursula is sweet to kiss, + Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss." + +I told Monsieur de Commines that was one thing I must have in a wife, +and praise God, I have got it!" + +"Hush, Stephen! Do you want all Amboise to hear your foolishness?" + +"If that is foolishness, may I never be wise again. To me it is the +one wisdom of the world. I think I am drunk this morning and it is +only seven o'clock. Is not that scandalous? Love-drunk at seven in +the morning and never to be sober again! Mademoiselle de Vesc, do you +know you are the most beautiful woman in all France?" + +"I know I am the happiest," she answered soberly. "But, Stephen, what +have you got for the boy? I would not be a true woman if I was not +curious." + +"And you are the very truest woman----" + +"Stephen, I will not have any more foolishness. Tell me at once what +have you got for Charles?" + +"Two small gifts: a coat-of-mail so fine in the links that you could +hold it in your two hands--no! not in your two hands, they are only +large enough to hold my heart. Then there is an embroidered mask, a +tinselled toy of a thing but pretty enough. They will help him to +dress his plays. Ask him, Ursula, if he will accept them from me even +though I came by way of Valmy." + +"Would you spoil his pleasure? No, I shall say nothing at all about +Valmy, just that a wandering minstrel be so rich that he can make +presents to a Dauphin of France! Sing me a song, Master Homer the +blind, and I will give you--let me see: no, not what you think--a +silver livre!" But she did not wait for his music. Dropping him a +little demure, mocking curtsy she turned and ran down the box-edged +path, singing as she went, and the air she sang was Stephen La Mothe's +"Heigh-ho! love is my life; Live I in loving and love I to live!" and +the lilt of the music set Master Homer's heart throbbing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION + +"There was a time," said Villon, "when I, too, could forget that rose +arches are open at the ends. The world is always gaping at our elbow. +If we taste a peach in an orchard, the wall is low; if we smell a rose +in a garden, there are, Heaven be thanked, more flowers than leaves +when life's at May; and either way the world is with us." + +"And you were the gaping world!" answered La Mothe, vexed for Ursula's +sake that Villon of the bitter tongue should have discovered their +secret. "Was that friendly of you?" + +"Not gaping, no! But is a man to close his eyes when heaven opens? I +beg you to believe," he went on with great dignity, "that just so soon +as I made certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you to your +rose-gathering. Observe I have not said one word about the thorns. +That is the stale gibe of the cynic whose heart of youth has dried +before its time. And what if there are thorns? A single rose with the +dew of love upon it is worth more than a pair of scratched hands. +Gape? Could you believe it of me--of me, Francois Villon? No, son of +my teaching, I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe." + +"Saxe!" cried La Mothe. "Never once have I thought of Saxe, never once +all day, and now it is almost night." + +"Don't distress yourself on that account. Saxe has wanted for nothing, +thanks to his two best friends. That reminds me." Pausing, Villon +rapped loudly on the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until a +servant familiar with his ways answered the summons. "My friend, fetch +me a bottle of wine, one single bottle from the furthest-in bin on the +right-hand side of the cellar. It is the '63 vintage," he explained to +La Mothe, "and I have the best of reasons for knowing Saxe will not +object." + +"But why one bottle only?" + +"I have been invited to a certain presentation," he answered, the +crow's feet round his twinkling eyes deepening as he laughed. "Thanks, +my friend," he went on as the drawer returned with the wine; "place it +on the table and retire to your kitchen to meditate on the mutability +of human fortune in the person of the greatest poet of his age, from +the Guest of the Three-legged Maid of Montfaucon to 'Francois Villon, +my friend' of the Dauphin of France! At last they are beginning to +appreciate me at the Chateau." + +"But what of Saxe?" + +"Ah, Saxe?" Filling his horn mug he emptied it with such slow +satisfaction that the flavour of no single drop of the wine missed his +palate. "Saxe's best friend had been before me this morning." + +"But Monsieur de Commines' orders were strict, only you and I were to +see him." + +"Not even your Monsieur de Commines can shut out a man from himself, +and who is a better friend or a worse enemy? Saxe, the wise man, has +hanged himself." + +"Hanged himself? Saxe?" + +"An intelligent anticipation," said Villon, nodding thoughtfully. "I +did not think he had so much good sense or good feeling. He always +struck me as a man of a coarse, material mind; but one can never tell." + +"Villon, it is horrible! How can you talk so callously? But you know +you do not mean what you say." + +"Every word of it. Hanged he would have been in any case, that was +inevitable. I warned him last night that he knew too much, and that +more went into Amboise than came out again. And was it not better he +should go to his end quietly, decently, just God and himself alone +together--the Good God who understands us so much better than we do +ourselves and so makes allowances? You don't agree with me?" + +"I can only say again, it is horrible." + +"Then what of the justice of the King which makes a man a spectacle in +the market-place, with all the world agape at the terror of it, the +world that licks its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbeting +of wretches no worse than itself? Think of the terror of it! Think of +the shame of it! The men he had drunk with, the women he had laughed +with, the children he had played with, all ringed round him to see him +die. And there he would hang till his bones dropped, a shame and a +blot on the clean face of the earth, blackened by the heat, drenched +white by the rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while the +pies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, a waste rag of +humanity. Come now, which is the decenter?" + +"Poor Saxe!" + +"If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no dew on the roses +this morning. He would have lied Mademoiselle de Vesc to death without +a scruple." + +"She wished him no harm, of that I am certain." + +"It is of the quality of roses to be sweet. But, La Mothe, say nothing +to her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold to +spend through a whole day of life," a cynical truth La Mothe was to +remember before a new morning dawned. + +"Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine?" + +"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, to +be serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a second +bottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life +like a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he would +have bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is no +infection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think of +it, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between us +three that I wonder which will go next." + +"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe." + +"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, I +palmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off upon +mademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and--bah! your presentation will save +us two." + +"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance." + +"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choose +presentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at La +Mothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it another +intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better--a +remembrance. The King--God bless him!