THE JUSTICE OF THE KING

by

HAMILTON DRUMMOND

Author of "The King's Scapegoat, " "Room Five, " "The Houses, " "Shoes of Gold, " Etc. 

International Fiction LibraryCleveland ---------- New York

Copyright, 1911by the MacMillan CompanyAll 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, withlittle relapses unto the immobility of deep thought, and those who knewhim 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'sclaws for thinness, spread out to the heat, those about him would havegone their rounds with a light heart. At such times his schemes werethoughts afar off, dreams of some new, subtle stroke of policy, andnone within touch had cause to fear. 

But this May day he was restless, unsettled, his mind so full of anactive purpose shortly to be fulfilled that he could not keep his tiredbody quiet for long, but every few minutes shifted his position or hisplace. If he sat in his great chair, padded with down to ease hisweakness and the aching of his bones, his fingers were constantlyplucking at his laces, or playing with the tags which fastened thefur-lined scarlet cloak he wore for a double purpose, to comfort thecoldness of his meagre body, and that the death-like pallor of his facemight be touched by its gay brightness to a reflected, fictitious glowof health. But to remain seated for any length of time jarred with hismood. Pushing himself to his feet he would walk the length of thegallery and back again, leaning heavily upon his stick, only to sinkonce more into his chair and fumble anew with shaking hands at whateverloose end or edge lay nearest. 

So it had been all morning, but the restlessness had redoubled withinthe last half-hour. It was then that a post had reached Valmy, no manknew from whence, nor had the messenger been asked any questions. Thesuperscription on the despatch was a warning against the vice ofcuriosity. It was in the King's familiar handwriting, bold andangular, and ran, "To His Majesty the King of France, At his Château ofValmy, These in great haste. " A "Louis" in large letters was sprawledacross the lower corner of the cover. 

But though none asked questions it was noted that the horse was fresherthan the man, and that whereas the one was streaming in a lather ofsweat which had neither set nor dried, the other was splashed, caked, and powdered with mud and dust to the eyebrows: therefore the wise insuch matters deduced that short relays had been provided, but that therider had only halted long enough to climb from saddle to saddle. Insilence he handed his letter to the Captain of the Guard, together withthe King's signet, and in silence he rode away; but whereas he came ata gallop he rode away at a slow walk: therefore the wise furtherdeduced that his task was ended. 

With the King in residence not even the Captain of the Guard could movefreely through Valmy, but the signet answered all challenges. Everydoor, every stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these silentfigures the rooms and passages were alike empty. Loitering for gossipwas not encouraged at Valmy, and least of all in the block which heldthe King's lodgings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King tookthe air with the pointed windows open to the south for warmth, wasthere any suggestion of a court. Here, at the entrance, and remotefrom the King alone at the further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were inattendance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time Lessaixunbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to Saint-Pierre, and passedon. In Valmy suspicion never slept, never opened its heart in faith toloyalty, and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach the Kingarmed. 

While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnawing his under lip ashe watched him, suddenly flung out one hand, the palm outward, thefingers spread, and Lessaix halted. 

"Well?" He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man speaks whose temper is wornto 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 hishand, and under the shadow Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shutconvulsively; but when the hand was lowered the King's face wasexpressionless. "What else?"

"Your Majesty's signet. "

"Let me see! Let me see! Um; that will do. Put them on the table andgo. 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 againSaint-Pierre whispered, "Whence?"

"I don't know, " replied Lessaix, also under his breath, "but not fromParis!"

Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips mumblingnervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his own handwriting: thering, a passport to life or death, he had at once slipped upon hisfinger. Every moment he knew he was watched, every action weighed, andhe was a little uncertain how far a judicious self-betrayal wouldfurther his purpose. His handwriting would tell them nothing but thathe knew the writer of the letter, whence it came, and that it wasimportant. To heighten the importance but conceal the cause seemedwise. 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, reconcilingdiscordant elements, must rely for execution on hands it could notalways control. Yes, that was the vice of government, and the reasonwhy so many well-devised, smoothly-launched schemes utterly miscarried. If the brain could only be the hands also! If the hands could onlyreach out from where the brain pondered and foresaw! But they couldnot, and so he must trust Commines. Trust Commines! A little gust ofanger at his impotence shook him and he shivered, dashing his handsupon the table; it was never safe to trust any one--never! But he washelpless, there was no escape, and in turn Commines must trust oneother: trust him with execution, that is, with blind performance, notwith knowledge. Beyond Commines he would trust no man with knowledge, at least not as yet, nor Commines more than he must. Later it might bepolicy to let it be known publicly the great danger which hadthreatened him, and France through him, but not till all was over!

Till all was over! Again Louis shivered a little, but not this timewith anger. The phrase was a euphemism for death, and he hated theword even when wrapped up in a euphemism and applied to another. Deathwas 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 neverfinish. Some one else will reap: some one else will finish. " Some oneelse! The thought was intolerable. He hated, he loathed the some oneelse as he hated and loathed death. With a sweep of his arm, as if hethrust some bodily presence from him, Louis leaned forward and caughtup the despatch. Let him make an end to brooding, here was work to bedone. 

Having closely examined the seals securing the back to make certainthey were intact, he ripped apart the threads which bound it round andround passing through the seals, and drew out the enclosure. It was asingle sheet of stiff paper. This he unfolded, and spreading it flatupon the table bent over it eagerly. But before he could have readthree lines he sank back in his chair with a cry, and so fierce was hisface that Saint-Pierre and Leslie, at the end of the gallery, instinctively drew apart, each suspicious of the other. The King'swrath was like lightning, swift to fall, and where it fell there wasthe danger of sudden destruction to those near. 

So he sat for a full minute, his brows drawn, his thin lips narrowed toa line, his head sunk between his shoulders, then with a sigh audibleto the length of the gallery he again bent above the paper, resting hisweight 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 twiceover, weighing its sense word by word, and when at length he raised hishead all passion had gone from him; he was a sorrowful old man, wearyand worn and grey. 

"Commines!" he said harshly, "send me Commines, " and sat back, thepaper crumpled lengthwise in his hand. 

But he did not sit for long. Rising, he paced up the gallery, his headbent, his iron-shod stick striking the flags with a clang as he leanedupon it at every second step, the crumpled paper still caught in hishand. At the door he paused, looking up sideways. 

"Commines? Where is Commines? Head of God! is there no one to bringme Commines?"

"We have sent for him, sire. "

"Sent for him? Why is he not here when I need him? I am theworse-served king in Christendom. No one takes thought, no one cares, no one---- Who is on guard? Leslie? Ah! Leslie cares, with Leslie Iam safe: yes, yes, with Leslie I am safe, " and once more he turnedaway, the iron ringing from the pavement as before. Suspicion breedssuspicion, and it would never do to vex Leslie's blunt loyalty with anyseeming distrust. Besides, it was true, he could trust Leslie. It wasnot 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 noquestions. 

Three times he had walked the length of the gallery, always withgrowing impatience, and three times turned before he heard the sound ofwhispering at the door, and the ring of rapid feet followed him. Buthe gave no sign, and went on his way as if he had heard nothing. Herecognized the footfall, but preferred that Commines should reach himas 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, Ihave 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 itmight be clearly heard at the further end of the gallery. Then heturned to the silent group at the doorway, watchful to seize upon anyclue to the King's mystery which might guide their feet clear of thepitfalls besetting Valmy. 

"Let all men go from me but my friend Argenton, " he said, with a waveof the hand which still held the paper crumpled in the grasp. "Let theguard remain beyond the door, but let no man enter till I give leave. Paris! Let them think Paris, " he went on, lowering his voice, "butfrom you, Philip, I have no secrets. We are old friends, too oldfriends to have secrets one from the other, eh, Philip, eh? Give meyour 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. Andyet I must walk: I cannot rest; no, not for a moment; this--this horrorhas unstrung me. "

CHAPTER II

A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE

Passing his clenched hand through the crook of Commines' arm, andleaning heavily on the stick in the other hand, Louis turned slowly upthe gallery, and for a time both were silent. They made a strangecontrast. The King was shrunken, bowed, and bent, a veritable walkingskeleton to whom the grave already imperiously beckoned nor would takelong denial. With his bony head, his listless face, his lean, longneck thrust out from the fur of his upturned collar, he resembled agiant bird of prey. The skinny hand thrust through the crook ofCommines' arm, and still grasping the crumpled despatch, was the clawof a vulture. Above him, head and shoulders, towered Commines, square-set, burly, muscular, and as full of life and vigour as hismaster was sapless. Just midway to the threescore years and ten, hisbodily powers were at their highest, and in the ten years he had servedLouis his mind had ripened so that few men were more astute, moreshrewd to see and seize upon advantages, whether for himself or hismaster. In the King's service few scruples troubled him, thequestionable 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 voicerasping harshly. "From Amboise, where the ungrateful son of amiserable father plots and plots and plots: and you, whose business itis 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 whodid not know him as Commines knew him would have sworn that tears werevery near the dull, dry eyes. "No more than thirteen--no, notthirteen, and yet--ah! the pity of it. "

"Oh, sire, some one has deceived you. The Dauphin is too young toplot, even if affection and common nature----"

"Too young?" broke in Louis, halting in his slow walk to strike thepavement angrily with his stick. "At what age does a serpent growfangs? Too young? Ill weeds grow apace, and then there may be thoseabout him who egg him on, who sow wrong ideas in his mind that they mayreap some gain to themselves. All are not as faithful as thou art, Philip. I have not always been merciful--not always. At times justicehas rejoiced against mercy for the general good; yes, for the generalgood. There was Molembrais; men blame me for Molembrais; but if theKing's arm be not strong enough to strike, who shall hold the kingdomin its place? And because the King's hand pulls down and raises up asGod wills"--he paused, and bowed with a little gesture of his hand tohis 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 theysuggest, it is my son--my son, Argenton--who is the very heart andcentre; my son, who out of his little twelve years raises his handagainst my threescore. "

"If he has done that, " began Commines, picking his words slowly (he hadnot as yet fathomed Louis' purpose, and feared lest he should commithimself in too great haste to the wrong policy), "if the Dauphin hastruly so forgotten natural love and duty----"

"If!" With a snarl which showed his gapped and yellow teeth Louisagain straightened himself, and as he raised his head beyond thereflected 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'? Philipde Commines, when you were little in your own eyes, when you were thehumble fetcher and carrier to that Bully of Burgundy whom I crushed, when you were the very hound and cur of his pleasure, fawning on himfor the scraps of life, I took you up, I!--I! Now you are Lord ofArgenton, now you are Seneschal of Poitou, now you are Prince ofTalmont, and I have made you all these, I!--I! and you answer me withan 'if'! But the hand which raised you up can drag down, you whoanswer me with an 'if. ' The hand which drew from the mud can flinginto the ditch, you who answer me with an 'if. ' And, by God! I'll doit! An 'if'? We say 'ifs' to fools. Was I a fool to turn thelickshoe of Charles the Bully into the Prince of Talmont? Was I a foolto grope in the mud for a Seneschal of Poitou? Am I a fool now--I, whohave held the strings of all Europe in my hand for thirty years, andloosed or ravelled them as suited the greatness of France? God be mywitness, all has been for the greatness of France! France comes first, always first. And now, when I say my son plots against me, thattwelve-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 hishand 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 rawrage, so brutally naked and perilous in its threat, that Comminesfairly quailed. The florid ruddiness of his fleshy face faded to apallor more cadaverous than the unhealthy grey of Louis' sunken cheeksas he remembered Molembrais. At the door stood the guards with crossedpikes, beyond these were Leslie and Saint-Pierre, watchful and alert. He was loved little better than his master, and he knew it. Let theKing speak and there would be no hesitancy, little pity. In his rapidrise he had kicked many rivals from the ladder of Court favour, andclimbed yet higher by trampling them underfoot, caring little what gulfof disgrace or worse swallowed them. And the King's threat was no idleboast; the hand which had raised could drag down, not only toirremediable disaster, but to the very grave itself. A hand? Abeckoning finger to those who waited at the door would be enough, andCommines 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 nomore but that it seemed impossible a son could turn against so good, sogreat a father. That--that--staggered me for the moment. It beggaredreason; it--it--but let me read the despatch for myself, sire. Not forbelief, 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 thatstrikes. "

"Aye!" said Louis drily, "that is more like the Commines of old, theCommines who served his master without an 'if. ' And that is a goodphrase of yours--turn back the blow on the hand that strikes! Whenthat is done, and the time comes for reward, I will not forget that itwas your phrase. And it was for that I sent for you: I knew my friendCommines would find a way to--to--guard his master effectually. "

Before Louis ended all the harshness had gone from his voice, and itbecame marvellously gentle, marvellously kindly, almost caressing. Amaster student of the subtle trifles which unconsciously influencegreat events, he played upon men's minds as a skilled musician on hisinstrument, 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 hehad gloomed so now he gladdened: he squared his shoulders to hisfullest height, filling his lungs with a deeper inspiration, and thecolour ran back to his cheeks in flood. Nor was it all in pride; therewas relief, and the lifting up of a burden which for one terriblemoment had threatened to crush him to the earth itself. 

But the life which gave its strength to the hand which lifted anddragged down was frail almost to extinction, and remembering that oneday the Dauphin must step into Louis' place Commines ventured totemporize. 

"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 darkis to waste strength. Have I your leave to read the despatch fromAmboise?"

"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 intothe chair, leaned forward upon the table in an attitude of utterweariness, his hand still resting upon the despatch. So there was apause for a moment, Commines standing to one side, silent and ill atease. Then with a sigh, which was almost a groan, Louis rousedhimself. Reaching out his hand he raised to his lips a little silverimage of Saint Denis, one of a group which filled a corner of thetable, some standing upright, some pitched upon their faces withoutregard to reverence or respect. Kissing it fervently he again sighed, his eyes raised to the groined roof, and shook his head sadly. IfSaint Denis did not whisper inspiration he at least spun out the timefor thought. Commines' request was reasonable, and he was at a losshow 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 inconfidence, and above all things a king must respect confidence, or howcould he be trusted?" A sentence which sounded strange from the lipsof 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 hismaster's tortuous road to the consolidation of the kingdom had not beenstrewn with ruptured contracts, unscrupulous chicanery, and solemnpledges brazenly evaded. "But how am I to act? How can I, in thedark, parry a blow from the dark?"

"Suspect every one, " answered Louis, brushing aside Saint Denis as heturned sharply in his chair. The saint had served his turn. He hadbeen invoked in a perplexity, and now that the way was clear, no doubtin answer to the invocation, he was flung aside without ceremony. "Suspect every one. To suspect all you meet is the first great rule ofprudence, wisdom, success; and to suspect your own self is the second. Go to Amboise. Remember there is no if, and sift, search, find, butespecially find. "

"Find what, sire?"

For answer Louis clutched the paper yet tighter and shook it in theair, and if Commines could but have guessed it, there was a doublemeaning in the action and the words which accompanied it. 

"Find this!"

"And having found?" Commines paused, conscious that the ground wastreacherous under his feet. "Sire, remember he is the Dauphin and theson of France. "

CHAPTER III

FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE

With a quick gesture, the arm thrust out, the hand open, the fingersspread, Louis shrank back, his other arm across his face. It was amovement eloquent of pathos, despair, and suffering; then, with anothersigh, 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 andthe 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, Francein its hope, and God knows what evil will befall----" He checkedhimself sharply as a spasm twisted the King's sunken mouth. Carriedaway by his sympathy he had forgotten that it was an almostunforgivable offence to hint that Louis was not immortal. For him theword death was wiped from the language. If the dread shadow took formto strike, those near might say "Speak little, " or "Confess, " butnothing more. 

But for once the offence passed without rebuke; it was even seized uponto point a moral, and nerving himself to face the thought the Kingcompleted the sentence. 

"God knows what evil will befall France in a boy's hands! And within ayear he will be of age; of age and yet a child. A puppet king ofFrance!" Louis paused, drawing in his breath with a shudder like a manchilled to the marrow. "A puppet, a puppet, and in the hands of apuppet what must the end be? Ah! France! France! France! It isdisaster, unless it can be turned aside. Philip, you must go toAmboise. Take with you some one you can trust, if in all Valmy thereis 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 whatI 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 Kingblew out his thin lips in contempt. "To bind men to you, Commines, tobind them so that you may sleep easy o' nights, you must hold themeither 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, andyet have turned against me. But let that pass; may God and the Saintsforgive them as I do. " Louis paused, and a sardonic smile flickeredfor an instant across his face. If God and the Saints had no moreforgiveness for his enemies than he had, then their prospects in thelife to come were as miserable as Louis would have made the remnant oftheir days in this present world if they but fell into his power. "Andthis 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 befaithful? 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, butthe 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 donot like women. "

"Sire, she is long dead. "

"Yes? That makes it safer, but I do not see that it is any reason fortrusting the brother. Take him with you to Amboise if you think he issafe, but remember"--and the King's lean hand was shaken suddenlyupward almost in Commines' face, a threat as well as a warning--"I holdyou responsible, you, you, you only. Let him be with you, but not ofyou; let him enter Amboise apart from you, and let him work out ofsight like a mole, obeying orders without knowing why he obeys. Thenif he fails, or blunders, or is fool enough to be caught spying, youcan disown him, can wash your hands of him, and let him hang! Um! Youdon't like it? I see in your face that you don't like it. Will younever learn that a face has a tongue of its own to be used to concealour thoughts? But yours--I know your thought. The woman! Bah! thewoman is dead. "

"Sire, a promise to the dead is like a vow to the Saints; none can giveit 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 asyou will, and if he bungles I shall deal with him. That frees you fromyour promise. The justice of the King! Eh, Philip! will the justiceof the King please you better?"

The justice of the King! Louis sat back in his chair as he spoke, hisblotched gums showing in a grin between his thin lips, his dull eyeshalf veiled by the drooping of the leaden-hued lids. More than ever hewas a mask of death, but of a death that possessed a grim humour, malevolent in its satirical cynicism. The justice of the King. Whoshould know that justice so well as Commines, its minister for almost adozen years, or who so testify to its stern implacability? Noneescaped the rigid iron of its wrath. Their almost royal blood savedneither the Duke of Nemours nor the Count of Armagnac. Saint-Pol, Constable of France, perished on the scaffold. Besides these a scoreof the greater nobles of France had fallen, nor could the scarlet ofthe Cardinalate shield Balue from its vengeance. If these, the greatones of the chess-board, were beyond the pale of mercy, what hope wouldthere be for a simple pawn like Stephen La Mothe, if once he fellbeneath that inflexible ban? And yet to the courtier the King'squestion could have but one reply. 

"The justice of the King, " repeated Commines; and added, withoutthought of irreverence, "Let him fall into the hands of God and not ofman. "

"Good!" The thin lips twitched, and deep in the dead eyes a sombrefire glowed. It warmed his cold humour to read so plainly the thoughthidden behind the smooth words. But to a mind as fertile as the King'sthat very thought was a suggestion. It would be well that this LaMothe should clearly understand all he had to fear; and not to fearonly but also to hope. The justice of the King could raise up as wellas cast down, could reward without measure as well as crush withoutmercy. 

"Go to Amboise. Be myself in Amboise. If--I use your own word, Philip--if justice must strike---- Ah! poor wretched King and yet morewretched father!--be thou the King's justice, be thou the King's handin 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 youknow, something of a judge of men. To-morrow will do, and the next dayyou 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 upin storm. Leaning forward Louis tapped his finger-tips on the tablenoisily. "Sift, search, find, find, there is your commission. Authority? Um--um--when Absalom rebelled against David did Joab, theking's servant, say, 'Where is my authority?' Rebellion is yourauthority; the safety of your King is your authority; the plot againstFrance is your authority. For such crimes there is none above justice, Monsieur d'Argenton, none--none. But justice is like truth, andsometimes dwells in shadow. Do you understand? Justice, but noscandal. We must be circumspect. There must be no shock to publicthought 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 LaMothe! 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. Thedanger----" The King again shook in the air the crumpled despatchwhich 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 forhim. He owes you everything as you owe me, perhaps he will understandas you do?"