--will presently die in earnest; +the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La +Mothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget the +stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases in +princes. When, lo!--a wise youth you are, La Mothe--a remembrance jogs +his recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur +Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over. +Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligent +anticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way of +remembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophets +fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-foot +rope may be infectious after all." + +"Villon, you are quite wrong." + +"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh few +recover from. But let us go to the Chateau." Pushing the unemptied +bottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had +changed; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face were +those of age, not laughter. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION + +Partly to divert the boy from his grief at Hugues' death, but partly +also as an outlet for her new-found lightness of heart, Ursula de Vesc +would have turned what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into a +playful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand Turk, seated on a +divan of shawls and cushions, would receive the envoy of the Sultan of +Africa bringing presents from his master. It would be just such a play +of make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe proposed to +present the offering in the name of the King of the Genie her zest +waned, and a little alloy seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day. +That would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, she +declared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the night's amusement. + +So only she, Father John, and the dogs were present in the Dauphin's +private apartment, study and playroom in one, when La Mothe and Villon +entered. As is almost always the case, the room reflected many of the +characteristics of its owner, and in its ordered disorder, its hints of +studies, its litter of wooden swords and broken dog-whips, might be +seen the boy who was almost man in gravity and yet still a child in a +child's love of toys. Rising as the two were announced, his effort at +dignity was sorely marred by the eager curiosity with which he eyed the +linen bundle carried by La Mothe. + +"So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, and we will have no +more games together." + +"When I return, Monseigneur." + +"And I hope that will be soon, though I don't know why you are going. +But, then, I never quite knew why you came at all." + +"Nor I until to-day, but the reason is the very best in the world," +answered La Mothe, and the boy, following his glance, caught the +significance of the colour warming Ursula de Vesc's cheeks. + +"So you have made up your quarrel, you two?" + +"Never to quarrel again, Monseigneur." + +"I hope so, but I don't believe it. Two people can't live together +without quarrelling. Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur La +Mothe, will you please call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish." + +"Monseigneur, you are very good." + +"Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don't forget. It's all I have to +give. Father John, who never saved my life or did anything for me, +calls me Charles, so why not you who saved my life twice? Down, +Charlot, down! leave Monsieur La Mothe's parcel alone. You are always +pushing your nose where it is not wanted. What have you in that +napkin, Monsieur La Mothe?" + +"For your acceptance, Monseigneur----" + +"Charles, not Monseigneur," said Ursula softly. "You will be calling +me mademoiselle next!" + +"Hush, Ursula! I cannot hear what Monsieur La Mothe says if you keep +chattering. For my acceptance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give me +presents; but then, I don't think there is much love in the world." + +"There is more love in the world than you think," said La Mothe, "and +some day you will very reverently thank God for it, as I do. Some day, +too, you will know that these are from the very heart of love itself." + +"Yes, yes," said the boy, shifting impatiently in his chair as La +Mothe, laying the package on the table, busied himself untying the +knotted corners, "I know very well all you have done for me; but what +have you there?" + +"Wait, my son, wait; you will know all in good time." But when the +Franciscan would have laid a restraining hand on the Dauphin's +shoulder, Villon twitched him by the sleeve of his robe. + +"Hush, man, hush! Had you never young blood in you? Why, I am like +Charlot the puppy, just itching to know what is inside." + +"But it is not good for youth----" + +"It is good for youth to be young," said Villon testily. "Ah, +Monseigneur, I like that better than a frock with a cord that goes all +round, and no offence to you, Father John." + +Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points, La Mothe shook it out +and held it hanging with such a careful carelessness that the +lamplight, picking out each separate link, fired its length and breadth +into a dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through by the +colder blue of hammered steel. With every cunning, unseen movement of +the fingers a ripple from the throat rolled downward and out at the +edges in a white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he caught +it in his open hands, shaking them till it settled so compactly down +that it lay entirely hidden in their cup. + +"Monsieur La Mothe! Oh, Monsieur La Mothe!" + +To La Mothe the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, and, above all, the +exclamation, were so pathetically eloquent of a stinted, starved, +neglected childhood that a rush of passionate resentment swept across +him in arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those common +joys which are childhood's natural food and rightful heritage. To be a +man in responsibilities, a man bearing the burden and sorrows of his +years, without having first been a boy at heart is more than an +irreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy which has +killed the purest sweetener of the sours of life. Rob the twig of its +sunshine and you rob the tree of its strength. But even while the +flame of his anger scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had come +the gifts which brightened the boy's eyes, and was ashamed. Had he not +said there was a wealth of unimagined love in the world? + +"For me, Monsieur La Mothe?" + +"If you will accept them." + +"See, Ursula! See, Father John! Now I can really be a knight like +Roland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. Oh, thank you, Monsieur La +Mothe, thank you. And what is this?" + +"An embroidered mask for your plays, only none but you must wear it. +See, this is the way it fastens behind, and this fringe hides the +mouth." + +"I don't think I like that so well. Yes, I do! For now I can be the +man who attacked the Burnt Mill yesterday--he wore a mask, you +remember. Poor Hugues! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that I +might show him my armour. But I will show it to Blaise instead. You +know Blaise is to sleep at my door now? Come, Father John, while I +show it to Blaise. I will put on the mask afterwards." + +"And meanwhile, Monseigneur," said Villon, "I will try how it fits." + +But La Mothe, remembering the King's instructions, intervened. "No, +no, Villon, that is for the Dauphin alone--that and the +coat-of-mail--no one else must use them." + +For a moment it seemed as if Villon, vexed at what he took to be a +rebuke for presumption, would have pushed aside La Mothe's protesting +hand, but with a shrug of his shoulders he gave way. + +"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning the edge of the awkwardness +with a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should see +they are nothing but common flesh and blood like the rest of us." + +Slipping her hand into La Mothe's arm Ursula de Vesc drew him to the +door, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin half +dragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaise +his treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve, +his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, and +was hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm. + +"More and more you are my dear," she whispered, her lips so near his +ear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It was +a beautiful thought and I love you for it, but it was just like you. +Oh, Stephen, how I wish Villon was not here!" + +Now why did she wish that? And why did the white rose flame suddenly +red? + +Left to promptings of his own desires, Charlot the inquisitive debated +whether the door or the table offered the better field for amusement +and improving observation. The door, with its group of three crowded +into the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage-way, promised +well, but the table was nearer and forbidden, which promised better. +Besides, some play he did not share was in progress, and he owed it to +the dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once already, when he +tried to push his nose into that linen package, he had been baulked. +Rearing himself on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of the +Dauphin's chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the chair +was blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon the seat, his ears +cocked, his head aslant. + +So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with an +enquiring mind. There was something new on the table, something +strange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiosity +was piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitching +nose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, so +new and strange that he must enquire further. Again, very cautiously, +for he knew he had no business there at all, he caught the mask in his +teeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by his +success he looked about him. The humans were at the door talking +quietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-meme were biting one +another's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and could +investigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the mask +face downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as he +sniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under him +rigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a little +soft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legs +relaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buried +in the hollow of the mask. + +"In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of France herself!" said +Villon as they turned back from the doorway. + +"And perhaps his plays may waken something of the Maid's great soul in +him." Then, before La Mothe could tell her that she herself had shown +much of Joan's strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfish +spirit, she added, "It was a sorrowful year when France lost so great a +soul." + +"But France is never long bereaved," replied Villon, and from his tone +they could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soul +went, a great soul came--I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is no +respecter of the rights of princes." + +"Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursula +de Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; but +at the first touch she let him slip from her hold and drew back, +startled, looking up into La Mothe's face as he bent over her. The +plump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen, +Charlot is dead!" + +"Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; but +the limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on the +shoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched back +from the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be no +doubt--Charlot's days of curiosity were ended. + +"Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" But +when reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villon +anticipated her, setting his foot upon it. + +"Don't touch it, for God's sake, don't touch it!" + +"Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin's." + +"It killed Charlot!" + +"Killed Charlot? How?" + +"Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and should know." + +Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction of the Dauphin's +toy and the tone of Villon's reply, she caught at the table-edge, +pulling herself upright. + +"Stephen, what does it all mean?" + +But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension had been staggered but +had recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances, +luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselves +together in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How put +in words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villon +who gave her the key. + +"Poison." + +"Poison?" she repeated, shrinking in a natural repulsion. "Poison on a +mask you gave the Dauphin? Stephen, how could that be? But you must +answer, you must tell us," she insisted as he shook his head for the +second time, "you must, you must!" + +"I cannot." He spoke curtly, harshly, but the determination was +unmistakable. Twice he repeated it. "I cannot, I cannot." + +"But, Stephen----" + +"Ursula, you don't doubt me? You don't think--you can't think I knew? +You can't think I planned this--this----" He faltered as his eyes +turned upon the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had passed +his word to the King to be silent, and even if he spoke, the truth +would only add horror to horrors. "Ursula--beloved!" Laying Charlot +on the table he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught in +both hers, and he himself drawn into her arms. + +"Doubt you? No, Stephen, no, no; I trust you utterly--utterly. And +cannot you trust me? We have the boy to think of--the Dauphin--he must +be protected. But for Charlot he--he--oh! I cannot say it. Stephen, +don't you see? don't you understand? How can we guard him in the dark? +The mask, Stephen: whose was it? where did it come from? Tell me for +the boy's sake." + +"I cannot, Ursula. Dearest heart, I cannot." + +Lifting from the table the napkin in which the mask had been wrapped, +Villon shook