"But, sire, " said Commines again, striving hard to keep his voiceunemotional, "while you spoke I have been thinking. I fear Stephen LaMothe 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, andwill not count the cost: the dreams will see the glory of servingFrance. Age brings caution, Philip; age brings too much of theweighing of consequence; and at Amboise a little incaution will begood, incaution of himself, you understand. He owes you everything;let him get it into his head that you are the gainer by hisincaution--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 tome, then go. Nearer yet; within reach of my hand. There! that willdo. "

But filled by a fear he dared not show Commines still lingered. Acrossthe gulf of the past years came the voice of the dear, dead woman, thevoice of the lost love of his youth, lost while youth was generous, while youth dreamed dreams and loved passionate. It was the sweetestvoice 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 diedcomforted by his promises, died trusting him. And now---- But whilehe hesitated, willing but afraid to dare, Louis bestirred himself. Resting one arm upon the table he pushed himself half upright with theother hand, and so, half poised, pointed forward at the door. A blotchof 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 questionwas not one which called for an answer; or rather he understood thatAmboise must give the answer, give it emphatically and without aquibble. Once outside the door he paused. Between Saint-Pierre, Leslie, and himself no love was lost, but the bond of a unitedwatchfulness 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 itslimits. 

"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 twiceor 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 donot 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 atthat 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 thesuperscription and the "Louis" sprawled across the corner there was notone single word. And yet, to one trained by ten years service in hismaster's ways of crooked cunning the very blank would have beeneloquent of warning. 

CHAPTER IV

THE JUSTICE OF THE KING

As Commines crossed the courtyard to his lodgings his face was puckeredwith anxious thought. Many a time he had fished for his master inwaters both foul and troubled, but always he had known the prey heangled for. Now, and he shook his head like a man who argues againsthis doubts, but with little hope of compelling conviction, he was notsure. Or was it that he was afraid to be sure? Was he afraid to saybluntly out, even in the secret of his own mind, the King desires thedeath of the Dauphin and for good cause?

That there might well be cause, that there might well be a sinisterupheaval against the King with the Dauphin as its rallying centre hecould easily believe, even without the evidence of the despatch. France had never yet known such a nation-builder as Louis. Hisquarries had lain north, south, and east. In his twenty-two years uponthe throne he had added to the crown Artois, Burgundy, the northernparts of Picardy, Anjou, Franche-Comté, Provence, and Roussillon. Tosecure such a wholesale aggrandizement he had been unscrupulous inchicanery, sleepless in his aggression, ruthless to the extremest vergeof cruelty; no treaty had been too solemn to tear up, no oath toosacred for violation, no act of blood too pitiless. 

With Louis the one sole question had ever been, Does it advantageFrance? 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 hatedfor valid cause. He was the King of the greatest, the most powerfulFrance Europe had ever known, but it was a miserable France, a Franceseething with wretchedness, with discontent, and each hour he went interror for his life. Only a few, such as Commines himself, couldforesee how great would one day be the power of these weak, antagonistic states he had so ruthlessly welded into one. For therest, France was so full of unhappiness and dread that the Dauphinmight well be the centre of a plot, a plot to murder the father in theson's name for the relief of the nation. But was the Dauphin himselfconcerned in the plot, or had he that knowledge which, prince though hewas, laid him open to the penalty for blood-guiltiness? These were thequestions which troubled Commines. 

Clearly--and as he followed his train of thought he turned aside, hishands locked behind him, his head bowed, and walked up and down in theshadow flung by the gloomy range of buildings which cut the courtyardinto two halves--clearly the King had no doubt: clearly the despatchhad left no room for doubt. Or else--the thought was contemptible, butit refused to be thrust aside--the King wished to have no room fordoubt. The frown deepened on Commines' face as he remembered how oftenthe King's wishes had been master of the truth. 

But could any father be cursed with such a terrible wish? Yes, whenthe father was that complex, unhappy man, Louis of France. Comminesknew the King as no man else knew him, and in the gloomy depths of thatknowledge he found two reasons why the father would have no sorrow forthe death of the son. It was characteristic of Louis to hate and dreadhis natural successor, nor did his distrustful fears pause to considerthat if the Dauphin was swept aside Charles of Orleans would stand inhis son's place. When that day came he would hate and dread Charles ashis suspicious soul now hated and dreaded the Dauphin. 

The other reason he had himself unveiled to Commines, no doubt with aset purpose. Behind the King's most trivial act there was always a setpurpose. In a boy's feeble hands, a puppet as he had called him, aking in legal age and yet a child in years and ignorance, this greatFrance he had built up so laboriously would crumble into ruin. Louiswas a statesman first and a father afterwards. So Commines must go toAmboise, must sift, search, find--but especially find. Find what? Hisquestion had been answered--find and prove the boy's guilty knowledge. But having found, having proved that the King's fears were terriblyjustified, what then? The answer to that question touched the hopes ofhis ambition. Upon most men death steals unawares, but for Louis theedge of the grave crumbled in the sight of all who served him, nor, when the end came, would it linger in the coming. Supposing deathstruck down the King while he, Commines, was still at Amboise, finding?What then? The opportunist in Commines was vigilantly awake, that nicesense which discriminates the rising power and clings to its skirts. The Dauphin would be King of France. For the third time he askedhimself, What then?

It was a relief to his perplexity that a cheery full-noted whistlebroke across the question, a whistle which from time to time slippedinto 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 setmouth grew almost tender. It was Stephen La Mothe: and whatever thewords might be, the lad surely knew little of love when he so lightlymarred his own sentiment. A lover sighing for his mistress would havesighed less blithesomely and to the very end of his plaint. Presentlythe 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 amuch-shadowed stairway rising from the further end, Commines pushedopen a door on his right, fastening it behind him as he entered. 

"Stephen, Stephen, what do you know of June and December, love'ssunshine and the cold of the snow?" he said railingly. 

"Nothing at all, Uncle, and just as much as I want to know, " was theanswer. "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 yourknee. "

"Yes: for a song. If it was a tale, now, or an epic, it would be adifferent matter. But they are beyond me, both of them. Do you think, Uncle, " and La Mothe turned over the arquebuse Commines had pointed atin jest as it lay on his lap, "this will ever be better than a curioustoy? I think it is quite useless. By the time you could prime ithere, set your tinder burning and touch it off there, I would have mysword 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 toyou. 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 hestood the weapon upright in the angle of the wall. "It would need agood many ill turns to set the balance even between us, Uncle Philip. "

"No. One thoughtless act which cannot be recalled or undone mayoutweigh a life. And so with this. Stephen, I have commended you tothe King for service. "

La Mothe leaped to his feet, laying his hands on Commines' shouldersimpulsively, one upon each. And if proof were needed of the relationsbetween these two, it would be found in the spontaneous frankness ofthe gesture: Philip de Commines was not a man with whom to takeliberties, but there stood La Mothe almost rocking the elder man in thefullness of his satisfaction. 

"At last, " he cried. "I have been eating my heart out for this for aweek 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, lockedthe one to the other at arm's length. 

How like the lad was to Suzanne: a man's strong likeness of a woman'ssweet face. There were the same clear expressive eyes, ready to lightwith laughter or darken with sympathy; the same sensitive firm mouthand squared chin, fuller and stronger as became a man and yet Suzanne'sin steadfastness to the life; the same broad forehead and arched brows;the same unconscious trick of flushing in moments of excitement. Eventhe colour of the hair was the same, with the curious ruddy copper tintrunning through the brown in certain lights. 

Yes; it was Suzanne's self, Suzanne whom he had loved as he had neverloved Hélène de Chambes, his wife these nine years past! Suzanne whomhe still loved with that reverence which belongs alone to the gentledead: Suzanne for whom even now his spirit cried out in these raremoments when it broke through the cynical, selfish crust which hadhardened upon him since Suzanne died. So for Suzanne's sake he calledStephen his son, though there was no such difference in age, nor anydrop of blood relationship. 

"Do you know, " he went on, gravely tender in the memory of the deadwoman, "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 knowwere 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 loveare no longer children. It is then we realize how the years havepassed. "

"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. Andyet 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 forhimself, Uncle; and who can do that so well as you?"

Commines let his hands fall to his sides and turned away, pacing theroom with short strides. His man's thoughts were not always such as hewould 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 thegreater things of Valmy, of Blois, of Plessis, of Amboise, of Paris. "

"But truth and faithfulness and courage are the same everywhere, andwhether at Marbahan or Valmy a man can but serve God and the King withthe 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 bundledout 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 couldhave 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 awife of seven thousand crowns a year with two or three little additionsto give salt to their spending. Item, eyes which see straight; item, amouth 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 theservice?"

"That the King will tell you himself. And, lad, when kings talk it isa simple man's duty to listen and obey. Stephen, whatever the servicemay be, do it. "

"Gratefully and faithfully, Uncle. Anything my honour----"

"Honour? God's name, boy, the King's honour is your honour: the King'sservice, no matter what it may be, is your honour. Are you, amilk-child from Marbahan, knowing nothing of the ways of men, to talkof your honour to the King?"

"Yes, but Uncle, Monsieur de Perche taught me----"

"Monsieur de Perche? Monsieur de Perche taught you many admirabletruths, I don't doubt. That he might so teach you I placed you in hishousehold seven years ago. Monsieur de Perche has taught you the useof arms, and that courtesy which next to arms goes to the making of aman. But what can a simple gentleman in the wilds of Poitou know of aking's service? and above all, of such a King? His little householdwith its round of petty thought was his great world, and a trial ofhawks an event to be talked of for a week; but all France is thehousehold of the King, and beyond the borders the eagles of Europe arepoised 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 theDauphin 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 thosearound him hate me as they hate his father: hate me because I amfaithful to the father. And yet, Stephen, I have sometimesthought--this is for you alone--it might be that if in some crisis ofhis 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 Orleanswere king it would be different. He is no child and old enough to begrateful. Always remember, Stephen, that a child is never grateful; itforgets 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 Kingyou were faithful, and already he trusts you as I trust you, " which wasrather 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 ofValmy. "

"Why?"

For a moment La Mothe hesitated. The thought in his mind seemed atvariance with his assertions of maturity and manhood, but he spoke itwith characteristic frankness. 

"Valmy frightens me. "

"Why?" repeated Commines. 

"Because of its silences, its coldness, its inhumanity--no, notinhumanity, its inhumanness. In Valmy no man sings; in Valmy few menlaugh. When they speak they say little and their eyes are alwaysafraid. 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 Iremember where I am and stop suddenly. It is as indecent as if onesang in the house of the dead. Soon I shall always remember and notsing at all. And I do not wonder that few men laugh. "

"Why?" asked Commines for the third time. This was a new side toStephen La Mothe and one that in the King's service--not forgetting hisown--should not be ignored. Often in his career he had seen awell-laid plan miscarry because some seeming triviality was ignored. Was it not one of Louis' aphorisms that life held nothing reallytrivial?

"Because it is a house of the living dead. "

"For God's sake, Stephen, hush. If the King heard you speak of hisfeebleness in such a way there would be a sudden end to both you andyour service. "

"The King? But I don't mean the King. I mean----" He paused as ifsearching for a comprehensive word or phrase, and presently he foundit. "I mean the justice of the King. "

"Well?" Commines' throat seemed suddenly to have gone dry, so that theword 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-cutdry interrogatory in concise words was not easy. He knew his ownmeaning clearly enough, but how was he to make it equally clear toCommines, who was plainly unsympathetic? When at last he spoke it waswith 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 thechurch of St. Laon to the side: a cobble-paved space where the childrenplay? At the one end there was a ring of black and white ashes withthe heat still in them, and in the middle a Thing which hung by chainsfrom an iron stake. It had been a man that morning, but there it hungby the spine with the chains through its ribs; a man no more, onlyblackened bones and little crisped horrors here or there. Round it twoor three score, white-faced women and children mostly, stood and gaped, or talked in whispers, pointing. Presently the little children willplay there, and shout and sing and laugh, and the women gossip or buyand sell. "

"A coiner, " said Commines. "The King must see that the silver is fullweight. "

"Yes, Uncle: but I have heard that sometimes the King himself hascoined----"

"Hush, boy: the King is King. "

"Then at Tours, as I rode through the Rue des Trois Pucelles, there wasa house with a fine bold front. One would say that a man with the soulof an artist lived in it. There were brave carvings on the stout oakdoor, carvings on the stone divisions of its five windows, strong ironbars of very choice smith-work, twisted and hammered, to keep thecommon folk from tumbling into the cellars, and in the peaked roof offair white plaster were driven great nails from which hung fags ofrope, and from one something which was no rope, but a poor wisp ofhumanity staring horribly aslant above a broken neck. "

"Yes, " said Commines, "Tristan's house. He is the King'sProvost-Marshal and--and----"

"Yes, I know, Uncle. He carries out the justice of the King. But tohang 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 ordeed. 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, hedrank overmuch and beat the watch. Truly a vicious rascal! God sendus all sober to bed, Uncle, and may a sudden end find nothing worse onour conscience than a dizzy brain. But that's not all. Midway betweenthe castle and the Loire stands the Valmy gibbet, fair set in thesunshine and for all to see: and as I rode past there were two hungfrom 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 atree, Uncle, and a fearsome danger to the peace of France. Tristandoes well to keep the roads safe from such swaggerers. Twelve years oflife, twelve years of a pinched stomach, and--the justice of the Kingto end it all! And what of the woman who gathered nettles for the potfrom 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 throughthe bent back; a woman, Uncle. "

"She should have hearkened and kept away, " said Commines. "Neither mannor woman may come near Valmy without permission when the King is here. "

"She should have hearkened, " echoed La Mothe. "But the Good God hadsealed her ears; she was deaf as a stone and so for the justice of theKing she died. Then three days ago it was Guy de Molembrais, who cameto 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 fullyproved. "

"Then it is the King's justice to lure suspects----"

"There can be no faith with traitors. Did the safe-conduct make histreason 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. "PerhapsTristan gave him a safe-conduct too, and the fool got drunk. And if wehave good, warm blood in us we all get drunk sooner or later. Yes, andplease God my time will come, but may the Saints send me far fromValmy! You think I'm talking nonsense, Uncle; but Monsieur de Perchealways let me talk. He said it was better to let blow at the bung thanburst the cask. "

"You drunk!" answered Commines jestingly. La Mothe had been on verydangerous 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 feelthe nerves tingle, the blood run hot, the heart go throbbing mad! tofeel a glorious exultation quiver through you like--yes, Uncle, I knowI'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 drunkennesscomes 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 withoutdelay. "

With a start like the cringe of a nervous woman suddenly frightened, Commines, the man of iron nerves, turned to the door, the colourrushing in a flood to his face. Neither had heard its latch click norseen it open, but the broad figure of a burly man was massed in thegloom against the greater light from the outer entrance. A passingtorch, flaring up the hall-way from behind, showed him draped fromthroat to ankle in some self-coloured, russet-red, woollen stuff whichcaught the glare, and outlined him for the moment as with sweepingcurves of blood. To La Mothe he was a stranger, but from the little hecould see of the shaven face, at once harsh and fleshly sensual, hejudged him to be nearly twenty years older than Commines. 

"You--Tristan----" The surprise had shaken even Commines from hisself-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 byquickly. I know nothing but that you are to leave Valmy to-morrowmorning instead of the day after, and so he must see Monsieur La Motheto-night. As Monsieur d'Argenton's friend, Monsieur La Mothe, I wouldadvise humble acquiescence. "

"In what?" It was the first time La Mothe had spoken, and in hisrepugnance he could not bring himself to add the courtesy "Monsieur" tothe 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 thatrepugnance. "God's name, Provost-Marshal, I am not--not--not theKing's arm, like you, " he added lamely. But though Tristan mightneither forgive nor forget the suggestion of the broken sentence he wasnot the man to resent it at the moment. The King's arm must endurepin-pricks as well as deal justice. It was Commines, rather, whoreplied. 

"Hush, Stephen, our friend is entirely right. It is you whomisunderstand. The King's justice is in all his acts. Yes! and notonly his justice, but his mercy and his greatness, and these three havemade France what she is. "

"And all these three are waiting for Monsieur La Mothe. Come, youngsir, the King is very weary and it is time he was in his bed--though Iwould not advise you to tell him so, " and leaving the door open behindhim Tristan went out into the night: that he did so they were sure, forthey heard the rasp of his feet on the flags of the court. 

"How long was he there?" Commines spoke under his breath as hisfingers closed on La Mothe's arm with a grip which left its mark. "Howlong was he listening? What did he hear? You fool, you fool, you mayhave 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 whenyou 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 heis 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 asCommines pushed him through the doorway La Mothe could hear his breathcoming 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 itwas to be found in the ease with which Tristan conveyed La Mothe pastthe 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, couldhave 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 hadthe suddenness of the unexpected summons confused him, but his thoughtswere too deeply busied trying to remember how far he had allowed histongue to outrun discretion. 

To say he was afraid would be too much, to say he had no fear would betoo little, but his fear was less a dread than an awe. The gaiety ofhis laughter had clean gone from him, and his heart of song was hushed:even the crude, ironical satire of his uncomprehending youth wasstayed. He had made grim jest of the justice of the King, and now theKing's justice, in its sternest, most sinister incarnation, rubbedshoulders with him. It was little wonder that his mood was sobered ashis mind, instinctively swayed by Commines' almost frenzied insistence, groped its way step by step from Poitou to Valmy in a troubledendeavour to recall just what had passed between them when Tristan'sinterruption 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, thenettle-gatherer, and lastly Molembrais who held the King'ssafe-conduct. Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small whennot even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in his cups, or theholder of the King's safe-conduct could slip through. Perhaps it wasas he spoke of this last the door had opened. It was then he had hopedhe might be far from Valmy the day his passion of soul was stirred. Itexpressed 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 gayself-sufficiency, and the words as they stood--if Tristan had caughtthem--were no commendation to either favour or confidence. How couldthe King trust him when his foolish satire had so plainly hinted thathe did not trust the King? It would be unreasonable: faith begetsfaith. For an instant it flashed across his mind that he might explainaway the words, but in the same instant he dismissed the thought. Explanation would never win belief from such a man as Tristan, norcould he bend his repugnance to such a familiarity. 

So in silence they crossed the courtyard where Leslie's Scottisharchers lurked in every shadow, in silence passed the many guardsgrouped at the gateway to the King's lodgings, in silence traversed thegreat square hall, gaunt and comfortless, but brighter than daylightfrom its many lamps--the King was afraid of gloom--and in silencemounted the stone stairway. At its head they turned along theright-hand corridor, entering a silent ante-room with sentinels at itsdoor; at a further door, masked by drawn curtains, the guard wasdoubled. Force, vigilance, suspicion, were the dominant notes ofValmy--in a sense they were Valmy itself. Midway across this ante-roomTristan paused and struck La Mothe lightly on the arm with a gesturethat seemed part contempt. 

"A word of advice, young man, from one who knows. Be frank, saylittle, answer promptly: do what the King bids you and be thankful. "

"Is that a threat?" La Mothe answered the tone of half-truculentcommand 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 curtainsvery quietly Tristan stood a moment blocking the doorway beforemotioning to La Mothe to follow him. He knew his master, and wished tomake certain that the stage picture was set before the audience wasadmitted. 