it out, holding it up much as La Mothe had held the +coat-of-mail. Then he threw it on the table, spreading it flat. + +"Fleur-de-lys," he said, his finger on the woven pattern. + +"Fleur-de-lys and--Stephen, you came from Valmy? Oh! My God! My God! +I understand it all. So that is why you are in Amboise?" + +Villon nodded gravely. Temperamentally he was the most emotional of +the three, and the tragedy in little, which so nearly had been a +tragedy in great, had so shaken his nerve that he controlled his tongue +with difficulty. + +"Yes," he said slowly, "that is why he is in Amboise, and he never knew +it. There were two arrows on the string, Saxe and this. And it might +have been me." He turned to La Mothe. "You saved me; but for you it +would have been me." + +But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the moment it seemed as if he had +forgotten Villon's existence altogether. His arms were round the girl, +one hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her fears, lover +fashion, and comfort her with his nearness. But his thoughts were in +Valmy, a thin, tired voice whispering in his ears, a white face whose +eyes smouldered fire looking into his. With a shiver he roused himself. + +"Yes, I came from Valmy, and I must go back to Valmy; I must go this +very night. Saxe used to keep a horse always ready," he ended, with +the bitterness of shame in his voice. + +"Stephen, was it for this?" + +"I suppose so. But I must go to Valmy to-night. As to the Dauphin, +when I return----" + +"When you return!" echoed Villon drearily. "Did Molembrais return? +Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is dead. You will be the next, for you +know more than Saxe ever guessed at." + +"Saxe dead?" said Ursula, turning to Villon in her distress. "Monsieur +Villon, how did Saxe die?" + +"Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let him +go anywhere--anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, and +Monsieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct." + +"Stephen, Stephen, for my sake! Oh, that terrible King!" + +"Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. Help me to be strong +to go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surely +to be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin must +know nothing of what has happened. Let him be happy while he can. +Take away poor Charlot and that horrible thing, and leave me to make up +a tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs--anything that he may not +see the pain on your dear face. He is coming back--listen how he +laughs, poor lad! Go, Villon; go, man, go, go!" + +"Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy, +rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so +full of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness of +living, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphin +of France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I would +rather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask." + +"Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot has +torn it." + +"Charlot? Where is Charlot?" + +"Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is banished for a week." + +"But my mask, I want my mask!" + +"It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one--a better one." + +"But I don't want a new one or a better one; I want this one, and I +want it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am very +angry with you." + +"Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never have +said that; and I am sure it was not Monsieur La Mothe's fault." + +For a moment the boy turned upon the priest in a child's gust of +passion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance and +tears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders under +the coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done. + +"You are right, Father, though you do come from Valmy. Monsieur La +Mothe, I am sorry for what I said, and do not forget you are to call me +Charles. Ursula, you have been crying; is that because Charlot spoilt +my mask?" + +"No, Charles; but because Monsieur La Mothe must go to Valmy." + +"Oh! Valmy?" he said dully. "I am never happy but somehow it is +Valmy, Valmy, Valmy! I think hell must be like Valmy." + +"My son, you must not say such things." + +"But what if I think them? Am I not to say what I think? And in hell +they hate, do they not? Monsieur Villon," he went on as the poet +re-entered the room, "they were talking of Valmy as I passed the +stair-head. Will you go and see if my father is dead a second time? +No! stay where you are, I hear some one coming." + +Hastily crossing the room, Charles cowered close to Ursula de Vesc, +furtively catching at her skirts as if half ashamed of his fears and +yet drawn to the comfort of a strength greater than his own. All his +pride of possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and instead +of wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed spirit looked out of his +dull eyes. He was no longer Roland, but the son of Louis of France. +Laying her arm about him in the old attitude of protection which had so +stirred La Mothe's heart, she held him close to her, the anxiety of her +watchfulness no less evident than his own. The darkness of her dread +had deepened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, no good to +Stephen La Mothe. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +THE ARREST + +There was no long delay. Passing Villon with a single, keen, +scrutinizing glance, a man, a stranger to them all, entered, pausing a +yard or two within the room. Four or five troopers showed behind him +in the doorway, but made no attempt to cross the threshold. All were +dusty, travel-stained, and with every sign of having ridden both far +and fast. Their leader alone was bareheaded, his sheathed sword caught +up in a gauntleted hand. + +"In the King's name, Monseigneur," he said, turning to the Dauphin with +a salute which halted evenly between respect and contempt. But the +Dauphin only shrank closer to Ursula de Vesc and it was La Mothe who +answered. + +"You are from Valmy?" + +"By order of the King." + +"With despatches?" + +"With instructions, and," he paused, motioning to the open doorway +behind him, then added, "means to carry them out." + +"What are your instructions?" + +"To arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe----" + +"Arrest Monsieur La Mothe? Why? On what ground--on what charge?" +Sweeping the Dauphin aside Ursula de Vesc moved forward as she spoke. +The instinct of protection had given way to something very like the +instinct of attack: her love for the boy was satisfied with a passivity +which could never content her love for the man. + +"If I could tell you, I would," he replied courteously, "but I fear +Monsieur La Mothe must ask the King that question himself. I know +nothing beyond my instructions." + +"Are your orders in writing?" It was Villon who spoke. + +"Yes, but I do not recognize your right to see them." + +"My right, then," said La Mothe, "since it is against me they are +directed." + +"Certainly; no doubt you can identify the writing." + +"I can," answered Ursula, stretching out her hand for the paper which +would have been Beaufoy's passport to promotion but for his unlucky +appetite. But it was withheld in obvious hesitation. + +"Remember, mademoiselle, that if it is destroyed, I still have the +means behind me----" + +"Oh, monsieur," she interrupted, striking at him with her tongue and +finding a relief in the contempt, "it is easy to see you come from +Valmy." + +A sour smile crossed his face as the colour rose at the gibe, but he +only shrugged his shoulders with a little outward gesture of the hands. + +"Yes, we grow suspicious in Valmy. There are my instructions, +mademoiselle; you will see they leave me no alternative." + +"Yes, the writing is the King's throughout. 