The room was even more brilliantly lit than any they had passedthrough, and yet with such a skilful distribution of the light that thefurther end was completely shadowed. It was the effect of anartificial alcove. There, where the grey thickened, sat the King, orrather there he lay propped high upon a couch, pillows behind him andpillows at either side to support and comfort his weakness. A peaked, close-fitting cap of crimson silk, laced with gold embroidery, coveredhis head down to the very roots of the ears, while a long, wide-sleevedrobe of the same colour, furred at the neck, and draped to give anappearance of breadth of chest, swathed him to the feet. So shadowed, and with a reflected glow flushing the thin face, it would have neededa shrewder suspicion than that of country-bred Stephen La Mothe todetect 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, asit were, of the alcove--hung arras of blue cloth interwoven with goldenfleurs-de-lis, a fitting and picturesque background to the tableau. Tothe left were windows, fast shuttered, to the right a closed door. 

Drawing La Mothe to the front Tristan turned on his heel and re-enteredthe ante-room in silence, dropping the curtains behind him. There hadbeen no formal announcement, no word spoken, but as the curtain fellthe King stirred upon his pillows and La Mothe was conscious of ascrutiny which slowly swept him from head to foot. But the protectionof the peaked cap was insufficient. Lifting his hand Louis shaded hiseyes yet further, and leaning forward repeated the scrutiny; then hebeckoned very gently and lay back upon the pillows. He was a judge ofmen, a crafty reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or thefaint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far he wassatisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, but at least this LaMothe was no assassin. Nevertheless the door upon the right openedquietly so soon as La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, openedwide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the darkness of thepassage without. Louis was not a man to run a needless risk, and thebolt which brought home the King's justice to the nettle-gatherer wouldnot miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet. 

"Nearer, " said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, uncertain how far thatbeckoning hand had called him, "nearer yet; there! that will do for thepresent. You are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and trustedfriend, therefore my friend also, and the King has need of friends. No, no, say nothing, Philip said I could trust you as himself. That isa great deal for one man to say of another. "

"Prove me, sire. " La Mothe spoke with an effort. The weary, caressingvoice with its subtle note of pathos, the affectionate, frank admissionof Commines' worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of apersonal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as music has thepower to stir, so that to command words was difficult. "My uncle toldme----"

"Uncle?" Louis' suspicions sprang to life newborn. Goaded by theirsting he leaned forward, one arm thrust out, and for the first time LaMothe 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. Doyou hear? If you love your uncle pray with all your soul that he maynever have a son to grudge him his life. " The thrust-out fingers, little more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless bones, wereshaken in a convulsion of passion, from the sunken, dull eyes a suddenfire glared, and the thin lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in aninstant the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows, breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord fastening hisrobe at the breast. "See what it is to have a son, " he said, but in solow a tone that La Mothe barely caught the words, nor were they spokenas if addressed to him, then with an effort which racked his strengththe King roused himself. "Love! Service and gratitude! Words! emptywords! Kings hear them daily and find them lies. Because of these inhis mouth Guy de Molembrais was trusted as it may be Stephen La Mothewill be trusted, and Molembrais is dead--dead in a traitor's grave. Words? It is deeds France has need of, deeds--deeds. And you, youngsir, for whom my friend Philip vouched as for himself, are you morefaithful 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 muchto Monsieur de Commines?"

"Everything, sire. "

"Everything? Sit there, " and Louis pointed to a low stool placed justbeyond the transverse angle of the bench-like table which fronted thecouch. "Everything! Love! Service! Gratitude! You are right! Takethese from life and there is not much left. And how will you repay theeverything 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 firstservice 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, MasterStephen, how would that please you? Prove your love, show yourservice, earn his gratitude, and these you will do to the uttermost byserving the King and France. "

"Sire, sire, " cried La Mothe, shaken out of himself by the gust ofhealthy emotion which seized him as the King's quiet voice grew instrength and fullness till it seemed to vibrate with as generous apassion as that which stirred the depths of the listener; "I am yoursto use body and soul. "

"Body and soul, " repeated Louis, his eyes fixed searchingly on LaMothe's face. The lad's prompt response promised well, all that wasneeded was to keep this enthusiasm of devotion keyed to the pitch ofaction. "Body and soul! Be sure I shall not forget. But what youpromise in hot blood you will forget when your mood cools. No? Well, Molembrais' mood cooled and he has been colder than his mood thesethree days past. But you are different, you are of stronger, finer, truer stuff, your love and service are for Commines as well as forFrance, and so you will not forget. You understand? Monsieur deCommines vouches for you. Monsieur de Commines. " The King paused, andthe 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. Yourfaithfulness is his faithfulness, your failure his failure: keep thatalways before you. To-morrow you will----, but first tell me somethingof yourself. " With a moan of weakness he settled back into the pillowsand his eyes closed. "I must know Philip's friend as Philip knowshim, " said the soft voice. 

And again La Mothe was touched to the heart, touched in his pride forCommines, the King's trusted friend, touched in his grateful sympathiesthat the King, weary and burdened by many anxieties, should find timeand thought for so kind an interest in one so insignificant as himself, though that, too, was for Commines' sake; touched above all with agenerous self-reproach when he remembered his bitter satire on theKing's justice. He now saw that the severities which had horrified andrepelled him were exigencies of State, repugnant to the gentle, kindlynature of the man in whose name the law took its course. 

And out of that grateful heart of youth he spoke frankly as Tristan hadbidden him speak. Briefly, succinctly, he told of his childhood'spoverty, of the change which came later under Commines' unfailing, affectionate liberality, of his placing him as a lad in the householdof Monsieur de Perche, of the life in Poitou with its training in armsand simple teaching of Keep faith, Live clean, Follow the right andtrust 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 isbehind the telling. 

And through it all Louis lay among his cushions like one dead. Not aneyelid flickered, not a finger moved, his breath came so softly, soquietly that the red robe scarcely stirred beneath his sunken chin. Every muscle was relaxed in that restfulness which next to sleep is thesurest restorer of exhausted vitality. But the brain, the most acuteand cunning brain in France, was awake. With that dual consciousnesswhich, even more than dissimulation, is the diplomatist's primenecessity for success in the worsting of an adversary, he gathered andstored for use in his memory the salient points from La Mothe's story, while all the while, co-energetically, his mind was busy searching outhow best to use this new tool for the cementing closer that fabric ofFrance which was his pride and glory. France was at once the motherwho gave his genius form and the son of his jealous love. And as helistened, planning, sufficient strength crept back to the worn body. He could play out his part to the end, and La Mothe would carry withhim no sense of his master's frailty to paralyze action. In loyaltyfor loyalty's sake Louis had no faith. 

"You need say no more, " he said, nodding his head with sympatheticinterest. "A debt--a debt indeed. And to-morrow you begin yourrepayment. To-morrow you go to Amboise with Monsieur de Commines. Amboise, " he repeated slowly, "Amboise, " and paused. "Where HisHighness, the Dauphin----"

"Where my son waits--and watches. " The thin hand crept up to the sunklips, lingered there an instant, crept up to the dull eyes, passedacross them once or twice with a motion eloquent of weary hopelessness, and fell drearily to the lap. "God keep us in His mercy, " said theKing, and as his finger-tips made the four points of the cross upon hisbreast La Mothe felt he was upon holy ground. "God keep us in Hiscomfort. All is not well at Amboise, but my friend Philip knows--knowsand feels for me. I have no orders to give. All is left to him. OnlyI say this, and never forget it, never--France comes first andobedience 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 itsplace his awe had grown, an awe full of a deep pity. Youth is the trueage of intolerance and for the simple reason that it is the age ofignorance. In its abundant strength, its sense of growth anddevelopment, its vigorous, unfailing elasticity, its blessed want ofknowledge of the ills of life, its blindness to the inevitable comingof these ills, it is impatient of a caution it calls cowardice, or afrailty it neither understands in another nor anticipates for itself. But in the rare instances when it takes thought its sympathies are moregenerous than those of age, because the sorrows it sees are so muchgreater than any it has known, ever realized in itself or evenconceived. So was it now with La Mothe. The pathetic, solitaryfigure, feeble almost to helplessness, diseased, shrunken, dying, Commines had said, yet with a heart warm in friendliness and a thoughtfor France alone, thrilled him to the very depths. And the dull eyes, watching him from under the heavy lids with an alert vigilance fromwhich no shift of mood escaped, read his emotion unerringly. 

Again Louis leaned forward. But it was a changed Louis. This time thelight fell on a worn face fixed in a grey solemnity. The graveprotesting voice, the outstretched hand driving home its indignantpoints, completed the spell. 

"No, all is not well at Amboise. They think the King grows old. Poorhumanity must needs grow old, but they are impatient andwould--anticipate age. I have a son, not yet thirteen--but of age tobe king. Silence--silence, he is the Dauphin. It is not for you toblame--or condemn the Dauphin. Nor does the King's justice condemnignorantly. Plots, plots, plots! Plots against the father, God andthe father can forgive; but plots against the King--plots againstFrance: for these there is no forgiveness and youth is no excuse. "

"But, sire, " began La Mothe. Then he remembered the Valmy gibbet wherea boy of twelve still hung that the roads of France might be safe, andhis voice choked. The King was right; youth was no excuse. 

"There are no buts, " said Louis, sternly emphatic, and sank back uponthe pillows. "I have knowledge, I have knowledge, Comminesknows--others--France, Europe--must know later; an honest lad like youwill be believed. "

"Three weeks ago I was in Poitou----"

"Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without prejudice, you arenot 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 yourmodesty: diffidence is not cowardice. But you will have help in yournut-cracking, you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, Fear, and Love: with these three I have made France what she is. Money--aman--a woman; what will these not do! With the first--bribe and seethat you do not hold my skin too cheap; Fear--a life forfeit, if I lifta finger he hangs; Love--a woman. "

"A friend, sire?"

"An enemy--but a woman. Fool her: she is young and Amboise is dull. Ihave a scheme for you ready made. You sing? But I know you do, Tristan has told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing: and nothing is toosmall for the King's service. Always remember life holds nothingtrivial. Leave Valmy with Commines, but separate on the road and go toAmboise as a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will welcome anydistraction. You make verses?"

"Sometimes, sire, " stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flushingas youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost asdisconcerting as being found out in a lie. 

"Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, andAmboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one fleshunder the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember, " added Louishastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothingmore, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give youyour orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of hisrobe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, thenwent on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse andride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay andkeep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or nightwill 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 dulleyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow ofthe scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a passion wakedthe blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect ofits quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!"he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motionedimperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it willpass--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 tensefingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowedto it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weaklyto 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 ofstrength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the wordsfaltered. 

Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. Itwas littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such apresence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goosequills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, alumped-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 thebunched folds of the napkin. 

"The Dauphin is a child, " he said, his fingers closing upon thelooseness 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 itagainst all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by assault atthe head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I amCharlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but theDauphin of France!"

"But, sire, " ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural ina 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 Istruggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child inmake-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. Butbeing a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--andso----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linenshook as with a palsy. "You see, " the King went on hoarsely, "what itis to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as achild, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, notoutwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these otherswould 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 yourpart. "

With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, droppingthe hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemeda challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoffif you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steelrings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if thequaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate inthe tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy toraise a sneer or gibe a moral. 

Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of youngblood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness ispierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, thepathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King, overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushedby no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kineven to this stern and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsionwakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts offatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyaltywhich had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasmwhich 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 ofchallenge were smoothed from the King's face. 

"A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn, " hesaid, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and droppingthem again in a little heap that caught the light on every separatering and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have amessage for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it thespirit 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 thefather 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 Kingwho shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think--does hethink--that--that--Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingerscaught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the leanneck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick, quick, is it Commines--Commines--Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "Itook him from the gutter--from the very gutter; he was traitor to aCharles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve aCharles again?" Pushing himself up, half kneeling on the couch, halfleaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening handtowards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak andtell the truth, you dumb dog?"

But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shiveredas if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, one hand feeblybeckoning to La Mothe to come nearer. 

"Whisper, " he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smiletwitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone, we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Comenow?"

"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 swearsfalsely dies, dies within the year--dies damned. Honour? Honour is anet with too wide a mesh to hold men's oaths. Dare you swear?"

Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it reverently, whileLouis, 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--whilethe lion--is alive. " His voice strengthened as if the thoughtstimulated him like a cordial. "And the lion is alive--alive! I mustfinish, I must finish, " he went on more querulously. "Yes, a fool, butfools are commonly honest. You may be a faithful servant, but you area 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, verywell said. You are less a fool than I thought. But I must finish orCoictier, my doctor--he thinks me less strong than I am--will bescolding me. Take these, " and he pushed the coat of mail away from himimpatiently, as if vexed that he had been betrayed into such a displayof feeling. "Remember that I have never seen them, never, never. Youpromise 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 fingerstouching the mask delicately. "Give them from yourself. All thingshave their price, and the price of a child's confidence is to serve itspleasures. But, young sir, remember this too, remember it, I say, myson is the Dauphin of France and that which is for a prince's use, evenin play, is for his use only. Let no one else have commerce withthese. "

"Be sure, sire, I reverence the prince too deeply----"

"Aye, aye: you can go. Words cost even less than honour. Give meproofs, Stephen La Mothe, proofs, and trust to the justice of theKing, " which shows how right Commines was when he said that the justiceof the King had many sides. 

And so, with his deepest bow and his heart full of many emotions, LaMothe left his master's presence, and the cross-bow in the shadowsbeyond the door on the right was lowered for the first time in morethan half an hour. For what he was to trust the justice of the King hewas no more clear in the confusion of the moment than what his missionto Amboise was. But of one thing he was certain, the King was a manmuch maligned and little understood: harsh of word and stern of act, perhaps, but with a great, undreamed wealth of tenderness behind theapparent austerity. Of that the little coat of mail and tinselled maskbore witness. It was wonderful, he told himself, how the yearnings ofthe human heart found excuse for what the sterner brain condemned;surely that was where the human drew nearest to the divine! This wasnot alone a master to serve, but a man to love!

And Louis, a huddled, shapeless mass on his tossed cushions, satgnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. Allpassion had died from him and suddenly he had grown very old, thoughthe indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age. 

"My son, " he said, shivering, "my son, my son. " Then the bentshoulders straightened, the bowed head was raised, and into the tiredeyes there shot a gleam of fire. "I have no son but France!" Was he ahypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who never deceived himselfto another's hurt cast the first stone at him. 

When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from Valmy the nextmorning on their way to Amboise he was there upon the walls, a solitarygrey figure pathetic in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as theywere 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 askedno question when La Mothe returned from his interview with Louis, andmade no comment beyond "You are late, my son, " it was because he knewthat curiosity was almost as dangerous as opposition where the schemesor 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 whichhe held sacred had been solemnly committed to him: he shared a secretwith the King and the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines'ultimate orders might be he understood now what his mission was, thismission to Amboise: it was to do for the father what the father mightnot do for himself, and as they rode slowly along the high road fromValmy he thought complacently to himself that he alone recognized thetrue nature of the man who watched them from the walls. 

But there were obvious limits to the silence if the line of procedurelaid down by the King was to be followed. A parting and a meeting wereto be arranged, a plan of campaign to be decided upon; and it struck LaMothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make-believe in a boycould yet seize upon make-believe for his own purposes. 

"The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise with you, " began LaMothe, and it is to his credit that he spoke with hesitation. ToCommines, as Commines himself had said, he owed everything, and yet itseemed as if already he had come between Commines and the King'sconfidence. And yet, just because he was in the King's confidence itwas not easy to keep a touch of importance out of his voice. It was asif he said, "The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are tostand aside. " But the bubble of his complacency was soon pricked. 

"At Château-Renaud you will stay behind after we have dined, " answeredCommines, "nor will you leave the inn until three o'clock. You willthen go on foot to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and takethe Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then to ford the Loireat Grand-Vouvray and enter Amboise from the south. Once in Amboise askfor the Chien Noir and put up there for the night. "

"So you know all about it, " said La Mothe, crest-fallen. Nor was itsimply that Commines knew all about it, it seemed he knew much morethan La Mothe himself. 

"Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some one who can open thedoors 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 hisinstructions. "

But La Mothe had another objection, and one so obvious that hemarvelled how it had escaped Commines' notice. 

"One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as a stranger will beimpossible. Riding behind us there are twelve good reasons why Ishould be recognized. "

"Do you take us for fools?" retorted Commines. Turning in his saddlehe pointed backwards. Valmy was still in sight, and a keen eye couldhave detected the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the greywalls. "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 allFrance, and God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. Thinktwice, 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 ofthe King had dashed his satisfaction. Wherever he turned it confrontedhim, 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 thememory of the coat of mail and embroidered toy in his saddle-bagsentirely quiet the uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seekingrelief, 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 theChien Noir?"

"Who is he? Slime of the gutter, contemptible old age unashamed, humanpitch whose very touch is a loathing, a repulsion, a defilement. " Itseemed as if Commines was less afraid to speak his mind now that thewalls of Valmy were out of hearing, for he went on bitterly: "The Kingchooses his tools well, a foul tool for a foul use, and neither you norI can come out of it with clean hands. His name? The gallows-cheathas a dozen names and changes them as you would your coat. He is likea Paris rag-picker, and his basket of life is full of the garbage hehas raked from the gutter. "

"And the woman?"

"The woman! To hear you say the woman one would think there was butone in the world. The King told me of no woman. "

"Then I am not likely to get drunk in Amboise, unless your rag-pickerpours 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 thesoftening of his stern mouth, "and remember that at Amboise you singfor a King's pay. "

"And I would sing five songs for nothing but the pleasure of singingrather 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 solightly asked was one he had often weighed in his own mind nor found aclear answer. Rumour said of him--but under her breath, for to speakat all was dangerous--that he was shamefully neglected, slow-witted, ill-taught, or, worse still, untaught, but, and here rumour whisperedyet lower, that flashes of shrewdness broke the dull level of theundeveloped intellect when least expected. That he was small for hisage he knew, that he was weakly, ill-formed, and awkward. These thingswere patent to the eye and common knowledge, but into the depths of thelad's nature he had not ventured to probe lest Louis' suspiciousjealousy should be aroused. Now that he found himself between afather's twilight and a son's dawn, with "The king is dead, long livethe king, " an imminent proclamation, he blamed himself for hiscowardice as men always do who are wise after the event. With a littlemore 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. "TheDauphin? I know little of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy orPlessis 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 himwith a spoon. If it were not that weak natures often turn vicious thatthey may be thought strong I would say the King's fear of a plot wasbaseless. "

"But surely there is no plot--a son against a father: a father wholoves 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 stayedcomfortably in Valmy, " answered Commines cynically, and La Mothe's eyestwinkled as he thought how much better he had read the King in hissingle hour than Commines had in all his ten years of intimacy. "Thewoman, " he went on, "must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spendyour hour or two's walk from Château-Renaud to Amboise adding a verseto your love song. "

"Why not a new song all for herself!" replied La Mothe, the twinklebroadening to a laugh, "or had I better wait till I see her? She wouldnever forgive me if the adored dimple was in the right cheek instead ofthe left, or the sweet eyes of my song grey instead of blue. Which arethey, Uncle?"

"I never knew the colour of any woman's eyes but one, " answeredCommines; and La Mothe knew by the softened voice that he spoke ofSuzanne. "And when a woman has taught you the colour of her eyes mayyou see that in them which will make black or blue or grey the onecolour in the world for you. As to Ursula de Vesc, she detests me muchas I detest that offscouring from the dregs of brazen Paris who willmeet you at the Chien Noir. But there is Château-Renaud, where youwill find something better for your age and more to your liking thanwomen's eyes. "

"Dinner! and I twenty-four!"

"Eighteen, Stephen, eighteen, not a day older, and be thankful for theheart 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 aspretty 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 Amboisemore broadly than necessary, Commines ordered their meal to be servedin a private room. It was to the front, with two small windowsoverlooking the roadway. These were open, and as the stamping of hoofsand jingling of bridle-chains came through them Commines bade La Mothesee who were without. 

"But do not show yourself. Between Valmy and Amboise every man is afriend or an enemy, with fewer friends the further Valmy is leftbehind. "

"A priest, with three of an escort, " said La Mothe, "King's men, I amsure. Some of your own have gone out to meet them. Shall I go down tomake 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 atChâteau-Renaud the better. We cannot give a priest the Valmy gallowsas 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. Comminesrecognized him at once; he was from Valmy, one of the many clerics theKing's strange religiosity gathered round him, and justly held by Louisin deep respect for the simplicity and saintliness of his life. In anage when the fires of scandal scorched the Church with such a flamingvehemence that the heat kindled round the throne of the Chief Bishophimself, Father John escaped without so much as the smell of burning onhis garments. None could lay self-seeking to his charge, nor even thesmallest of the many vices which in every order raised their heads, rampant and unashamed. It was characteristic of Louis that he shouldattach to himself men of such unselfish humility and austere purenessof life. God and the Saints would surely forgive a little chicanery toone who lived in an atmosphere of other men's holy lives. 

"Father John!" and Commines caught the Franciscan by the arm almostroughly, a sudden fear setting his pulses throbbing. "Has Saint-Pierresent you? Is the King ill--is he--is he?--you of all men know what wefear for him. "

"No, my son, no; the King is as you left him, well, praise God! andstrong: it is he himself who has sent me after you. He said that sucha 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 theDauphin, who is the hope of France. "

"Yes, " answered Commines drily, "I do not doubt he spoke of theDauphin. Now, Father, I fear you must dine in haste, for it is time wewere 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 hisson. "

"Yes, " repeated Commines, with the same dryness. "The Dauphin isindeed much in his thought. But though we are in haste there is noneed you should die of starvation. France has need of you, FatherJohn. There are plenty to play the devil's game by living, do not youplay it by dying before your time. "

Twenty minutes later they were again on the road, La Mothe'ssaddle-bags fastened on his led horse. He himself followed at the hournamed by the King, but on foot, a knapsack strapped across hisshoulders and on it a lute in open advertisement of his new trade. Hissword was with his saddle-bags, but was no loss, so free from dangerwere the roads under the iron persuasion of the justice of the King. Nor were travellers numerous. Only twice was he passed, once by acourier riding post to Valmy, and once by a lad, little more than achild in age, who thundered up from behind on a great raw-boned roanhorse 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 amore perfect age? The restraints of the schoolboy are left behind, thetree of the knowledge of good and evil has scattered its fruit aboutthe 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 thereach, 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, isalready on the shoulder, the light heart of four-and-twenty isuntroubled. It believes, in its optimism, that it will tumble the loadof 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 theworld of that May day was God's good world, and what better could it bethan that! If a full-leaved cherry tree, its ripening clusters rosyred and waxen yellow against the dense greenery, flung shade across theroad he paused in his tramp, squared his shoulders, and drank a deepbreath of the cooler air; if the blazing sun sucked up a subtle, acridsmell from the hot dust stirred by his feet he snuffed it up greedilyand found it good to live. A hawk in the air, a thrush whistling froma hazel bush as only a thrush can whistle, the glorious yellow of abreak 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 itselfthat 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 deVesc'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 havebettered, 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 therhyme better than that. But then Villon, wild rogue though he was, wasa poet. The dearest life can give--the dearest? What was the dearestlife could give? As the question, idly asked, fastened on his mind hiswhistle 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 thathe was France. Was the King's service the dearest thing life couldgive? In times of peace, when the millstones and the hearts of menalike grind placidly, patriotism is a cold virtue, and even in the hotpassion of war it is often the magnetism of the individual man--thepersonal leader--who wakens the enthusiasm of desperate courage ratherthan 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 henot France too? Did France plot against France? "All is not well atAmboise, " said the King. If that was true in the sense the fathermeant it, what then? Was this dull ailing boy a double parricide tohis father's knowledge?

That, by the law of association of ideas, called up a new thought, anda 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 whatif cunning Stephen La Mothe should find it out and make this tornFrance one in heart? And so, because however one follows the cluesthrough this maze of life they always lead to love at the end, La Mothebroke 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 theEisse flowing beyond. Another league and he would reachAmboise--Amboise, where the shuttles of fate, the man and the woman, Fear and Love as the King had called them, were waiting to weave intothe 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--anend 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 thehuman slime of the gutter who had roused Commines' contempt, and yetwho was his passport to the castle. A pretty passport, and one notmuch to his credit, thought La Mothe, and fell to wondering if Ursulade Vesc of the uncertain eyes would class them as birds of afeather--Ursula who found Amboise dull and was to kiss the poet asMargaret had kissed Alain Chartier. But Chartier had been asleep atthe time, while La Mothe promised himself he would be very much awake, and then called himself slime of the gutter for the thought. This wasnot 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 kisshim because Amboise was dull, and if she did would she be sweet andgood? He pulled a wry face and shook himself angrily, the thought waslike a bad taste in the mouth. 

At Grand-Vouvray he forded the Loire, with Amboise sloping up from theriver in full sight, the red roofs of its houses, huddled almostunderneath the Château for protection, glowing yet more ruddily in thesetting sun, and entered the town by the Tours gate as Commines hadbidden him. Reared high above the town it at once awed and protectedwas the grey castle, towered and turreted like a fortress, and fortressit was, --fortress, palace, and prison in one. Round town and castlealike 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 asNotre Dame in Paris, and from the warmth of his reception La Motheguessed shrewdly that his coming was expected. Innkeepers were notprone to lavish welcomes on wandering minstrels who carried all theirworld's gear on their back like any snail. For such light-hearted folkan open window at night was an easier method of payment than an openpurse. 

"A room and supper? Both, monsieur, and of the best. For the firstwhat do you say to this?" and the landlord threw open a door with aflourish 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 thelife of the town passing up and down the road to keep you company ifyou are dull, and the castle gates in full view so that none can go inor out and you not know it. And for supper--I am my own cook and youmay trust Jean Saxe. Give me twenty minutes, monsieur, twenty littleminutes, 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 themvalue; Monsieur de Commines----"

"Monsieur de Commines? Do you dare speak of Monsieur de Commines soinsolently?" burst out La Mothe, too indignant in his loyal devotion toCommines to remember that a wandering singer ate the bread ofsufferance and had no opinions. But the innkeeper took no offence, which again suggested that he had his own private opinion of theknapsack and the lute. 

"Monsieur, I meant no harm, " he protested humbly. "I am Monsieur deCommines' 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. "Wewho live in Amboise do not think great things of little Charles. To mymind little Charles is one of the noughts. But wait till you go to theChâteau 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 hecocked a cunning eye at the exposed lute, "because there is another wholoves music and can open the doors and will say---- There! do you hearhim? La, lilla, la! La, la, lilla, la! He always sings over thethird bottle, and the King--God bless him--pays for all. "

Opening the door to its widest Saxe stood aside listening, his head onone side, his hand beckoning familiarly to La Mothe, as up the darkwell of stairs there came the rise and fall of a man's voice in a briskchant. No words could be caught, but the air ran trippingly, and ifthe higher notes broke in a crack which told of age or misuse, or bothtogether, the lower ran clear and full, and the tune ran on with arollicking, careless awing which showed that, whoever might cavil, thesinger had at least one appreciative hearer--himself!

"A wonderful man, wonderful, " whispered Saxe, his small eyes twinklingwith appreciation, but whether at the music or because the King paidfor all, La Mothe was uncertain. "A poet of poets, a drinker ofdrinkers, and a shrewd, bitter-tongued devil drunk or sober. Not thathe 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 doesa name matter? He serves the King as I do and--with great respect--asyou 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 asupper by that name as by any other. Give me twenty minutes and youwill say the Black Dog of Amboise is no cur. "

Nor was Jean Saxe's boast unjustified. La Mothe not only supped butate, and with such satisfaction that in the peace of a healthy hungercrowned with as healthy a digestion--unappreciated blessings offour-and-twenty--he forgot alike King and Dauphin, Valmy and the GreyGates of Amboise in the shadows across the road. 

But neither was allowed to remain forgotten. As he sat over theremains of his supper, tapping out a verse of his love song with hisfinger-tips on the table, the door from the common room of the inn wasopened and a man entered whom La Mothe at once guessed to be one of histhree good friends in Amboise. In one hand he carried a lightedcandle, in the other a great horn cup. 

"Thanks, Jean, " he said patronizingly, nodding towards the room he hadleft as he spoke. "Close the door behind me, my good fellow: both myhands are full. " Then raising the candle, he turned and scrutinized LaMothe with a curiosity as great as La Mothe's own and much more franklyevident. 

And he was worth studying, as a rare specimen is studied in thedifficulty of classification. If there were many such men in France LaMothe had never yet met one of them. He was under middle height, thejaunty, alert youthfulness of his slim figure, supple without greatstrength, contradicted by the grey which shot with silver the thin hairfalling almost to his narrow shoulders, and, as La Mothe searched himin the wavering, guttered candle-light, it flashed upon him thatcontradiction was the note of all his characteristics. The weak chinwith the unkempt straggle of a beard gave the lie to a foreheadmagnificent in its abundant strength of mental power: the promise ofthe luminous, clear eyes was robbed of fulfilment by the loose mouthwith the slime of the gutter and sensuality of the beast writ largeupon its thick lips. From the thin peaked nose upwards it was the faceof a son of the gods who knew his parentage and birthright; butdownward that of a human swine who loved the foulness of the trough forthe trough's sake. A Poet of poets, said the eyes: Slime of the gutterand old age unashamed of its shame, retorted the mouth; and both spoketruth. Evidently his scrutiny satisfied him, for he heaved a sigh ofcontentment as he drew nearer to La Mothe. 

"The image of what I was at your age, " he said, and again there was thenote of contradiction. The voice was the sweet, full voice of asinger, but ruined at the first emotion into roughness by excess. Placing the candlestick on the table he lifted La Mothe's wine bottleand smelt it with slow carefulness, applying it first to one nostrilthen to the other. "Vintage '63, " he said appreciatively, "and thatanimal Saxe fobs me off with '75. "

"Then try my '63, " said La Mothe, "and we shall see if Saxe has anotherbottle of the same. "

Promptly the contents of the horn mug were flung with a splash into theopen fireplace at La Mothe's back. 

"Just what I was at your age! The same to a hair! A gay companiongenerous of heart and purse. Yes, " he went on, half seating himself onthe 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 Itasted it last. The palate, Monsieur La Mothe, is like nature andnever forgets. For that reason we should never outrage either. "

"Four years!" repeated La Mothe with mock admiration, then rememberingthat 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 yetbrighter, and a firmer set of the mouth gave the face that note ofstrength it so sorely needed. If it were not that he was already deepin his fourth bottle La Mothe would have said the wine had set hisblood on fire, warming him with a fictitious energy, so sudden and somarked was the change. 

"Ah ha!" he said, setting down the horn mug as he leaned towards LaMothe, and this time the voice was as full and round as a woman's. "Soyou 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 samerascality. 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' That is the cry ofall the years after, say, four- or five-and-twenty. " He paused, hisbright keen eyes watching La Mothe with a wistful humour in them, halfenvious, 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'splucking! and ever after, 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' Ithink, " he added, pursing his mouth reflectively, "that what thepriests call Hell is hot just because last year's snows never comeback. "

"Gone!" said La Mothe, falling into his humour, "dead like Villon'srascality, but as unforgotten. But are you sure Villon is alive?"

"Monsieur, " and the little man slipped from the table-edge to his feetand bowed, his eyes twinkling with an intense enjoyment, "I can vouchfor him as you can for Stephen La Mothe: I have the honour to presentto you Francois Villon, Master of Arts of Paris and of all the craftsof this wicked world. "

CHAPTER IX

FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT

La Mothe stared up at him incredulously. "You Francois Villon?" hebegan; "Francois Villon the--the----"

The gallows-cheat, the human pitch whose very touch is defilement waswhat was in his mind, but with those clear luminous eyes looking downunashamed into his own he could not put the brutal thought into thenaked brutality of words. But Villon read something of his meaning inhis 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 ofrespectability all your little life: what do you know of necessity orhunger? I know both, and I tell you necessity and hunger are two godsbefore whom all who meet them bow down. Better a live jackal than adead poet. Besides, is he not the greatest of kings? Bishop Thibaulthad me in gaol for a mere slip of the fingers and talked of a judicialnoose--the third I've looked through--but the King fetched me out--Godsave the King!"

"God save the King!" echoed La Mothe, for want of something better tosay. His mind was still confused by this sudden upheaval of hisideals. All that was best in Villon's poetry had stirred hisenthusiasm, while all the much which was worst had left his sanewholesomeness untainted. To the half-dreamer, half-downright, practical lad in Poitou, Villon, with his jovial, bitter humour andeven flow of human verse, had been something of an idol, and when ouridols crash into ruin the thunder of the catastrophe bewildersjudgment. But there was more than bewilderment, there was aninevitable disgust. The frankness of this disgust Villon discovered. 

"Besides, again, my very young friend, " he went on, "what are you inAmboise at all for, you and your lute? Is Villon the only King'sJackal here in the Chien Noir? Do we not hunt in a couple, and haveyou as good an excuse for your hunting as poor Francois Villon, wholooked through a halter, and found the eternity beyond unpoetical to aman of imagination? What brought you to Amboise, I say?"

"The King's orders: the peace of France, " began La Mothe, but thoughthe words were fine swelling words in the mouth they somehow failed tofill 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 drownthe 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, allthat a man hath will he give for his life. Whose hide you guard, yourown or another's, I don't know and don't care. Mine was that of barelife, and there you sit and look disgust at me as if to cling fast tothis good gift of God which comes to a man but once were a sin. Andwhat are you doing in Amboise? No!" he interrupted himself hastily, emphasizing the negative with a rapid gesture of both hands, "don'ttell me. If there is one thing more dangerous than knowing too littleit is knowing too much. Tell me, rather, what you want me to do foryou 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 foryourself. I warn you Amboise is well guarded. Oh! not with pikes, cross-bows, and such-like useless things in which our beloved King putshis faith, but by eyes that see and hearts that love, and so Amboise isa hard nut to crack. But your teeth are strong, and if the good Godhad 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 againfilled and emptied, tilted against his thigh. A smile flickered hisloose mouth, and the full bright eyes, turned toward the vacancy of theempty fireplace, were sparkling with reminiscences. 

And who should have reminiscences if not Francois Villon? There wasnot such another judge of peaches in all France, no such authority upontheir eating, and few who had broken more teeth over their stones. Thesmile broadened into a soft chuckle, laughter deepened into puckers themany wrinkles of his crow-footed temples, and he wagged his grey headin the warm appreciation of a happy memory. Dipping a finger-tip intoa pool of spilt wine he wrote on the table reflectively, and as LaMothe watched his leering face he understood Commines' outspokencontempt of this old man unashamed of his shamefulness. 

"Peaches, " he said, scratching his chin with a wet forefinger; "myfaith! yes! I have climbed walls for them, robbed gardens of them, found them in market baskets--the gutter even. What matters where theycome from so long as the cheek is warm, the bloom fresh, the skinsmooth, and the sweetness full in the mouth. And where are they now?Aye! aye! 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' My young friend, myvery young friend, you have but one life, and when you drop it behindyou see that only the husks of its possibilities are left: crush thegrapes while you may and drink the wine. "

"I thought, " said La Mothe, "that the rascality of Francois Villon wasdead? Leave it in its grave, if you please. It is decenter buried outof sight and does not interest me. How am I to gain entrance toAmboise?"

Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance of carelessness, butthe unctuous complacency was wiped from his face, and the narrow eyesand mouth showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe's disgustedcontempt. 

"How, but as my friend, pupil, and protégé, " he replied, with evidentenjoyment of the other's discomfiture at the unwelcome association. Then with incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery passedfrom 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 thatfly there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt wine, theragout with its spices, the salad with its oil and its vinegar, everything within reach which tickles its palate: then it rubs itsstupid head with its forelegs and trots back to the wine again. Presently"--and Villon suited the action to the word--"a great handturns an empty tumbler over it and there it is: all the delights of theworld it has lost clear within sight, but out of reach--always out ofreach. That, my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blamethe fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life? Perhaps ifthe great hand is merciful it draws the glass to one side, thus, andstill to one side, thus and thus and thus, until, phit! there is alittle 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 underthe glass than to sulk and cry its heart out for the snows of YesterYear. God save the King!"

The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe soirrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instantcomprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shotthrough the disgust. 

"Perhaps the hand will lift the glass, " he said, "and let the fly backto 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 oflife is gone life itself may go. There is Saxe knocking at the door. My faith! but you have indeed scared him into discretion; he neverknocks for me. Perhaps he has brought that second bottle. "

But Saxe was empty-handed, and by the light of the candle La Mothecould 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 nobilitynowadays that I find it more distinguished to be the simple commoner. Dull at the Château! Good Lord! don't I know it!" He paused, liftinghis head with a quick, bird-like motion: a cunning smile wrinkled hisface and he smote the table with his open hand. "Dull, are they?There, my hedge-minstrel from Valmy, is your welcome ready made. Bringyour 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: theDauphin might resent a stranger's coming so late. "

"The Dauphin? Phit! Little Charles is pretty Ursula's echo andnothing more. Come, let us go. "

"Then Mademoiselle de Vesc may object. "

"Mademoiselle de Vesc? So you know her name, do you? And what girlobjects to a love song? I never yet knew one who did, and FrancoisVillon has lived his life. If they pout and turn aside don't believethem: 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 andsmooth sixteen, their eyes have all the same sparkle, the same dearlight in them when the heart melts. I should know, for I have madelove to every colour under the sun. Except Albino, " he addedreflectively and with the conscientious air of one who desires to tellthe whole truth. "I wonder what it would be like to make love to anAlbino. But now I shall never know, the fly must run round and roundits glass until the day of the red blotch. It is a mercy I tasted theoil 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 yourtongue if you are to keep your secrets and the King's. Come, I talktoo much and they are waiting for us. "

But Stephen La Mothe left his lute behind him. He had accepted thepart allotted to him half as a jest and half for the sake of theadventure it promised, but Villon had put a less pleasant gloss on thisopen-faced masquerade, nor had the blunt question, Why are you inAmboise? been easy of answer. Or rather, the answer was easy, but onehe did not relish in its naked truth. If to be the secret almoner ofthe King's love for the Dauphin had been the sole reply to thequestion, his scruples would have been as light as his love song. Butthat answer was insufficient: there was a second answer, an answerwhich Commines knew and these two men, Villon and Saxe, suspected, onewhich 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 footon the white horse--which was Honour--and the other on thepiebald--which was duty and a King's instructions, --has lost control oftheir heads and feels his unhappy legs drawn wider and wider apart withevery stride. And in the emergency La Mothe did exactly what thecircus-rider would have done--he clung to both with every desperatesinew on the strain. To keep his piebald still under him he went withVillon to the Château, and that he might not part utterly from hiswhite he left his lying lute behind him. But he was not happy: mentaland spiritual unhappiness is the peculiar gift of compromise. 

Nor did Villon make any protest at his decision. "As you will, it isbetween you and the King, " he said, with all the indifference of thebeast whose one thought is for his own skin, and then immediatelyproved that he was less indifferent than he seemed. "But if I knewwhich of the two you wish to win over, the boy or the woman, I mighthelp you. "

"The boy, " answered La Mothe, remembering the gifts of a father's lovewhich lay in the saddle-bags Commines had brought for him to theChâteau. Ursula de Vesc was but a means to an end, the Dauphin was theend itself. 