'Go to Amboise,'" she +read, "'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, and bring him to Valmy +without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life let +him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS.'" With every +sentence her voice hardened; spots of colour flecked the pallor of her +cheeks, grew and deepened. "It is vile, infamous, contemptible," she +said, "but it is like your King. Yes! You come from Valmy, there can +be no doubt you come from Valmy. Stephen, I shall speak. Useless? +Perhaps; but I shall speak all the same. Your King has hid spies in +Amboise, we know that, spies who can lie or tell the truth as it suits +their master. Through them the King knows that Monsieur La Mothe has +twice saved the Dauphin at the risk of his own life, and now--now!" +She paused, beating the paper with the back of her hand with a force +that lent her words power and meaning, "now he is to hold no +communication with the Dauphin! Monsieur La Mothe may set his own life +on the hazard to save the Dauphin but he may not speak with him! That +is Valmy gratitude and the King's miserable, jaundiced mind. And his +commission is cancelled! What that commission is I do not know, but, +thank God! Monsieur La Mothe, you are freed from it, whatever it is, +since it came out of Valmy." + +"I thank God too," said La Mothe, his eyes meeting hers a moment and +travelling behind to where the Dauphin stood hugging the wall with +Diane and Lui-meme at his feet. The significance of the glance was +unmistakable, and the girl paused, breathless, in the revelation. The +gifts were his commission, the mask which killed Charlot was his +commission, and the commission was cancelled. The King had repented, +had he not repented there would be no cancellation. "Yes," repeated La +Mothe, "very humbly I thank God, nor do I think the King can have heard +as yet of the Dauphin's second danger. Monsieur, I am at your service; +I was about to leave for Valmy to-night in any case." + +"So much the better; but I regret you must go as my prisoner. You can +understand that I have no option." + +"I quite understand, and here is my sword. Monseigneur--no, since you +permit it, Charles, my friend, I leave you in good keeping. You will +have Mademoiselle de Vesc, Father John, and Villon here, to watch over +you. Villon, beware of that third cast of the net. I think that is +now the one great danger." + +"La Mothe, La Mothe, must you go? Is there no other way? Remember +Molembrais." + +"What other way is possible? The King has my word, and if that were +not enough there are what Monsieur de Commines would call five good +reasons behind the door. Monsieur, you have my parole. Something +stronger than your five reasons holds me. Good-bye, Charles, my +friend----" + +But somewhere in the boy's blood a dash of the Crusader's spirit he had +sneered at stirred. Brushing past Ursula de Vesc he ranged himself by +La Mothe's side, his coat-of-mail an undulating pool of light as when +the moon shines on a falling wave pitted by the wind. + +"Monsieur from Valmy, Mademoiselle de Vesc is right. You may tell my +father that Monsieur La Mothe has twice saved my life and that all +Amboise knows it. That he saved me may not count for much in Valmy--it +may even be against him--but what all Amboise knows all France will +know. I think my father will understand. Monsieur La Mothe, good-bye, +and when you come back we shall play our games together again. I don't +think I care about the mask, but I shall not forget to be Roland. +Come, Father John, let us go and pray that Monsieur La Mothe will soon +come back to us." + +"Monseigneur--Charles!" cried La Mothe, taking the stretched-out hand +in both his, "you are a gallant little gentleman. No; I do not think +you will forget to be Roland. God save the Dauphin!" + +"Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe. Monsieur from Valmy, you have my leave +to go. Come, Father John." With a stiff little bow he hooked his arm +into the brown sleeve of the Franciscan, and the two left the room. + +"I think, monsieur," said Ursula de Vesc, "the Dauphin speaks the +sentiments of us all. You have Monsieur La Mothe's parole: he will +follow you in five minutes." + +But how spirit drew to spirit as lip to lip in these five minutes needs +not to be told. Whoso has seen love go out of life, uncertain of +return, will understand. But if that morning there had been a passing +behind the veil into the holy of holies where immortal love dwelleth, +then in these five minutes there was the very throbbing of the heart +which beats eternal even in these earthly walls of time. + +Nor was Villon drier of eye as he waited under the stars. + +"He knows too much," he said; "and when a man knows too much, not even +a ballad can save him." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS + +But for two happenings by the way Stephen La Mothe's ride over the +route taken twenty-four hours earlier by Commines was without event. +Of these happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in mercy the +bitter came first, leaving the sweet to comfort the end of the journey. + +Once fully clear of Amboise the leader of the troop halted, and by a +prearranged plan his followers gathered round them, hemming them into a +circle as they had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day. + +"Monsieur La Mothe," he said civilly, but speaking with the air of a +man who had a fixed purpose, "there is a certain signet which I must +demand. We who come from Valmy always say must and demand," he added, +with a touch of grim humour, which was lost on La Mothe, but which Paul +Beaufoy would have appreciated. + +"Your instructions said nothing about a signet." + +"I must have it, nevertheless. You can see for yourself that the order +was written in haste, and how should I know the ring exists if the King +had not told me? To be frank with you, these men do not go with us all +the way to Valmy, and where would I be if, when we arrived, you played +your signet against my scrap of paper?" + +"But you have my parole." + +"Valmy's parole!" he said scornfully. "I mean no offence, but I can +afford no risks. Come, Monsieur La Mothe, do not put me and yourself +to the indignity of a search." + +At the contempt in the scornful voice La Mothe started, flushing hotly +in the darkness. But the memory of the deadly deceit practised on his +own faith was too recent, and he controlled himself. How could he +blame a stranger for judging the servant by the master? + +"The ring came from the King and should go back to the King. On your +honour, is this part of your duty?" + +"My most solemn duty, as God is above us; without the signet I cannot +fulfil all that has been laid upon me"--which was true in a sense. The +order stolen from Beaufoy might gain him entrance to Valmy, but without +the signet he could not count on forcing a way to Louis himself. + +"On compulsion, then," said La Mothe, giving up the signet, and +thenceforward they rode in silence, not pressing their horses unduly; +but it vexed him to think that Louis would not trust him to return the +ring. + +If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could blame him or charge it +to the discredit of his courage? The rough lesson had been roughly +taught that it is better to tramp the road of life afoot and one's own +master than to ride a-horseback under compulsion. He had learned, too, +that on the tree of knowledge of the ways of men are many fruits which +pucker the mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As to the +ways of women, that is an altogether different book--a serial, let us +say, but in how many numbers? + +Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun of a new day had +risen. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the auberge where Paul +Beaufoy had purchased breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, +the troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from which La +Mothe was excluded, and the two rode on alone. Each was preoccupied +and neither spoke. Knowing the relationship which existed between +Valmy and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange in the +procedure followed both at the Chateau and afterwards. If the King +suspected he had joined the camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might have +been resisted; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, there was +no further need for force. The King who kept no faith was shrewd to +know when he could trust the faith of others, and the troopers +doubtless were required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at a +distance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais' flight in the desperate +possibility of his escape from Valmy. + +Unconsciously following the precedent set by Commines, they drew rein +while it was yet dark. Daylight, both knew, would show Valmy in the +distance. But as they crawled at a foot's pace in the yet darker +shadow of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a sullen grey +ribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the horizon like an inverted giant +monolith, there sounded behind them the remote pad, pad of rapid hoofs +muffled by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when even nature +is steeped in the quiet of a child's sleep, and the rhythmic beat broke +the stillness like the throbbing of a heart. + +"This way and be silent." + +La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught, wrenching his horse +backward into a gloom so heavy that those behind them would have passed +them by but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the bit, +tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. Instantly the +foremost rider checked, and a voice called out of the darkness, "Who is +there? Stephen! Stephen!" It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch of +the spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, dragging the rein from the +hand which held it. + +"Ursula! You! Why are you here? Who is with you?" + +"Where else should I be?" she answered between laughter and a sob. +"Did you think I could wait, breaking my heart alone in Amboise? +Besides, there is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we shall +be together to the end." + +"But the Dauphin?" + +"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer any +fear for the Dauphin. And if there was," she added half defiantly, "I +would be here all the same." + +From the shadow of the pines La Mothe's captor rode slowly forward. +"For what purpose, mademoiselle?" + +"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell +him--that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be +murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all +France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most +loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be too +late, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmy +before me." + +"But there is no entering Valmy in the dark." + +"Monsieur La Mothe's signet----" + +"La Mothe, you never told me that." + +"Why should I?" replied La Mothe. "I owed you no information. You +took your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must +not, dare not, go to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be madness, +the danger----" + +"Where you go I go," she answered steadily. "Dear, do not try to +dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in the +little time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?" + +"Do you mean," demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will give +admission to the King at any hour, day or night?" + +"At any hour, yes." + +"And we are ready to go," said the girl, ranging her horse by the side +of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe was within touch of her hand. + +"Neither you nor the priest--La Mothe and La Mothe only," he answered, +his voice roughening into passion for the first time. "Come, sir, I +hold your parole." + +"But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe's parole." + +"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do with +you." + +"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I +believe the King will thank you." + +"Flatly, I decline to take you." + +"Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not." + +"Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to +the priest. + +"She is right," answered the Franciscan, speaking for the first time, +"and when one is right there is no turning back, no matter what the end +may be. Yes," he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seen +in the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short of +killing me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you can +turn back the finger of God from lifting the sun yonder." + +He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his arm all faced +with him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. The +leaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, +but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the coming +glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divine +had clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit might +take comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid. + +Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat in +silence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the +King of Glory shall come in,'" he murmured. Then he roused, +straightening himself in the saddle. "Let us ride on. Have no fear, +mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I serve you shall taste no +harm." + +"They will never let you pass the outer guard." + +"A way will open; ride on." + +"Well ride, then!" And ride they did, furiously. The fewer sleepless +eyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance of +escape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once only +Molembrais looked round. + +"Remember your parole. Keep near me, La Mothe!" Then, crouching low, +he drove his spurs home and dashed forward at a reckless gallop. + +But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and the Franciscan, he +was mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, +they had changed horses at Chateau-Renaud, and now their freshness more +than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, the +weakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff +with pain and every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed fatigue, +kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen and Ursula came last, +side by side. Crossing the Loire the pace slackened, and