"The boy?" Villon paused as they crossed the road in the sweetcoolness of the young night, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That'snot so easy. Women, of course, I know like my ten fingers, butchildren are too subtle for me. And little lathy Charles with hislong, narrow white face and obstinate chin, is no A B C of a boy. Youmust know something more than your horn-book before you understand him. To-day he received Monsieur de Commines with all the gravity of thePope: 'Where is Monsieur Tristan, Tristan of the House of Great Nails?'he asked, peering about him with those dull, tired eyes of his whichsee so much more than most men imagine. 'Tristan?' says Monsieur deCommines, very sourly for so great a man, 'Tristan does not travel withme, Monseigneur. ' 'He must be somewhere near, ' says little Charles, 'since you come from my father, do you not? and you are both friends ofhis. ' It was a sharp thrust and it was not the Dauphin who looked thefool. Now, was that more or less than the impishness that's in allboys, prince or gutter rat? More, I say. No, children are too subtlefor me: give me women for simplicity! But I may help you with him allthe same. "

Though a king dwelt in Valmy and a king's son in Amboise, never wasthere a greater contrast than between the watchfulness exercised fortheir safety. At Valmy guards had thronged at every turn, morevigilant than pickets who hold the lives of a sleeping army in theirkeeping, but at Amboise the doors swung open to the touch of almost thefirst comer, though it was not easy to be certain how much of thislaxity was due to the guarantee of Villon's presence. A carelessporter kept the outer gate, a single sentinel, lounging in theguard-room, let them pass into the central court unchallenged, and theservant or two they met upon the stairs gave them no more than aheedless glance. That, at least, was La Mothe's first impressions. But when he saw the same face in the lower hall, again at thestair-head, yet again in the ante-room, and recognized that the plainlydressed serving-man had kept them under observation at every turn, unobtrusively but of evident purpose, he decided that a casual strangercould not have penetrated to the heart of Amboise without first givinga good account of himself. The watcher was Hugues, the Dauphin'svalet. And yet when Villon gently drew aside a curtain masking adoorway which opened upon the stair-head, there was no one inattendance to announce them. It was as if the King said, moresignificantly, more emphatically than in any words, "My son may be theDauphin, but I alone am France. "

"There are the boy and the woman, " said Villon softly, "Charles andUrsula de Vesc. Now, had I been your age I would rather have won thewoman. "

CHAPTER X

LOVE, THE ENEMY

Charles was seated on a low stool at the further end of the room, apale-faced boy with dull, peevish eyes closely set together, the longValois 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 carehad redeemed the derisive parsimony. All the lad wore was exquisitelyneat 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 handholding the boy's hand as he raised it across his breast, and sheseemed to draw him back to her so that he half leaned, half lay againsther knee. Her other hand was caught up against her side below therounded breast, and pressed there so tensely that the slender, bloodless fingers lay ivory-white against the hardly purer white of thebodice. The whole attitude was one of spontaneous, natural, womanlyaffection, but as Stephen La Mothe looked a second time he seemed tofind in it both defence and defiance, or if not defiance, then thatvigilant watchfulness which is almost an antagonism. The clasping armspoke protection, but a protection which said, "Touch if you dare. "

Nor did the expression of her face change his thought. The clear greyeyes were alert with something more than a girl's fresh interest, thefirm mouth, even while the lips moved, was set in an unconsciousstrain, and across the broad forehead two lines were shadowed where nolines ought to have been. If the face of age, when the sorrows andexperience of years have written anxiety for the uncertain morrowacross it, moves the heart by the story it tells, how much more theface of youth lined by cares which merciful Time should still have heldunrevealed? There are more valleys of shadows than that of death, andit seemed to La Mothe that the gloom of some one of them had gatheredthickly round Ursula de Vesc. 

Of the three or four others grouped at the further end of the roomCommines was the only familiar figure, and though all turned at thenoise of the brass rings jangling on their rod as Villon drew thecurtain there was no recognition in his eyes. It was the opening ofthe lying masquerade, and La Mothe vaguely felt the white horse stumbleas it swerved from the straight course. The soiling of clean handsspoken of by Commines on the road to Château-Renaud had begun. 

"Gain the girl and win the boy, " whispered Villon as, with his handupon La Mothe's arm, they walked up the room together, then aloud, "Monseigneur and Mademoiselle----"

"Monseigneur, if you please, " interrupted the girl, but though shespoke to Villon her eyes were on La Mothe. The voice was cold, thewords 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 lifecome their cure: Amboise was dull and I present to you Monsieur StephenLa Mothe. "

The Dauphin made no immediate answer, but glanced up at Ursula de Vescwith 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 itsmother 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 downupon him she smiled and nodded, nor did the gracious softening of thetender face escape La Mothe. Her eyes were grey, and surely grey eyeswere the sweetest in all the world?

"Monsieur La Mothe, " repeated Charles, as if the girl's look had givenhim courage to speak. "Monsieur La Mothe of--Valmy?"

"Monsieur La Mothe of everywhere, " replied Villon hastily, before LaMothe 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 Stephenwinced at the insolent curve of her lips. He was quite sure they werenever meant for such a curve, surely a Cupid's bow would be morenatural than contempt, disdain, and a few other injurious opinions allin the one expression. In this belief he hastened to reply, allowingno time for Villon to intervene. 

"No, mademoiselle, I am neither a singer nor a poet, at least not sucha one as Monsieur Villon. "

"I hope not, for your credit's sake, " answered the girl drily, nor didshe seek to keep the scorn from her voice. "As both singer and poetMonsieur Francois Villon is beyond his age. "

"There is no such critic as the one who fails to understand, " saidVillon, his wrinkled face white with anger, "and I see I was right atfirst, and should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur, notMonseigneur and Mademoiselle. "

"Master Villon, you are impertinent, " broke in Commines, who lovedUrsula de Vesc little, but hated Villon more. 

"Monsieur de Commines, if it were not another impertinence I would saythat like breeds like, " retorted Villon, entirely unabashed. Hereturned Commines' dislike with energy, and so long as he served theKing he had little to fear from the King's minister. 

"Poets are privileged, " said Mademoiselle de Vesc. "And MonsieurVillon has paid me a compliment: I neither understand his poetry nordesire to. " Her tone was still contemptuous and had in it no thanks toPhilip 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 asarcastic outbreak from one or other of those she had wilfullyirritated in that intolerance which so often goes hand in hand with aspirit 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 roadsidesinger 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 positioninto which the King's ill-considered scheme had thrust him, but he hadgone too far to retreat. "You know best, mademoiselle, whether theDauphin has need of a man's honest love and devotion. "

"Devotion that is here to-day, was God knows where yesterday, and willbe God knows where to-morrow! Merci! the Dauphin is indeed grateful. "

"Spitfire!" murmured Villon, but so cautiously that only La Mothe heardhim. "Certainly I should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur. Orbetter still have left the Monseigneur out altogether. You do not gothe right way. Win the girl, I tell you, and the boy will follow likea sheep. "

"Let me win her my own way, " answered La Mothe, which has always beenthe man's desire since Adam was in Eden with the one woman in all theworld. Then he went on aloud, "Pour your scorn on it as you will, mademoiselle, it is devotion that will wait patiently in Amboise untilit has proved itself. "

"That will wait patiently in Amboise?" she repeated. Her eyeschallenged his as she spoke, and in them there was nothing of the lightthe sons of Adam have loved to see in a woman's eyes so that they mightdwell together in Paradise. 

"Why not? And if a poor gentleman desires to see France in thisfashion 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 raisedhis face to hers as she stooped over him, speaking softly. This timeit was he who nodded. 

"You know best, " he whispered back, and the words would have given LaMothe food for thought had he heard them. "As you say, it will besafer to have him before our eyes than behind our backs. We may bequite sure that Hugues will watch him. Yes, I agree: at least he isprettier to look at than that beast of a Villon. "

From her side, where she held it pressed, her left hand slipped downacross the Dauphin's shoulder until it too drew him towards her, butwhen she raised her head the lines were smoothed from the forehead, andif the grey eyes were still watchful, they watched through a smile. 

"Monseigneur permits it, " she said. "Monseigneur, I have the honour topresent 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, bowingwith an equal gravity, and at the adroit parrying of a difficultquestion the smile crept down from Ursula de Vesc's eyes until itloosened the hard lines of the mouth, and bent them to that Cupid's bowLa 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 longas it pleases you. "

He spoke with such a settled seriousness that it was difficult to besure whether he understood the jest and played up to it in that spiritof make-believe which had drawn down the King's anger or answered outof a dull uncomprehension. Nor did La Mothe care which it was. Hisheart leaped within him at the double promise opened up of fulfillingthe King's mission at his ease and watching the unbending of the curvedbow, but he answered with an equal gravity. 

"Then Landless is not Houseless, Monseigneur, and to devotion gratitudeis 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, "theKing 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 ofthe second than the first. "

"Take your ribald impertinences elsewhere, but beware how you attemptthem 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 wishI could--Amboise would be duller than ever, " protested Villon, thenadded, with a significance of tone which gave the careless words aweight, "let us hope that Monseigneur and mademoiselle can protect eachother as well as me. "

Again there was a dangerous silence, and this time it was Ursula deVesc 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 thanhalf malicious, had given him an unexpected opening, and he was turningin his mind how best to use it. "Why, yes, I think I might. Once upona time----"

"Wait a moment, " said Charles. "Here, Ursula, " and he rose from hisstool as he spoke, "you sit down and I will sit at your feet and leanagainst your knee. There! That is better. Now we are bothcomfortable. 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 helooked up in the girl's face with a laugh, then at Commines in a waywhich 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 ofArabia. He was a very great and a very wise king, the greatest andwisest his kingdom had known for many centuries. During his reign hehad added province to province----"

"At whose expense?" broke in Villon. "In love and the building ofkingdoms there is always a giving and a taking. "

"Silence!" cried Charles sharply. "If you interrupt again I will haveyou removed, even though you are who you are. Now, monsieur, go on, please. "

"He added province to province, " continued La Mothe, "until in all thatpart of Arabia there was no such kingdom for greatness or for power, and no king so feared by the kings of the surrounding countries. Butthough his affairs were so prosperous he had one bitter grief which wasnever 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: akind of a fairy tale, is it not, Monsieur La Mothe? A tale one wisheswere true, but knows is all make-believe. "

"All fairy tales have a heart of truth, " answered La Mothe, "and thisis a very true one, Monseigneur, as I hope you will believe before Ihave ended. In all his cares of state, and with so great a kingdom hiscares were very many, there was no such care, no such sorrow, as thislonging, unsatisfied love of the father's heart. Day and night his onethought 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 LaFollette, will you please call Hugues, and I will go to bed? If we areduller 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 soundprobable. Good night, Monsieur d'Argenton, good night, Monsieur LaFollette, good night, Monsieur La Mothe, " and with a bow whichcontrived 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. "Myfaith, yes! If you are wise, friend La Mothe, you will finish thenight with me at the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulderswith genius familiarly. "

But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe's arm. 

"Genius?" he said, sternly contemptuous. "Yes! Genius depraved anddegraded: genius crapulous and drunken. Take advice, Monsieur LaMothe, and bide indoors: the foulest soiling of God's earth is a foulold age unashamed of its disgrace. " Then lowering his voice to awhisper, 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 girldoes not see you. "

The de Vesc girl! Stephen La Mothe was almost as offended by thecurtly supercilious description of Mademoiselle Ursula as Villon was atthe bitter judgment so uncompromisingly passed upon him. That may havebeen because Cupid's bow had shot its bolt, and love's new wounds arealmost 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 himto his sleeping-quarters gave La Mothe a sufficient clue to thewhereabouts of Commines' lodgings. That they were in the same block ofbuildings as his own, and on the same level, made it comparatively easyto find them. But the Château must first settle into sleep, and he hadan hour or two to wait before he could safely go in search of themunobserved. In the angry mood which swayed him the delay wasfortunate. For the first time in his life his temper was exasperatedagainst the man to whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of hisknapsack 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 inevery string of the unlucky toy--for it was little more--he saw a sharpreminder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness left byCommines. 

What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle de Vesc as this deVesc girl, as if she was some lumpish wench of the kitchen instead of asweet and gracious woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, andyet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe strode up and downthe room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles;that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in hertenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in herlove. From which it will be seen that the Cupid's bow had sent itsshaft very deep indeed, and Commines by his contemptuous phrase had butdriven it more surely home. 

There be those who say love dethrones reason, but observe with whatadmirable logic, what cogency of deduction Stephen La Mothe could argueupon Commines' incapacity for judgment--thus. He had misjudged Ursulade Vesc, why not also Villon? If there had been this undeservedprejudice against an innocent and helpless girl, was not his contemptfor Villon equally unjustified? How, in fact, could such a man asPhilip de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world and of theworld's affairs, understand or appreciate Villon the poet, Villon whohad lifted the whole literature and poetry of France to the highestlevel it had yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous, unthinkable, the one as great a blunder as the other. So Stephen LaMothe gilded his gold, painting his lily lover-fashion time out ofmind, and whitewashed into a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchingswith which Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself. 

With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found the outer passageintensely dark. Its only illumination came from the narrow lancetwindows through which the moonlight streamed so whitely that the restof 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 thearched entrance to the main body of the Château, his own lodgings beingin a projecting wing bounded on the one side by a wide court. A fewsteps beyond this archway a narrow corridor cut the passageway, openingup three lanes of shadow. These were lit to a bare visibility by asmany tiny lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings, mere specks of pointsof light too small to flicker, and such as all night long hang beforethe high altar of a church, symbols of changeless faith burningunquenched even in the deepest darkness of the night of the world. 

Turning to the left, his hand upon the wall for guidance, La Mothecrept softly on until a further passage opened to his right. Down thishe stole, breathing uneasily as men do who walk warily in the dark, intent to keep their presence secret. From the roof depended the sameinadequate light, but at the farther end was a hazy blur which markedthe head of the stairs, and across the floor luminous shadows driftedhere and there from under doorways where the lamp still burned withinthe chamber. One of these chambers La Mothe knew was allotted toCommines, and as he scanned the flagged floor of the passage, searchingfor the sign Commines had given him, a shadow amongst the shadowsstirred his curiosity, and he stole nearer on tiptoe: it was a mattresslaid before a closed door, and stretched upon it lay a man wrapped in ablanket. 

Holding his breath, La Mothe paused, listening intently. Though he hadresented Commines' brusque reference to Mademoiselle de Vesc, thewisdom of caution was obvious, and he knew the value of secrecy toowell to venture an unnecessary risk. But the figure neither moved norchanged its regular deep breathing, and La Mothe slipped pastnoiselessly, seeking anew for the promised signal. And midway to thewell of the stairs, where faint murmurings told of sleepless life evenin ill-lit, ill-guarded Amboise, he found it--a nebulous dusky cross, broader than long, stretching its shadowy arms upon the flags, and athis first low tap on the panel the door was softly opened and as softlyclosed behind him. 

"Are you sure no one saw you?"

"No one. But, Uncle, this playing at thief in the night isintolerable. It will be very much better to say quite plainly toMademoiselle de Vesc----"

"Stephen, Stephen!" and as he spoke Commines, who had been stoopingover his signal, a tiny paper cross pinned against the foot of the doorso that it blocked the flow of light from the lamp laid on the floorbehind, lifted himself and laid his hand strongly on La Mothe'sshoulder. "Do you know why you are in Amboise at all? Do you know itis to convict this very Ursula de Vesc of complicity in a plot tomurder the King and place the Dauphin on the throne, and that the Kingbelieves the Dauphin is privy to the scheme? And do you know what partyou are to play?"

Commines spoke in the anxious remonstrance of affection rather than inanger. There was no censure in the tone, no reproof, a pleadingrather: but when the irritation of offence is raw it resentsexpostulation and rebuke alike: they are just so much salt to thewound. So was it now with La Mothe. 

"It is we who conspire, " he answered angrily, "we who call ourselvesmen and yet creep about a sleeping house to meet by stealth in thedark. And against whom? Against a weak girl, a weak, defenceless girlwhose one offence is that her love is loyal to a boy as helpless asherself. A brave conspiracy truly, brave, worthy, and honourable! Yousaw her to-night, how she faced us for his sake, unafraid and yet verysorely afraid because she is so womanly through her courage. A girland 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 notashamed to look her in the face when that day comes. "

"Stephen, Stephen, what has changed you? Have you grown mad or is thisthat drunkenness?"

"I don't know, I only know it is something new. And if it is thatdrunkenness as you call it, then may I never be sober again my lifelong. "

"Listen, " and this time Commines' voice was stern to harshness. Thetime for pleading, or even remonstrance, had gone by. A more vigorousschooling was needed if Stephen La Mothe was to be saved from folly. "If you must go girl-drunken as every sentimental boy does sooner orlater, do not go blind-drunk or sense-drunk, but keep your eyes openand your mind clear. Mademoiselle de Vesc may be blameless or she maynot: that is what we are here to prove. You call her weak, but thegreatest folly of a foolish man is to despise weakness. Contempt ofweakness has lost more battles than strength of arms has won. Charlesthe Bold despised the weakness of the Swiss, and the devotion of theweak Swiss crushed him. Weak, you say? Love is never weak. Fiftyyears ago a weak girl saved France because of her great love forFrance, and to-day another just as weak might ruin France throughanother great love. Never despise the power of love nor call it weakeven in the weakest. If faith can remove mountains, love is greaterthan faith, and of mademoiselle's devotion to the Dauphin I have nodoubt. "

"Who has the better claim upon it?" answered La Mothe sullenly. 

"Granted, but that is not the point. And what if the devotion ismisdirected? It is a quality of love that it only sees the lights inthe jewels and not the flaws. If love saw all the flaws in us it wouldhardly be love. What if Mademoiselle de Vesc, seeing the boyneglected--and I grant the neglect, --seeing him unhappy--and I grantthe unhappiness, --seeing him denied his high position--and I grant thedenial while I assert that the King, who is a wise king, must have wisereasons I do not understand; what if Mademoiselle de Vesc, I say, seeing all these things and understanding the reasons for them aslittle as I do, seeing no deeper than her devotion and knowing nothingof the King's wise reasons, were moved by this same devotion to somedesperate effort which would right this wrong at any cost? Supposingthat were so, what would hold her back? Fear? She is no coward, andthere is no such courage on God's earth as the courage of a lovingwoman. Weakness? Love is strong as death and stronger, for lovebuilds up where death can only destroy. The crime? In her eyes thecrime lies in the unhappiness and neglect of Amboise, and to right thewrong by any means, however desperate, would be no offence before Godor man. What would hold her back? I ask you. Nothing, nothing atall. "

"Granted, " said La Mothe, impressed in spite of himself and fallingback upon the last resort of baffled argument. "It is all veryplausible, but I do not believe it all the same. "

"Because you are drunken, " retorted Commines, "and because, too, thereare 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 thisdevotion, he who has known so little love in his life? Stephen, if theKing is right and Mademoiselle de Vesc's love has overcome both fearand weakness, he is right, too, when he links Charles with her in herabominable plot. "

"But why has he sent----" La Mothe broke off lamely, remembering intime that he had no right to say to Commines, Why has he sent such amessage of a father's love as lies in those saddle-bags I see in thecorner? 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 Mothehad done in the middle, and with much the same embarrassment. Hisface, harsh and stern of feature both by nature and schooling, grewalmost tender as he turned aside troubled. To speak plainly to any manof honour and generous spirit, answering his own question in directwords, would have been difficult, but how much greater the difficultywhen the man was brother to that dear dead woman who had sunk to hersleep comforted by his promise of care and protection? "Watch overhim, Philip, for my sake. " But into the memory of the tired voice hehad loved there clashed the King's harsh question so curtly asked inValmy, and torn by the conflict of the two natures warring within himCommines paced the room in silence. La Mothe was not the only man inAmboise who found his skill as a circus-rider tried to the utmost, andlike 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 burstof temper may not convince a man's own conscience, or quiet itsuneasiness, but it silences its voice for a time as declamation canalways silence pleading. "Who are we to question his justice or denyits right to strike? And it is as his arm of justice that you are herein Amboise. "

"I?" And into La Mothe's mind, as he stood silent after the startledejaculation, there flooded significant, misunderstood hints dropped bythe King in Valmy, and by Commines himself on the road toChâteau-Renaud, hints which had seemed to him meaningless in the memoryof the little coat of mail which was the secret gift of a father'slove. "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 ceasingfrom his restless pacing of the room. The motion eased the tension ofhis nervous distress and made speech less formal, less difficult. "Treason is treason wherever found. You know its punishment, but thedays of Brutus are gone. The justice of the King, the justice of thefather, can no longer--no longer----" But even his restless pacingcould not give him power to clothe the grim thought in blunt words, andCommines was silent. 

La Mothe's scornful indignation had no such reticence, nor had he yetlearned how to cloak the ugliness of a naked truth in the pleasanteuphemisms 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 wasunceremoniously swept aside, "what has the father's murder of the sonto do with me?"

"Treason is treason, " repeated Commines, finding some comfort andstrength in the bald platitude: it was incontrovertible and at leastgave 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 cannotdo, though a king, another can and must; and must, " he reiterated, steeling himself with a rising emphasis for what was to follow. "Andyou have been chosen as the King's arm in Amboise. "

This time there was no outburst of scorn or indignation. It was notthat the crisis was too deep for noisy declamation, though human naturediffers from organic in that it commonly meets its most grave crises inquietness. The truth was, simply, that La Mothe did not grasp the fullmeaning of the words. 

"The King's arm in Amboise?" he said uncomprehendingly. "The King'sarm? What does that mean?" Then, by the very repetition of thephrase, enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his fingersclosing in upon his palms. "Not that! For God's sake, Monsieur deCommines, say it is not that! Not that the father---- Oh! it cannotbe, it cannot. Is it--is it murder?"

"Justice, " replied Commines doggedly through his shut teeth. "Let uscall things by their proper names. I say justice, justice of----"

"Hell!" broke in La Mothe fiercely. "Justice is sacred, to GodAlmighty, 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 aking is above or beyond justice. "

"Vicarious murder!" retorted La Mothe. "No smooth sophism can make itless. He would have another commit an iniquity he dare not commithimself. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? Never! God helpingme. I am to obey you, Monsieur de Commines; these were the King'sorders; but not in this, never in this, never, so help me God!"

"Listen, Stephen. " Commines had fuller command of himself now andspoke more quickly, but also with more assumption of authority. "Putyourself 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 athimself and the King alike. He understood it as a sign that La Mothe'smind was recovering from the shock which had swung its balance awry. Five minutes earlier he would have declared that murder could never bedispassionate. That he would listen at all was something gained. 

"The King is both more and less than father, " Commines went on: "thatis to say, his responsibilities are greater than those of a simplecitizen, and his private rights in his son are less. He and theDauphin do not belong to themselves. France comes first. Do you admitthat France comes first?"

"God knows!" replied La Mothe moodily. The dying out of his first hotpassionate protest had left him fretful and desperate. He remembered, too, something the King had said about France being the mother of themall, and at the time he had agreed; nor could he quite see whereCommines' argument might lead. "There was a time when I thought rightwas eternally right, but now it seems a father may wipe out hisfatherhood in blood and be justified. "

"France comes first, " went on Commines, emphasizing the point which hesaw had weight. "The millions of lives in France come first. Could ason 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 sonreign?"

"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 asunderin civil war? Would the blood of France not flow like water? Besensible, Stephen: am I not right?"

"I will never be the King's arm in Amboise, never, never. I wouldsooner ride back to Valmy and face the justice of the King. Thejustice 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 passunchallenged: it is never wise to block a safety-valve when a highpressure, whether of steam or of passion, is blowing itself off. 

"These things being granted, " he went on, "what course is the King tofollow? Is he to pardon the crime against the nation? for that is whatit is; is he to pass it over in silence and leave the criminal free toweave 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 trythe prince by solemn course of law? I doubt if the Dauphin of Franceis not above the common law of France, but apart from that again theKing 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 inthe days before the coming of The Maid. I say again, the King darenot. What course is left? Nothing but the arm of justice, thatjustice which is Almighty God's, striking in secret, and so France issaved. "

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 asophism, was too subtle for him, and his safest refuge was silence. And yet his inability to tear the sophism to tatters was not the solecause of the silence. Commines' last question, What is left? though amere 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 nota sophism, might coerce the King to a terrible justice, but would thefather's love not welcome the reconcilement of a son's penitence as away of escape from the ultimate horror of the logic? And surely thatlove must be a very tender, very yearning, very forgiving love wheneven in the midst of just anger it could bend to such gentle thoughtsas 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 inthe face of Commines' assertion he had little hope he was right; thenhe 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 hissaddle-bags, opening and taking from them the package wrapped in alinen napkin which contained the King's gifts to the Dauphin. "Isuppose I must live upon my knapsack for the present, but this I shalltake 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 whenhe had traversed it an hour before, and La Mothe plumed himself onregaining his room unseen. But had he paused and turned at the firstangle he would have seen the shadow which lay stretched in the deepershadows of the doorway stir itself, and Hugues' white face, a blur uponthe darkness, watching him. Beyond that door slept the Dauphin, andVillon was right when he said that the guards of Amboise were not pikesor 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 everconvinced that the prejudice which could so misread Mademoiselle deVesc must also wrong Francois Villon, La Mothe was early at the ChienNoir. Of the Amboise household he had seen nothing, which means thathe had looked in vain for Ursula of the Cupid's bow, and his temper wasnot thereby improved. But he had the day before him, and he promisedhimself some recompense for his disappointment before it was many hoursold. Meanwhile, he would show Villon that all who came from Valmy werenot sharers in Commines' harsh judgment. He found the poetcontemplative over the remains of his breakfast, but in a mood ascaptious as his own. 

"Have you found already that the inn has a warmer welcome than theChâteau? I tell you this, my young friend, it will cost you less tolive 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 ofthem, gave the chance phrase a sinister meaning. 

"As to that, we all look for more than our dues in this world and lessin that to come. God's mercy keep us from justice! If our wages werepaid 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 thatVillon should speak at all of Ursula de Vesc, and still more that hisanswer was so lame. But recognizing the symptoms out of a wideexperience, Villon only laughed softly at the brusque retort. 

"Some peaches hang themselves high, " he said, the laugh broadening asLa 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 keepyour mouth open when the fruit drops. "

"Monsieur Villon, if we are to be friends----"

"So young, so very young, " said Villon softly. "Friends? mostcertainly. If we are not friends, who should be? Are we not bothjackals hunting in the one pack, and jackal does not bite jackal. "Then his mood changed with a swiftness which La Mothe soon found to becharacteristic, a kindliness cast out the jarring banter from his face, and his luminous eyes grew wistful. "Friends? It is a good word, thevery best word in the world. Friends are more than family or kinship, and not many care to call old Francois Villon friend nowadays. Therewas a time----" He paused, running his hand down the long trail of hisbeard reflectively, a slender-fingered supple hand. La Mothe noted itwas, a hand that had a distinct character of its own, just as thecontradictory face had, though the finger-tips were less sensitive thanin the days when their itching acquisitiveness had brought their ownerto the cold shadows of the gallows. "Aye! there was a time. Therewere four of us----"

"The ballad says six, " said La Mothe. 

"Four, four: a man--yet, more, a woman--may have many lovers but fewfriends, many to tuck an arm in his or throw it across his neck whenthe pockets are full. But that's not friendship, and I don't callevery man friend who dips his fingers into the same till with me. Yes, there were four of us, Montigny, Tabary, Cayeux, poor snows of yesteryear sucked down by the cold earth. But while the blood was warm inour veins we four were as one with one purse. When it was full welaughed and sang and feasted as no king feasts, because no king hassuch spice of appetite nor can snap his fingers at the world and careas we could: when it was empty, and it was mostly empty, we laughed andsang the louder and shared our crusts or went gaily hungry. Brave ladsevery one, and brave days. Aye, aye. "

"And where are they now?"

"With the snows of yester year! God knows where! and I fear me thedevil knows too. Montigny was hung in '57, Tabary in '58, and Cayeux, Cayeux of the light heart and lighter fingers, went by the same pathtwo years later: I only am left. They said I killed a man and wouldhave hung me--me! Francois Villon! Certainly a man died or therewould be no Villon now: it was either he or I, and they would have hungme. " The full lips parted in a comfortable laugh and the eyestwinkled. "I appealed to Parliament in a ballad, and the humour of thenotion moved the good gentlemen to mercy. 'How can we choke the breathfrom so sweet a singer?' said they. 'There are ten thousand hangablerogues in Paris, but only one poet amongst them!' God be praised forhumour. I think it gave Francois Villon his life; but since thenfriendship has walked the other side of the street. "

"And yet, " La Mothe laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder, lettingit lie there in kindliness, "you who so gibe at your best self are theFrancois 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 treeof knowledge, but the Lord God walks through the garden in the cool ofthe day. What are we but contradictions, shadows of Montfaucon shotthrough by glories from Notre Dame. Perhaps some day a clearerknowledge than ours will straighten out the tangles, " and with a laugh, which had little joyousness in it, Villon plunged afresh into memorieswhich seemed to strike the whole gamut of a soul's experience from A toG. 

La Mothe allowed him to run on without interruption. The alternationsof mood, tender and callous by turns, but never remorseful, neverregretful, except with the regrets for a lost delight, both amused andrepelled him, but at last as Villon sat silent he turned to the windowand flung open the wooden sun-blinds. 

"At last they are awake in the Château, " he said. "Horses? hawks? Arethey going hunting, do you suppose?"

"Saxe will know. Hulloa! Saxe! Saxe! What is little Charles doingto-day?"

"I was coming for you both, " answered Saxe from the open door. "Theyare riding to Château-Renaud, and your worships are so beloved by boththe Dauphin and mademoiselle that you must needs go with them. Monsieur de Commines and Monsieur La Follette have gone hawking for theday. "

"Do not go, " said Villon. "They know you at Château-Renaud, and howcould you explain if they recognized you?"

"But we may not go near the inn, " answered La Mothe, to whom the ridemeant 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 thenwent on to paint out La Mothe's roseate dreams with the dull brush ofrealities. "Always, " and he lowered his voice as he spoke, "whether byday or by night, you will find a horse waiting ready for your ride toValmy. It is in the stall facing the door, monsieur. By day thestable is open and not a soul will ask questions; saddle and bridle foryourself, then ride like the devil. By night send a stone through thelast window on the left and I will be with you in three seconds. Don'tspare 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 thestir of men and horses in the open space between the inn and the castlegates. 

"Saxe, what man of yours is that who is bitting Grey Roland? I don'tknow his face. "

"A stop-gap, " answered Saxe indifferently. "A gipsy fellow I think heis 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 hisplace for the day. I don't know his name, but he can tell a horse froma 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 haveseen 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 beasthas 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, " hesaid. "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 theheart of eighteen might well have lit into a sparkle at the charm ofthe picture. He was not learned in women's stuffs, or the hundredlittle arts through which an accent, as it were, is put upon a charmalready sufficiently gracious, or a beauty brought into yet clearerrelief for the luring and undoing of the unsuspecting male, and socould not have told whether Ursula de Vesc was clad in sober grey orsunny lightness. She was Ursula de Vesc, and that was enough, Ursulade Vesc, the woman of a single hour of life, and yet the one sweetwoman in the world. 

"A lover's arms ought to be her riding-chair, " said Villon, followingLa Mothe's gaze. "No, there is no offence meant, " he added, asStephen's face reddened with the beginnings of umbrage. "She may be aspitfire and not love Francois Villon, but she is a good girl, and myfour 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 sensea man should marry. The two in the head are the greatest liars anddeceivers in creation. "

The Dauphin had already mounted when La Mothe and Villon crossed theroadway with their horses following, led by drunken Michel'ssubstitute, and his greeting to both was of the curtest. The apologueof the night before was neither forgotten nor forgiven. But withUrsula de Vesc's grey eyes smiling at him La Mothe cared little for theboy's dour looks. Hugues, who had mounted his master, still waited bythe horse's head, a spirited, high-bred bay, sleek and well groomed, which stood shifting its feet with impatience at the delay. The bridleof the less fiery but no less well-cared-for jennet intended for thegirl was held by a stable-helper, while in a group behind the escortmade ready to mount. Neither Commines nor La Follette was present;they had gone hawking, as Saxe had said, nor was Hugues booted forriding. 

"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 thesoft clear voice stirred La Mothe's heart as the smile in the grey eyeshad stirred it. "We missed you at breakfast: what early risers youpoets 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. Sodo not be frightened if you hear him in the corridor o' nights. He hasbeen up these three hours and says the day has only now begun. "

"I hear, " replied Charles, turning on La Mothe those dull, watchfuleyes which, according to Villon, saw so much more than men supposed. "And Hugues hears too. While Hugues sleeps at my door I shan't befrightened. Come, Ursula, mount and let us go. Bertrand is so restiveI can scarcely hold him. "

At that moment La Mothe felt the bridle of Grey Roland pushed into hishand with a "Hold that a moment, monsieur, " and Jean Saxe's stop-gapcrossed to the Dauphin's side. 

"Your pardon, Monseigneur, " he said, stooping, "there is a buckleloose, 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 hewas singularly unobtrusive. 

CHAPTER XIV

FOR LIFE AND A THRONE

Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin mechanically closedhis 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 avicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, shaking his headtill the chains rattled, then plunging to right and left he sprangforward at a gallop. 

"Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins, " cried mademoiselle, but the swervehad sent Hugues staggering, and before he had steadied himself orregained his wits Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, hisreins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer's. 

"The Dauphin! the Dauphin! Oh! for God's sake--Hugues--Monsieur LaMothe--is there no one to help? They will be in the Loire--drownedwhile you stand there staring. Oh! that I could ride like a man: whydon't you move, some of you, stocks that you are?"

The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the broken sentencesfollowed one another, but before the frightened girl could lash themwith the whip of her distress a second time La Mothe had his fingersknit in Grey Roland's mane and was climbing into the saddle, and thelast he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped blindly for a missingstirrup, 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 inhis horsemanship had learned not only how to save his beast, so that noounce of strength might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knewhow to compel into immediate energy all that reserve force whichendures 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 Mothecrouched low in the saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand sothat he and Grey Roland alike were just conscious of the bit in thesensitive 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 haveplunged them both to sudden destruction on the rounded cobbles of thepaved streets, but once the gates were passed, and the dust of the highroad underfoot, he loosed the light tension and pressed his heels homeinto the flanks. There, ahead, a shifting vision in the rising swirlof dust, was the bay, thundering at top speed. Behind there wereshouts, cries, the clatter of iron shoes upon the stones, but La Motheheard only the muffled rhythm of galloping hoof-beats sounding throughthe roar of the blood swelling his temples and booming in his ears likethe surf of a far-off sea. Away to the side, with a stretch ofsunburnt grass between, lay the river. Let Bertrand keep to thewinding road and all was well. Gallop how he might Grey Roland wouldwear him down, but let him swerve, let the fluttering of a bird startlehim aside, and Ursula de Vesc's prophetic terrors would be justified. 

As the memory of her dread flashed into his mind afresh, there sweptacross Stephen La Mothe one of those sudden storms of temptation whichat some time or another beat into every life, even the most sheltered, and surely prove that the curse of primal sin still dwells inherent inour best humanity. "He will drown! Well, let him drown!" and in theinstant of the thought, by some instinct of the brain, the loose reinwas 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 inthe possible heaven of Amboise, an end to the unnatural strife offather and son, an end to the threatened rending asunder of France, whowas the mistress and mother of them all, whether King, Dauphin, or pawnin the terrible game of life and death, an end to the danger which hungover the head of Ursula de Vesc. Let him drown: death would pay alldebts, and the crooked would be made straight. 

Gritting his teeth La Mothe drew a deep breath. With the fullerrealization of the thought the sudden convulsion of his heart chokedhim, 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 abend of the road a waggoner's leisurely wain plodded its way toAmboise, and next instant the clearer thunder of Bertrand's hoofs cameringing back from the harder sod which lay between the river and theroad. The bay had headed for the bank where, by the same bend, theriver curved to a line ahead. Death would pay all debts, and thecrooked would be made straight: he would pay Commines all he owed himand 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 whohurled the first stone: what better was it to let the boy ride to hisfate unaided? That way there was no cleansing of hands. To permit apreventable death was murder--murder. 

Stooping lower La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, urging him withvoice and hand, "Faster, boy, faster, faster. " That he had no spurswas a point against him, but drawing his dagger he laid the pointagainst the wet flank. There was no need to draw blood, no need forgoading. The generous heart of the beast understood the touch, and thesplendid muscles coined their utmost strength, squandering it in aspendthrift, willing energy. They were gaining now, stride by stridethey 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 thesaddle, and so far he had held his place like a crouched statue, stooping by instinct as La Mothe had stooped, and clinging to the longmane with both hands. He was no coward, boy though he was, and notonce had looked back, nor did he now though the following hoofs musthave been loud in his ears as stride by stride the grey gained on thebay, and the ten lengths of space between them closed to five, tothree, 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; leavethe rest to me. "

The gap narrowed foot by foot: up to the girth of the bay crept thestraining muzzle of the grey, the eyeballs staring, the teeth bared, the nostrils wide, the foam flying with every jar of the hoof, up andup 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, LaMothe could feel the pressing of the Dauphin's back, and the handclosed in upon the ribs. "Now, " he cried, his voice cracked andhoarse. "Now, Christ help us, now, now, " and gripping the boy hereined back as tightly as he dared, reined back to feel the slender boyslip from the bay's back, hang helpless in the air an instant, thenfall sprawling across the saddle. On dashed the bay, and as GreyRoland staggered in his halt the bank caved under the Arab's feet; hetoo staggered, rearing back too late, then plunged head foremostforward. 

As, dropping the reins, La Mothe caught the Dauphin in both his arms toraise him more fully upon the saddle, he was conscious for the firsttime that they were followed. From behind there was a shout and thenoise of hoofs, and looking across his shoulder he saw Hugues mountedon the roan riding recklessly. Beyond him the rest of the escorttailed off almost to the city gate, with Ursula de Vesc framed by thegrey arch, her hand upon her breast, as it had been when La Mothe firstsaw her, Love the Enemy, whom he so longed to make Love the more thanfriend. "Win the girl and you win the boy, " said Villon. But what ifhe had won the boy, and winning him had won Ursula de Vesc, won her tofriendliness, won her to kindliness, won her to trust, won her to--andHugues thundered up breathlessly. 

"Monseigneur?"

"Safe, unhurt, but I think he has fainted. Here, " and lifting the ladwith little effort La Mothe leaned across to Hugues and won his heartfor ever by the act, "take him, you: he will be less fretted when hecomes 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 hisarms as carefully as any tender woman, "how can we thank you--how canwe prove----"

"Thank Grey Roland, " answered La Mothe, speaking more lightly than hefelt. "I did nothing but keep my stirrups. "

"Nothing?" Hugues' eyes turned to the gapped bank and followed thecourse of the river, void of any trace of the bay. "Then to save aking for France is nothing. But you are right, monsieur; the soonerthe Dauphin is in Amboise the better. "

"Was it for this you came to Amboise?" said Villon, as La Mothe, havinggiven Grey Roland his own time to return, halted at the inn door. Thecrowd 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 wasParisian. But, as I said last night, what you do in Amboise is betweenyou and the King, and you won't be the first man in the world who couldnot 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 theshadow of the gate as Roland drew in to the bay on the edge of thebank, and she forgot Francois Villon, the guard, and everybody, as awoman does when her soul speaks to her heart. Not a word had she saidtill then, not one, but stood breathing deep breaths; there were redspots on the cheek-bones, with those little white teeth of hers hard onher lip. But when you leant aside and gripped the boy she cried--butwhat 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 isthen--'Thank God I was wrong, oh, thank God I was wrong: God be thankedfor a good man, ' and the tears were tumbling down her cheeks. Myfriend, " and Villon's voice deepened soberly, "I who am old have beenyoung, 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 himgood with tears on her cheeks. " And La Mothe had the wisdom and humblegrace to answer nothing at all. It was Villon himself who broke thesilence with a whistle. 