for the first +time speech was possible. + +"Stephen, you are not vexed? I could not wait in Amboise eating my +heart out, knowing nothing." + +"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across the +current. "But, beloved, I am in terror for you. The King----" + +"Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is right, God's over all, +and I have no fear." The clasp tightened in a message neither could +speak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses were +scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart. + +"God guard you, Ursula." + +"Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, but +not in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might be +said in Valmy. + +Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up with +him. + +"We must keep together now. If I have done my part courteously, help +me in return by silence. Remember, no one in Valmy knows of the +arrest. Mademoiselle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves." + +La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was natural. For his part he +had no desire to be a target for curious questions. He had no +explanation to give, nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, +he knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining the Dauphin's +party. As to Ursula, it seemed safer for her to be disassociated from +him in either case; safer, too, that the King should see him first and +alone; the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two rode on +ahead, Ursula and Father John following more leisurely. The dawn was +as yet little more than a haze of yellow mist. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +THE DAWN BROADENS + +While they were still a bow-shot from the walls a hoarse voice shouted +a command to halt, but Molembrais, holding the signet above his head, +called back "In the King's name," and rode on. Every moment of gloom +was precious, and a bold assertion of privilege was his surest hope. +If he appeared to doubt his own credentials, who would believe? There +is always a certain willingness to take a man at his own valuation, +especially if the valuation be a low one. Waiting for no challenge, +and faithful to his policy, he flung himself from his horse at the +outer gate with every appearance of haste. + +"In the King's name," he cried, scarcely giving himself time to light +upon his feet and holding fast by Paul Beaufoy's formula. "To His +Majesty, Monsieur La Mothe and I--quickly now." + +As he more than half expected, the very importunity staggered +opposition. + +"His Majesty is asleep; you cannot pass----" + +"His orders are imperative--sleeping or waking--any hour by day or by +night. Who is on guard?" + +"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre." + +"Send for him, then. Stir yourself, my man, and don't stand there +gaping like a fish." + +But Saint-Pierre had already heard the altercation, and at the rasp of +his spurs on the flags Molembrais turned sharply. Quick to note the +richer dress he drew his own conclusion. Waiting for neither question +nor explanation he again held out the signet. + +"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, we must see the King at once--at once, you +understand. Here is my authority." + +"But I do not know you? No stranger can----" + +"But you know this!" Molembrais cut him short. "Do you think I have +risked my neck galloping these accursed roads all night to be delayed +now just because you do not know me? Is it the King's signet or is it +not?" + +"Pass, then," said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. "Does Monsieur La Mothe +go with you?" + +For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say no? He would have +given much to have shaken off La Mothe now that the gates were passed, +and have forced his way to the King alone; but the attempt might waken +that suspicion which slept so lightly in Valmy. While he paused, La +Mothe answered, deciding the question. + +"Unfortunately, yes, Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. Will you please tell +Monsieur de Commines that I have arrived?" + +"Is it arrest? My dear lad----" he began as La Mothe nodded, but +Molembrais again interrupted him. + +"We have no time now. Where is the King?" + +"In his usual lodgings." + +"Mort-dieu! monsieur, how should I know his usual lodgings? Am I of +Valmy?" + +"Monsieur, a little civility would do you no harm." + +"Monsieur, once I have seen the King I will be as civil or as uncivil +as you please." + +Turning on his heel Saint-Pierre beckoned to an under officer. "Pass +these gentlemen to Captain Leslie: he is on duty in the King's +ante-room. Don't fear, La Mothe, I will send word to Monsieur de +Commines without delay. He is anxious about you, for he has been +enquiring at the gates once this morning already." + +"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, there is a lady behind us; she has ridden +all night----" + +"A lady?" Saint-Pierre's hand fell on his shoulder in a kindly touch. +"Not old enough to be your mother, I'll wager! Don't fret, mon gars, I +have been young myself," and with that La Mothe had to be content. + +Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais took up his position +last of the three. Now that he was within its walls the indefinable +terror of Valmy possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was not +that he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly determined, +not that he had grown coward or would have turned back had return been +possible, but the chill of the shadows through which the path lay crept +deeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, in part the +inexpressible revolt of nature against an inevitable sacrifice, in part +the sinister suggestions inseparable from Valmy itself. + +And how could he escape from that suggestiveness? There, where the +denser gloom sloped from the roof across a paved courtyard, Guy's +scaffold might have stood; through that doorway, dimly outlined against +the greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light for the last time; +these obscure, uncertain windows, blind eyes in the slowly waning +night, might have seen the axe fall; down these cellar stairs might +have been carried--but they had swung to the left into a narrow court, +and before them were the King's lodgings. No! it was not that he +repented, not that he had turned coward, but would fate and +circumstances trick him of his revenge at the last? + +There are some men whom the dread of failure chills to the heart when +the crisis calls them, and Marc de Molembrais was one of them. He had +no definite plan of either attack or escape. How could he have, when +every angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room through which +they passed was strange to him? But if he had no plan, he had a +purpose firmly set in his determination, which neither gloom nor chill +could check; from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice of +revenge, he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow he would +get Louis of France into his grip, and somehow he would break to +liberty. At the door of the King's ante-room Leslie met them, and +their guide stepped aside: his work was done. + +In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinctively he felt that +neither bluster nor importunity would serve him now. Then he glanced +aside at La Mothe. "We must see the King and at once," he almost +whispered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his