"I am forgetting, fool that I am, though I think you too would haveforgotten with a pair of grey eyes weeping at your elbow. What do youcall this?"

From the cloth pouch which hung from his girdle he drew a small twigand handed it to La Mothe. It was spray of wild sloe cut from athicket and trimmed to the shape of a cross, with one stiff thorn, broad based and sharp at the point as a needle, projecting at rightangles from the intersection. The marks of the knife were still freshupon it, the bark so soft and sappy that it must have been cut from theliving plant within the hour. La Mothe shook his head as he turned itover on his palm. 

"This? What do you call it?"

"Many things; the shadow of death for one; revenge, I think, foranother; hate, and a warning certainly, unless I am a fool as well asall the hard things Monsieur d'Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am afool, 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 innocenceunder Bertrand's saddle-flap. The poor brute was driven mad by it. Ipicked 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. Hisjacket opened as he stooped and the ring swung out. The hedge-sidebeggar boasts a crest, Monsieur La Mothe: a martlet with three mulletsin chief. Now do you understand?"

"No. "

"It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two brothers, the lastof their family, and Guy de Molembrais trusted our revered King--yes, Isee 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 whichdrew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessnesswhich brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith? IfVillon was right then this little inch or two of new-cut twig mightindeed be all he said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and awarning against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. Butwas he right?

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite, " and Villon nodded. His face was very grave: not for aninstant had he slipped into his sardonic mood of ironical jest. "And, mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how andwhen he can. "

"Does Saxe know?"

"Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at theway you pounded his horse. "

La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the greywhere he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to thestables. But if his intention was to charge Molembrais with hiscowardly attempt on the boy's life it was baulked. At the door Michelmet 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 placehim, 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 liquordo 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 ownreward, made more clear than in the indifference with which Amboisegreeted the rescue of the Dauphin. Of course, there are those whocontend that virtue is in itself a sufficient reward, but there iscertainly a second possible reading, and this reading La Mothe foundtrue. No one said what a fine fellow he was, no one stared inadmiration of his promptitude or in awe of his courage. Amboise wascold, chillingly cold. 

Hugues, perhaps, was an exception, and if Villon was right Ursula deVesc had also been deeply moved. But that, La Mothe told himself as hewandered disconsolately through the dull and gloomy corridors of theChâteau, might have been nothing more than the transitory emotion of anexcited girl moved to an expression repented of when the mood cooled. 

So, as lovers have done ever since this hoar world was young, he gavehimself up to melancholy and found, as more than lovers have found, asatisfaction in a grievance. Then, while he fumed, three half-grownspaniel puppies, followed more sedately by a full-grown brother, camescampering around a corner, and the lover remembered he was a sportsmanwho loved dogs as well as little Charles himself. It was almost thesole hereditary trait in the lad, and the passion for animals was asstrong 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 anotheras puppies will in the sheer joy of living. But the elder dog, if hestill had the heart of eighteen or younger, did not forget he wastwenty-four with responsibilities and a dignity to maintain. Passinggravely by the riot of paws and flapping ears he halted a yard awayfrom La Mothe, pushed out a sensitive, twitching nose, sniffed the handheld out in greeting and as gravely licked it. Love at first sight isnot confined to humanity, and thanks to the unfailing miracle ofinstinct the dog makes fewer mistakes than man. Inside of two minuteshe 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 andpets you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not born a dog, tell methat?"

At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their play, sat up pantinga moment, and then in a tumultuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe. Charlemagne vouched for him, Charlemagne who was their oracle asgrown-up brothers so often are, and they could let loose the exuberanceof their puppydom without a fear that a sudden cuff would teach theiryouth that wild delights find an end in sorrow. Over each other theysprawled in their heedless eagerness to get near to this newplayfellow, one, a little weaker than the rest, lagging a half-tail'slength behind, and La Mothe was so busy trying to find a hand for eachto 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 hadcome into her life, and she was impatient of the enigma. The solutionwas not a question of curiosity but of safety, and a safety not herown. On one side was Commines, Louis' devoted adherent, devoted notalone in service, but in blindness, the blindness which questionsneither means nor purpose; on the other side was Villon, Louis' jackaland open ears in Amboise. Between these two so profoundly distrustedstood Stephen La Mothe. Between them, but was he of them? That wasthe problem. 

That morning, from Hugues' report of the visit in the darkened quiet ofthe Château, and remembering how familiarly Villon had introduced LaMothe overnight, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy of therendezvous with Commines argued some sinister threat. But now shedoubted, and as she watched La Mothe's careless play with the dogs thedoubt grew. Hugues had kept his eyes open: the gapped bank and thenarrow strip of grass between the bay and the river into which the greyhorse had been thrust, without a hesitating thought of the inevitableresult which must follow a slip or a swerve, spoke not alone ofpersonal courage, but said plainly that La Mothe was ready to risk hislife for the Dauphin. Neither Commines nor Villon would have donethat, they would have let him perish and raised no hand to save him. 

Where, then, was the sinister threat? And had not the devotion whichshe had so contemptuously scoffed at the night before already proveditself to be no empty word? Yes, she had scoffed, and he had answeredher scoff at the risk of his life. How, then, could he be one withCommines and Villon? The thought that she had so misjudged him flushedher as with a sudden heat, the grey eyes grew tenderly troubled in herself-reproach, and unconsciously she drew a deeper breath. Slight asthe sound was the dogs heard it; round they spun from their play, theirmouths open, their tongues hanging, and next moment were leaping uponher skirts with little yelps of greeting. 

"Mademoiselle!" and La Mothe sprang to his feet. "I did not hear youcoming: 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 hourspast, " 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 nointentional significance in his voice Ursula de Vesc was woman enoughto understand the subtle compliment. "How is he?"

"If you forget, we do not. He is as well as a nervous boy can be aftersuch an ordeal. He is looking forward to seeing you this afternoon totry 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 beingthanked. "He sat his horse like a little hero. There is no suchcourage as to wait quietly for death. "

"And what of the courage which goes to meet death?" Pushing the dogsfrom her Ursula de Vesc looked up, her face very grave and tender inthe shadows, as the spring of tears glistened under the lashes. Lifehad brought her so little to be grateful for that the happiness ofgratitude was very great. 

"No, you must let me speak this once, I said hard things to you lastnight, 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 thepresumption, for why should you think of me at all? Forget the hardthoughts, mademoiselle, and let that pay in full. "

"There can be no more hard thoughts. How could we think hard thoughtsof our friends?"

"Friends? If that might be. "

With the quick instinct which belongs to well-bred puppydom, and is notunknown even in children, the dogs had caught the graver note whichchanged her voice. By common consent they ceased their restless playand, seated on their haunches, their sleek heads aslant, watched herwith wistful eyes; here was something their love could not quiteunderstand. 

"Friends? Amboise has more need of friends than Landless of the Duchyof Lackeverything. " The girl had risen slowly to her feet as sherepeated La Mothe's words, and now as she paused the shadow again brokein lines of troubled care along her forehead. "Monsieur La Mothe, whatwas 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 wemay find it together. I am sure we will if you will but help me. Butthe story is true. "

"How can you say that?" she burst out passionately. "Where do you findone little, little sign of love in Amboise? I can see none, none atall. Nothing but neglect, suspicion, even hate. Oh! it is terriblethat 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 youare 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 fingersthrough Charlemagne's soft hair. The lie direct or the lie inferentialwould parry the question and possibly serve both Commines and the King;but how could he keep his hands clean in Amboise and lie even byinference to Ursula de Vesc who had said so simply, "We trust you"? Itwas impossible, not to be thought of for a moment, but neither was thewhole truth. 

"Monsieur d'Argenton and I are not upon the same errand, " he said atlast. "Some day, when you know me better, and trust me for somethingbetter than a little brute courage which any man in my place would haveshown, I will ask you a question. When you have answered it--and Iknow what the answer will be--I will tell you why Monsieur d'Argentonis in Amboise. "

"Monsieur La Mothe, ask your question now. "

"No, the time has not come. But I will ask this: Help me that theDauphin may trust me, and together we will make the end of the storyLove and Peace and Faith. "

"Love and Peace and Faith, " she repeated, her eyes filling for thesecond time. "They have long been strangers to Amboise. God send ourFrance such a trinity. "

And again La Mothe had to check himself lest he should reply, "To youtoo, mademoiselle. " To bring just such a trinity into her life, Lovewhich worketh Faith, and the Peace which is born of both, was the onesupreme good which the world could offer out of all the gifts in itstreasure-house. But, as he said of his question, the time had not yetcome, so he changed the blunt directness to the more oblique "Not toFrance alone, " and was rewarded by seeing the serious wistfulness shiftinto a gay smile, as she curtsied mockingly with a "Merci, monsieur!"very different from the same words of the previous night. Then sheadded, as the dogs, following her lighter mood, sprung upon her anew:

"Here I have two of them already, but certainly they give one littlepeace. Have they been formally introduced? This is Diane, who will bea mighty huntress in her day. This we call Lui-même because, " shepaused, flashing a mischievous glance at La Mothe, "well, just becausehis temper is not very good. He is a bully and uses his teeth on poorCharlot, who is the weakest of the three and the one we love best. ButCharlot has one bad habit, he is very inquisitive, and it will get youinto trouble some day, Charlot dear": whereat Charlot cocked his earsand looked wise. 

Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for himself, and saidthem with the dignity of a Dauphin of France struggling through the shymanners of a self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating bothdignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frankness which toldLa Mothe that Ursula de Vesc's influence was already at work. The colddistaste had already disappeared, nor was there any suggestion of acompelled gratitude. Commines and La Follette had not returned fromtheir hawking, and only Father John and the girl were with the Dauphin. 

He had been conversing with the priest, but broke off abruptly when LaMothe was announced. 

"Monsieur, " he said, his hand stretched out as he went hastily to meethim, "there are some services hard to repay. No, I don't meanservices, services is not the word. Services are for servants and Idon't mean that, but perhaps you understand? And perhaps, too, someday 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, "thegrateful father can and surely will. " Then he laid his hand on theDauphin'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 notknow what was going to happen, but not afterwards. "

"But afterwards, in that awful moment when hope was gone and the worldslipped from you, when there was nothing real but God and your ownsoul, what were your thoughts then?"

The boy made no reply, but shifted uneasily under the hand which stillrested upon him. The heavy eyes which had brightened while he spoke toLa Mothe grew dull and peevishly sullen again as, according to habit, he glanced towards Ursula de Vesc. Following the glance La Mothe sawthe girl shake her head warningly, apprehensively even: but Charles hadnot 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 whenwe wake. "

"I remember very well. Yes, Ursula, I shall tell him since he asks. Iwondered whether a son who hated his father, or a father who hated hisson, would be most certainly damned. "

"My son, my son, " cried the priest, horrified. "How could you allowsuch a terrible thought?"

"Oh!" And the boy shook off the restraining hand impatiently. "Youcome 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 himselfwhether, even with Ursula de Vesc's help, the end of the story couldpossibly 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 inAmboise, ten days which seem like so many hours, and already Charlestrusts me as he trusts Mademoiselle de Vesc. "

Pushing out his loose-hung under lip Villon eyed his companionquizzically, but with a little pity through the banter. They werealone in the common room of the Chien Noir, and on the table by whichthey sat were two bottles of the famous '63 wine, one empty, the otherwith its tide at a low ebb, but La Mothe's horn mug was still unemptiedafter its first filling. With some men this would have been anoffence, but not with Francois Villon. "Good-fellowship is not in winebut in words, or surer still, in silence, " he would say, "and anotherman'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 Parispavements. 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 thefeet, 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 Godnever 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 whatyou came to Amboise to win. The garden grows more flowers thanfleurs-de-lis, and better worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? Ithink there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily----"

"No Paris jests, Villon. "

"Trust Francois Villon! Jest?" His eyes twinkled humorously over theedge of his tilted horn cup as he finished the second bottle. "In alldivine creation there is nothing so solemn as the heart of youth in itsfirst 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 wasbreeched. But to go back to my garden. Do you dislike the simile--aMadonna lily?"

"The subject is distasteful. "

"Mademoiselle de Vesc distasteful? Monsieur La Mothe, I apologize. Inall my Paris days I was never such a hypocrite as to make love to awoman who was distasteful. But then, is any woman distasteful if a manbe only in the right mood?"

"Villon, that is untrue------"

"My friend, I know my past better than you do. Distasteful? Pah! itis 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 theygave her frozen milk. Honouring is cold love-making. And now you haveproved that you don't go the right way about it. 'Mademoiselle, '"; andVillon minced a melancholy falsetto, "'I respect you deeply;mademoiselle, I honour you humbly from a distance; you are the higheststar in the heavens, and I a worm of the earth! Permit me to kiss yourvenerated finger-tips. ' Honour! Bah! get nearer to them, man; nearerto 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 theseten days he had learned which of Villon's jests were innocent ofintention to hurt, and which carried a poisoned barb. "Love may bebought in Paris, but not in Amboise. "

"But it costs more, " retorted Villon. "In Amboise it costs a man'swhole 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 areseven separate emptinesses and any one was enough. Now listen and donot interrupt again. There be many ways of gathering peaches, but yourway of kneeling at the foot of the tree with your hands folded like asaint in stained glass is the worst of all. It is only in theory thatwomen, even lily Madonnas, love men to be saints; when it comes topractice----"

He broke off, chuckling the soft complacent chuckle La Mothe so greatlydisliked, and putting the empty mug to his nose drew in the perfume ofthe wine with a deep breath. The lids drooped slowly over his shiningeyes, and in the backward groping along the crooked byways which hadled from Paris pavements to the mercy of Louis by way of an escapedgallows he forgot both La Mothe and Amboise. The voice of Paris thebeloved, Paris the ever mourned for, was in his ears; the jargon of theRue Maubert, the tinkle of the glasses through the doubtful but merrysongs of the Pet du Deable, whispers of gay voices which had longpassed beyond these voices, and the leering face, part satyr and partpoet, grew wholly poet in its remembrance. It is the blessing ofnature, and one of its most divine gifts, that memory brings back thebest from the past and leaves the worst covered. Even our snows ofyester year are roseate with the glow of imagination. 

"The Madonna lily! Blessed is the man who gathers one and finds warmblood in its pure veins. The gift of a good woman who loves and isloved. Aye, aye, God send us all heaven while we're young. TheMadonna lily! Once there was such a one in the garden of life, pure, sweet, and beloved. But the perfume was not for Francois Villon, andthe swine in him turned to the husks of the trough. Catherine deVaucelles; Catherine, dead these many years, dead but never forgotten, a saint with the saints of God, and the rest--damned. " He spoke tohimself rather than to La Mothe, but after a little spell of silence helooked up, gravely in earnest. "You go too slowly. Any day the Kingmay crook his finger. What if he calls you to Valmy, then sends youGod knows where, God knows for how long, and you return to Amboise tofind some one else has gathered your lily while you lagged? That wouldbe a chilly winter in the garden of life where you left young spring. "

La Mothe sat silent. What reply was possible? That the advice waswell meant he knew, but he had never before realized that a peremptoryrecall might come any moment from Valmy. And it was not impossible. Louis, aged and ailing, spurred, too, by the desire for the comfort ofhis son's love while life was still good to the taste, would beimpatient of delay. These ten days which had passed with the swiftnessof a summer's morning would be long as a wintry month to the lonelyfather. But to the devout lover, in him haste savoured of presumption. Ursula de Vesc was his good friend and comrade; could he hope for morethan that in so short a time? In making haste might he not lose all hehad gained? Besides, in the service and worship of the one dear womanin the world, a man is his own High Priest, and none save himself mayenter into the Holy of Holies. And what could this peach-picker ofParis pavements know of such a Holy of Holies? Nothing, absolutelynothing. So he sat silent, doubly tongue-tied by doubt and reverence. 

But for these, Villon, who read his face with disconcerting ease, hadno 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 abitter taste in the swallowing. Or do you think it will be all thesame fifty years hence? By all the Muses, there's an idea! I mustwrite the 'Ballad of Fifty Years to Come. ' Let me see--let me see--'myes, 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 mockapplause which was not all unreal, "what do you think of that for thefirst draft? It does justice to me and to you, chronicles littleCharles' escape, kicks your Monsieur d'Argenton in passing, and takesoff its hat to the King all in a breath. "

"Tear it up, " answered La Mothe. "Will the King thank you for hintinghe will be dead and forgotten fifty years hence? When you speak ofLouis, you should always say, 'O King, live for ever!'"

The drumming ceased, the gay laugh died out of Villon's eyes, and hesat ruefully silent. To hint at death to Louis, even remotely, was anunpardonable sin. 

"You are right, " he said at last, and said it with a sigh. "All thesame, the idea is a good one, and ideas are scarcer than poetry andalways will be. I have heard your verses, my young friend. Here isSaxe. Saxe, have you brought that third bottle? To drink less thanhis average is a crime against a man's thirst. "

But Saxe was empty-handed. 

"Monsieur de Commines desires speech with Monsieur La Mothe in theChâteau garden. "

"Monsieur de Commines? Bah! Go and be birched, " said Villonpeevishly. The failure of his ballad had vexed him, and he was readyto vent his spleen on what lay nearest. "You deserve it for yourmilk-and-water love-me-a-little-to-morrow. Had it been the old Parisdays the Madonna lily would have said 'Come!' to Francois Villon inless than a week. "

"Paris flowers do not grow in Amboise garden, " answered La Mothe, andadded "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 theChâteau, grey and sullen, on the fourth was an enclosing wall. Inshaded corners a few belated gillyflowers, straggling and overgrown, filled the air with perfume, but La Mothe's gaze was caught by a groupof Madonna lilies, slim and graceful, rising from a bed of purplefleurs-de-lis, their ivory buds new opened, and the recollection ofVillon's comparison thrilled his imagination with its aptness. Gracefor grace, beauty for beauty, in fulfilment and promise, they wereUrsula de Vesc herself. 

But almost with his first sentence Commines proved that Villon hadshrewd 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 notphilandering it is wine-bibbing, " he said harshly. "Stephen, the Kingthinks you are wasting your time in Amboise and I think so too. Whathave 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, youare not in Amboise to play the fool. "

La Mothe flushed and was about to answer angrily, but remembering thatCommines spoke for the King rather than for himself he restrained hisimpatience. 

"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 forpulling him off Bertrand's back, he as much as said he had nothing topay me with. Now if this lie of a plot against the King were thetruth, would not a self-willed boy like the Dauphin, boastful as boysare, proud and galled by the debt he thought he owed me, have hintedthat the day would come when he could pay in full, and sooner than someexpected? He surely would. His pride would have run away with hisdiscretion. Besides, Uncle, what have you discovered in your ten days?"

But Commines returned no answer, and to La Mothe his gloomy face wasinscrutable. He knew his master; knew, without being told in so manywords, that it was the King's purpose to set Charles aside; knew thatthe King believed justification for such a course was to be found atAmboise; knew above all, knew with the knowledge of other men's bitterexperience, that there were no thanks for the man who failed, eventhough 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 thequestion, what had he discovered? Little or nothing. Using all thearts and artifices which ten years' service under such a master ofsubtle craftiness as the eleventh Louis had taught him, he had cajoledand bribed, probed and sifted, even covertly threatened at times. Butall to no purpose. An indignant sarcasm from Ursula de Vesc, apolitic--and wise--regret for the estrangement from La Follette, apetulant outburst from Charles, childish and pathetically cynical byturns, the vague whispers inseparable from such a household as wasgathered together in Amboise were all his reward. But the Kingdemanded proof; the King demanded articles of conviction which would, if necessary, satisfy an incredulous world that the terrible tragedywhich followed proof was the justice of the highest law. 