dread of +failure he feared the excitement in his voice would betray him at the +last. + +"Where from?" + +"Amboise." + +Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy should go and a +stranger return was quite in keeping with the King's devious methods. +"Give me your sword and then I will waken him. I think he expects you." + +"My sword?" The request staggered him. He had relied upon his sword +for the one thrust necessary, then to aid him in his escape, or at +least that he might die fighting. + +"Don't you know that no one approaches the King armed? not even I, not +even Lessaix. There is nothing personal in it." + +"No, I never heard that." He stood a minute, gnawing his lip, then +wrenched the buckle open. What matter, he had his dagger hidden! + +Laying the weapon aside, Leslie softly lifted the portiere, holding it +looped with one hand while with the other he opened the door very +gently. + +"Sire!" + +"Is that Leslie? I am awake." + +"There are messengers from Amboise. Your Majesty's signet----" + +"Thank God! Oh, thank God! Lord God! Mother of God! Christ of God! +grant he was in time." The voice was thin and tremulous, the end +almost a sob. "Turn up the lamp, Leslie, and leave them with me alone. +Mercy of God! strengthen me for what is to come." + +Dropping the portiere behind him, Leslie crossed the room with a +quietness rare in one so roughly natured and so strongly built. But +Louis had the power of winning men's affections when it so pleased him, +and it was politic to win the man who held his life in care. Loosening +the wick in its socket with the silver pin hanging from the lamp for +that purpose, Leslie returned to the door. + +"Are you ready, Sire?" + +An affirmative wave of the hand was the answer, as, high upon his +pillows and pushed to the very outer edge of the bed, the King leaned +forward. Was he ready? He dared not say so. Words do not come easily +when life or death waits uncertain behind the door. + +"Have you slept, Sire?" + +"No." The voice was firmer as the hard will regained the upper hand, +but it was harsh, dry, curt. "Perhaps I'll sleep--later. Please God +I'll sleep later. Send them in." + +But in the ante-room Leslie paused a moment. + +"Take off those riding gloves," he said sharply. "You must know little +of kings' courts. Leave them on the table. You can pick them up as +you go out." + +"I know my duty," answered Molembrais, "and that is enough for me." To +speak sharply steadied his nerve. But at the door he stood aside and +motioned to La Mothe. "Do you go in first." Again it was not that his +courage failed him, but La Mothe would be so much covert, La Mothe +would draw the King's attention. It would ruin everything if, while he +was on the very threshold, the King should cry out, Where is Beaufoy? + +But Louis never gave him a glance. As the light fell upon La Mothe's +face he drew a shivering sigh and clenched his teeth with a snap. Life +or death had passed the door--which was it? + +"Come nearer," he said, beckoning. "Nearer yet. You, Beaufoy, stay +there by the door. The Dauphin?--Charles?" + +"Well, Sire." + +"Well!" The beckoning hand dropped, then he leaned forward, covering +his face. "Oh, God--God--God--God be thanked!" he sobbed, his +shoulders shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. "God be +thanked!" La Mothe heard him whisper a second time, and in the silence +Molembrais crept forward and aside, edging by the wall where the +shadows were thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench the +lamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he stole towards the +table. + +Suddenly Louis reared himself upright, again shaking a hand before him, +but this time in a threat. + +"I cancelled my orders: where--where----" + +"The mask is destroyed, Sire." + +"Destroyed? Safely?" + +"Safely, Sire." + +"And the Dauphin--Charles--does he know----" + +Again he paused, and again La Mothe filled the blank, reading into the +completed words the uncompleted question. + +"The Dauphin knows nothing but that the gifts were mine." + +"Yours! Yes, yours, yours only, and you dared--who is that at the +table?" His voice rose shrilly into a cry. "That is not Paul Beaufoy." + +The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than the words +themselves warned La Mothe. Round he spun, irresolute in surprise. +Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached +for the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that light +clear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears--"A +martlet with three mullets in chief." Then the lamp flickered out. + +"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, as +they twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in an +indrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the dead +had risen. + +Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yet +tighter, La Mothe fought for his life. Molembrais was the stronger, +Molembrais was the more desperate, and desperation is a strength in +itself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped and +fell; and with the blood drumming in his ears La Mothe heard nothing, +knew nothing, felt nothing but Molembrais' hot breath in his face, +Molembrais' tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled +upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the room +was ablaze, a racking violence wrenched. Molembrais from his clasp, +and he was pressed back downward on the floor, a sword at his throat. +It was Commines; Leslie and a guard held Molembrais; beyond, at the +doorway, stood Ursula de Vesc; by the bedside Father John stooped above +the King, his arm thrown round him. + +"Stephen, Stephen, what madness is this?" + +Propped on his arm La Mothe pointed to Molembrais. + +"Molembrais!" he panted. "Twice--the Dauphin--now the King. Thank God +I knew him at the last." + +By the bedside the Franciscan stooped lower, whispering in the King's +ear--whispering urgently, insistently, pleadingly. What he said none +heard, but the hard face slowly softened. + +"Philip, let him rise; you did well to vouch for Monsieur La Mothe. +And you, young sir, who have learned when to speak and when to keep +silence, was I not right? Amboise was dull, and queen and waiting-maid +are all of the one flesh? Mademoiselle, take him back to Amboise with +you and watch together over my son, the Dauphin, and the God of Mercy +be gracious to you both as He has been to me this day." + +He paused a moment. Shifting on his elbow he laid an arm round the +Franciscan's neck, drawing him closer, and as he whispered to the +priest a laugh wrinkled his worn face. Father John nodded, smiling. +The King's arm slipped from him and he straightened himself. + +"You are right, Sire, it is their due. Mademoiselle, come nearer. Who +giveth this woman to this man?" + +"I do," answered Louis. + + +Seven years after the boy Charles succeeded to the throne a certain +Stephen de Vesc, chamberlain to the King, was appointed, first, +Seneschal of Beaucaire, then Governor of Gaeta, and finally Constable +of France. Could it be that Stephen La Mothe adopted his wife's name +to please the Dauphin? Such changes are not unknown in our day, and +for less cause. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUSTICE OF THE KING*** + + +******* This file should be named 24483.txt or 24483.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/4/8/24483 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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