"Disaffection is everywhere, " he said at last; "disloyalty which onlylacks the spur of opportunity to drive desire into action. If thesethings are on the surface, worse lies hidden. You know the proverb ofSmoke and Fire? I see the fire laid, I smell the smoke: it was for youto find the spark, you who have had a free hand in Amboise. But youplay nonsense games with Charles, hanging upon the skirts of theunscrupulous woman who tutors him to revolt, or drink in taverns with ascurrilous thief turned spy to save his neck from a deserved hanging. Do you think you serve the King by philandering in a rose garden, orplaying at French and English in the Burnt Mill? Francois Villon!Ursula de Vesc! Stephen, you make yourself too much one with them--anunhung footpad who prostitutes the powers of mind God gave him to thedevil's use, and a woman----"

"Uncle, if even your father had spoken evil of Suzanne would you havelistened 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 againstthe King, no plot at all. "

"And your proof is that when a clever woman bade a boy control histongue he obeyed her! Will that convince Louis? Would it convinceyourself but for this calf-love of yours? Stephen, Stephen, you do notknow the gulf on which you stand. What answer am I to return to theKing?"

"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 gamein your hands, and you threw it away! A touch of the heel, a singletwitch of the bridle--there, there, say nothing: perhaps at your age Iwould have had the same scruples. But what answer am I to return tothe King?"

"That I will do all he bade me; do it with all my heart to the veryletter, " 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 theproblem is older than the imagination of any fabulist, and as new asthe 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, nottheirs. " And that afternoon came his opportunity to prove that a manknows 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 ownsoul the full, naked, unpalatable truth about himself. The foolfollows the principle which governs the libel upon the intelligence ofthe ostrich, and vainly tries to persuade himself that what he does notsee does not exist, while the weak man dares not open the doors of thecupboard hidden in every life for shivering terror of the secrets heknows are there. Wiser wickedness deliberately airs his skeleton nowand then, and thereby the grisly presence grows less grisly, and thehollow rattle of the bones less threatening. The articulation remainsthe same, but the tone, so to speak, is more subdued. 

And Stephen La Mothe, being neither a fool nor altogether weak, was notafraid to admit to himself that Commines' angry contempt had describedthe day-by-day life at Amboise with sufficient accuracy, at least sofar as the Dauphin and Ursula de Vesc were concerned. The bitter flingat his friendship for Villon did not trouble him. It was simply thehigh light added to the picture to bring out its general truth. 

Yes, he had played games of make-believe with the boy, such as Louishad spoken of half in tolerance and half with the vexation of a cleverfather who resents that his only son is not as clever as himself. Hehad--no, he had not philandered in the rose garden. The associationsof the word stirred him to revolt. Dairy-maids might philander, kitchen wenches and such-like common flesh might philander, but neverUrsula of the grey eyes, Ursula of the tender, firm mouth. Ursulaphilander? Never! never! The thought was desecration. What was itLouis had said? All women are the same under the skin. It was acynic's lie, and Louis had never known Ursula de Vesc. 

Lifting a lute he touched the strings lightly. He was in one of thesmaller rooms of the Château, one the girl used more, almost, than anyother, and little suggestions of her were scattered about it. On abench was a piece of woman's work with the threaded needle pushedthrough the stuff as when she laid it aside, flowers she had gatheredwere on the table, the portière masking the door was her embroidery. Perhaps all these forced an association of ideas. Picking the stringsout one by one half unconsciously, the air of the love song followedthe shift of the hand, and equally unconsciously his voice took up therhythm, 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 thesedays?"

Down went the lute with a clang which jarred its every string intodiscord, and La Mothe sprang to his feet. 

"Deceived you, mademoiselle! How?"

"That first night--I do not like to remember it even now, but MonsieurVillon told us you were both poet and singer, but you denied it. Andnow I hear you singing----"

"Not singing, mademoiselle. "

"Singing, " she persisted, with a pretty emphasis which La Mothe foundvery pleasant. "We shall have a new play to-night. A Court of HighJustice, and Monsieur La Mothe arraigned for defrauding Amboise of apleasure these ten days. I shall prosecute, Charles must be judge, andyour 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 whathe told you that night. "

"What? A minstrel who wanders France with his knapsack and his luteand yet cannot sing?" If the raillery yet remained in the gay voice, it was a raillery which shifted its significance from pleasant badinageto something deeper, and the tender mouth which La Mothe was so surecould never lend itself to philandering lost its tenderness. More thanonce he had caught just such expression when the perilous ground of therelationships between father and son had been trodden upon in anattempt to justify the King. Then it had been impersonal, now he wasreminded of his first night in Amboise, when her cold suspicion hadbeen frankly unveiled. But the hardening of the face was only for amoment. "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 notthe truth; perhaps you are as unjust to your verses as you are to yoursinging. " Seating herself in a low chair, she looked up at him with adangerous but unconscious kindness in her eyes. "Now sit there in thatwindow-seat and let me judge. With the sun behind you you will looklike 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 morekindly La Mothe told himself he had surely advanced a siege trenchtowards the defences. As to Ursula, she could not have told why theselast days had been the pleasantest of her life, and would haveindignantly denied that Stephen La Mothe was in any way the cause. Women do not admit such truths as openly as men, not even tothemselves. But Amboise was no longer dull, the rose garden no longera mere relief from the greyness of the hours spent behind the grimwalls which circled it. The sunshine was the same, the budding flowerswere the same, the glorious shift from winter to summer, but they werethe 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 dayshad been a sense of support. One of the most corroding sorrows of lifeis to be lonely, alienated from sympathy and guidance, and in AmboiseUrsula de Vesc had been very solitary. La Follette was politic, cautiously non-committal; Hugues of a class apart; Commines an avowedopponent; Charles too young for companionship; Villon a contempt, andat 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 anydepths of pity. Then to repentance was added gratitude, to gratitudeadmiration, and to all three propinquity. Blessed be propinquity! IfHymen ever raises an altar to his most devoted hand-maid it will be tothe dear goddess Propinquity! Yes! these days had been very pleasantdays. 

But an unfailing charm in a charming woman is that one can never tellwhat she will do next. Though the grey eyes kindled and the kindlinessin them grew yet more kindly, though the soft embroideries in thedelicate lawn were ruffled by a quicker breath, the natural perversityof her sex must needs answer perversely, and Ursula de Vesc blew up hissiege 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 questionitself. 

"Of course. Music opens all doors. Monsieur La Mothe, I congratulateyou. "

"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! Goodas this is, there is a better than the best! Mademoiselle----"

"But you sing as well as make verses, do you not--you, whose musicopened the gates even of Valmy? Indeed, I heard you just now. You areanother Orpheus, and Valmy a very similar interior. You don't like meto say so? Very well, my lute is in your hand, and I am waiting. Didthey 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 apoor gentleman seeing France, and so to Poitou. Anjou, Guienne, anywhere would do as well--except Flanders, where Monsieur de Comminescomes from, and where I wish Monsieur de Commines had remained, " sheadded. 

"You dislike Monsieur de Commines? Mademoiselle, if you knew himbetter; how I wish you did. There was once a friendless boy--"

"Is this another fairy tale?" Though she interrupted him with solittle ceremony, there was no asperity in the voice. It was as if shesaid, "Even good women have their limitations. I may forgive Philip deCommines, 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 seehow he riots--should ask forgiveness, " and as she spoke Stephen LaMothe, with a sudden sense of chill, remembered that other prodigal oftwelve years old who was hung on the Valmy gallows that the roads ofFrance might be safe. If Commines was right, the parallel wascomplete--horribly complete. But she gave him no time to dwell uponthe coincidence. "You put a heavy charge upon me, " she went on, thefurrows deepening on her forehead. "Would to God I could see what isbest, 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 donot listen. I know that must sound strange, but at times music helpsme to think. Is it not so with you?"

The question was apologetic, and as such La Mothe understood it. Heunderstood, too, the straits in which she found herself. So powerfulwas her influence over Charles, the boy would certainly act on heradvice. Her knowledge of Stephen La Mothe was greater than hesupposed. If he was right, and she held her peace, this breach betweenfather and son would not only remain unhealed but would be widened byLouis' natural resentment at the rejection of his covert overtures; butif La Mothe was mistaken she knew the old King well enough to becertain that he would use the boy's unwelcome advances against him insome cunning fashion. Which way lay wisdom? Or, as she had putit--raising the question to a higher plane--which was the right?

"If you please, " she said imperiously. "Yes, I mean it. Play David tothe evil spirit of my doubt, " and with a laugh to cover his sense ofembarrassment La Mothe obeyed, touching the instrument very softly. 

But she could not have told whether he played a drinking-song or aMiserere. With her, as with many, the quiet rhythm of the musicstimulated 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, beingsuperstitious, might well repent; no high motive, but a probable one. Philip de Commines' visit to Amboise was not by chance, and nothingless 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 aconnection with the King's changed disposition towards the Dauphin. She would watch Commines, doing nothing hastily, and by his actionswould shape her course. 

With the relaxation from concentrated thought the swing of the music'srise 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 hisinstrument. Streaming through the windows behind him the cunningsunshine lit the brown of his hair to a red-gold. She had never seenjust 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 theair 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 wassilence. Her thoughts, or that brief glance--Apollo was a god, good tolook upon--had so warmed her cheeks that the refrain of the Triolet wasalmost justified. The lines of anxious care were smoothed from theforehead, and the half-smile of the new-drawn Cupid's bow was a littletremulous. A sudden determination moved La Mothe. Never had he seenher so gracious, so womanly, so completely the one sweet woman in allthe world. Pushing the lute aside, he leaned forward. 

"Mademoiselle, " he began earnestly, "do you remember ten days ago Isaid there was a question I would dare to ask you when you knew mebetter?"

"I remember, " she said, turning a little from him that the light mightnot fall upon her face to betray her. She said she remembered, but thetruth was that in the tumult of her thoughts the recollection wasvague. "Yes, I think I know you better. "

"It is a very bold question, and one which might well offend. And yetyou know I would not willingly offend you?"

"Yes, I am sure of that. " The rustling of the lawn and laces on herbreast was a little more tempestuous, but the voice was very level, very quiet. As to Stephen La Mothe, he felt that earth and sun andstars 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 wordsat all. But you forgive me in advance?"

At that she smiled a little. She did not think there would be muchneed for pardon. Was there any question Apollo--Stephen La Mothe, thatis--might not ask? She knew now why these ten days had been thehappiest of her life. 

"Yes, Monsieur La Mothe, you are forgiven beforehand. "

"Then--is there any plot in Amboise against the King? From you asimple 'no' is enough. I ask no proof, a simple word, nothing more. "

Unconsciously he had forced a pleading into his voice, an urging, as ifit was not so much the truth he sought as a denial at all costs; but asshe turned in her chair, rising as she turned so that she looked downupon him, he broke off. It would have taken a much bolder man thanStephen La Mothe to have maintained his covert accusation--and whatelse was it?--in the face of the angry surprise which needed noexpression in words. 

"Was that your question? You have spied upon us all thesedays--suspected us--accused us in your thoughts? You have pretendedfriendship, devotion--God knows what monstrous lie--and all the whileyou 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 theirKing, nor teach sons to revolt against their fathers. "

"Mademoiselle----" he began. 

But not even the scornful indignation vouchsafed him a second glance asshe swept past him without a word. At the door she paused and, halfturning, looked back across her shoulder, a spot of scarlet on eithercheek. 

"I had forgotten my message. I had already told Jean Saxe, in case Ifailed to find you. The Dauphin bids you join him at the Burnt Mill atthree 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, sinceI must be of the party. "

"But, Mademoiselle----"

He spoke to an empty room, and if Ursula de Vesc closed the doorbetween them with a greater vigour than the politeness strictdeportment demanded she may surely be excused. It may be that even theangels 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 hewere 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 andthe shock bewildered him. She had been so gracious, so very sweet andgracious. He had been forgiven in advance; why such bitter offence? Asingle word was all he had asked--one little word. Then he flushed allover with a peculiar pricking sensation down the spine. Could it bethat she expected a very different question; one whose answer mighthave been a Yes? If that were so--but it was absurd, and he calledhimself many hard names for having such an idea a single moment. Tohave thought such a thought of Ursula de Vesc was as preposterous assaying 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 yearsbefore Stephen La Mothe gave himself the heartache over his misreadingsof the most read chapter in the book of nature, there stood upon thebanks of the Loire, about a mile from Amboise, the flour mill of oneJean Calvet. For six generations it had passed from a Calvet to aCalvet, son succeeding father as Amurath an Amurath, and the MoulinFlèche d'Or was as well known to the countryside as Amboise itself. The kirkyard or the grinding stones; humanity must needs find its wayto both. 

When harvests were fat, and corn plentiful, its stones hummed fromdaylight to dark to the blent music of the creaking wheel and thesplash-splash of the water which drove it. In lean years, when war orfamine was abroad, and thanks to England these years were not few, thesluice was lifted, and in place of the hoarse murmur and complaint ofthe grinding stones and lumbering wheel there was the soft purr of themillrace, and the Calvet of his generation lived, like a turtle, on hisown fat, waiting for better days. And sooner or later these alwayscame, 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 theformer that life is strengthened. Then came a day which brought an endto more than the prosperity of Jean Calvet the sixth. 

Some clocks wear out, running down with little spurts of life andlonger intervals of dumbness; others end with a sudden crashing of thependulum while in its full swing, and a wild, convulsive whirr of thejarred wheels. One moment the sober tick tells that all is well, thenext--silence. So was it with Calvet's mill. 

In the fortune, or misfortune, of war an Englishman, one Sir JohnStone, riding that way with his band of marauders, little better thanlicensed brigands, found Amboise too tough a nut for his teeth, andharried the Calvets in pure wantonness. Over the tree-tops thegarrison of Amboise could see the smoke of the burning, but they weretoo weak to venture succour. 

Calvet must fend for himself lest Calvet and Amboise both end in theone ruin. There was little defence, but that little was grimly inearnest and yet more grim the revenge of the attack. For thatgeneration both pity and mercy had fled France. Jean Calvet theyounger, he who should have been the seventh of his line, was coursedin the open like a hare, but turned at the last and died at bay as awolf dies. Behind the barred door were Jean the sixth, his two youngersons, 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 narrowupper windows. All that rage, desperation, and hate could do was done, and when the door fell in with a crash Jean the younger had beenavenged four times over. John Stone took as little by his wantonnessas he deserved. 

Then came the end. There was a rush up the stone stairway, a briefstruggle to gain the upper level, a minute's surging back and forth, abriefer, fiercer fury of strife among the cranks and meal-bags, a fewrough oaths, a woman's scream, and then silence, or what by contrastpassed for silence, since the sudden quiet was only broken by deepbreathing and the sucking of air into dry throats. England had gainedan ignoble victory. 

Fire followed as naturally as the spark follows the jar of flint andsteel, and with a hundred and fifty years to dry its beams, itscobwebbed walls hung with mouldy dust from the grinding of as manyharvests, its complex wooden troughs and grain-shoots parched totinder, the old mill was a ready prey. All that could burn burnt likea pile of dry shavings. But the walls, the stairway, and the upperfloor were of stone, and stood; and but for one thing the peace whichfollowed the coming of the Maid might have set the waterwheel creakingafresh. That one thing, typical of the times, forbade the thought. When the men of Amboise cleared away the rubbish they found the bonesof Jean Calvet the sixth piled in a grim derision upon his ownmillstones, and so these stones never turned again. Who could eatbread of their making?

But the blackened shell was one of the Dauphin's favourite haunts, norcould a better stage for one of those plays of make-believe which hadcalled down the old King's bitter irony have been well devised. So faras possible the mill had been restored to its old condition. Therubbish had been cleared from the ancient watercourse; the tough oldwheel, freed from the weeds and soil which bound it, was set running asin the past, and a palisade of stout pickets erected to fence out thecurious. The side furthest from the roadway, with its clumps ofhazels, 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 ofRoncesvalles, or the Maid herself win back to France the crown theboy's forefather had lost. 

But, dearer even than these, he best loved to reproduce in little thetragedy which had laid the mill desolate, and it was La Mothe'sparticipation in that mock combat which had aroused Commines' contempt. What boy of imagination has not revelled in such sport, living aglorious hour beyond his age? And not a few of every nation have, intheir turn, made the glory real at the call of the country that theblood of new generations may take fire. And Stephen La Mothe saw noshame in such a play; saw, rather, a stimulus and an uplifting whoseeffects might not altogether pass away when the play ended. So he wasFrance or England as the Dauphin bade him, and by turns died valiantlyor fought victoriously. 

But chiefly, and to La Mothe it had its significance, the Dauphinplayed 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 ofthe boy's deeper nature that he would rather die for France than livefor England. So would it have been the afternoon of the day La Mothehad followed his own course to his own disaster had not Charles oncemore proved the truth of Villon's observation. The dull eyes saw morethan men supposed. 

"You and Ursula have quarrelled, " he said, with all a boy's blunt powerof making the truth a terror. "All the way from Amboise you have notspoken a word to each other; and you will quarrel still more if I shutyou 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 senseof humour was rarely a Valois characteristic. "No, I am wrong. Do yoube Calvet; I want a real battle to-day, and you will fight all thebetter with Ursula looking on. " As for Ursula de Vesc, she drew herskirts together and ran up the unprotected flight of stairs humming anair--not Stephen La Mothe's triolet, you may be sure--as if she had nota care in the world. 

So the forces arrayed themselves, Charles and the two lads from thestables 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 givethe alarm and then retreat to the upper floor where La Follette andHugues were posted. La Follette, who had been a lover in his day, would have kept watch below and taken Hugues with him, but Ursula deVesc, in the upper room, told them tartly that the Dauphin would bedispleased if the usual plan were departed from, and so, in no veryplayful humour any of them, they waited the attack. 

Presently it came. Out from his ambush, a hundred yards away, racedthe Dauphin, Marcel and Blaise at his heels, their stout wooden swordsbared for the grim work of slaughter. "The English! the English!"shouted La Mothe. "Frenchmen, the enemy are upon us!" But as heturned to gain the upper floor there came a cry which was not part ofthe play, a cry of fear and despairing rage, "The Dauphin! the Dauphin!Monsieur La Mothe, save the Dauphin, " and midway on the stairs Huguesdashed past him. 

"Hugues, what is it?"

"An ambush. The Dauphin; they will murder the Dauphin----" and Hugueswas through the doorway with La Mothe and La Follette following, andUrsula de Vesc, white and trembling, at the stair-head, more insurprise than any realization of danger. But only for an instant, thenshe ran to the narrow window where Hugues had waited, watching. 

Midway from their hiding-place, confused by the sudden outcry, stoodthe Dauphin and the two lads, and towards them ran Hugues with all hisspeed, La Mothe not far behind. La Follette waited at the door, uncertain and bewildered. But from a further covert, the thicket ofmore distant alder, a troop of ten or a dozen horsemen had burst, galloping at the charge, nor could there be any doubt of their sinisterpurpose. It was a race for the boy, with the greater distance toneutralize the greater speed, but they rode desperately, recklessly, asmen 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 moreactive, reached the group. "Out of the way, fools, " he gasped, shouldering the stable lads aside; then to La Mothe, "Take the otherarm, " and again there was a race of desperation, but this time with themill as the goal. Nearer and nearer thundered the hoofs, out from hisscattered following forged their leader, his spurs red to the heel, histeeth set hard in the shadow of the mask which hid his face. "Faster, for God's sake faster, " groaned Hugues, "Faster, faster, " shouted LaFollette 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 intothe other that the fingers cramped. Then the chase passed out ofsight, 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 wasas little mockery in the tragedy. Beyond the doorway she heard a"Thank God!" from La Follette, then shadows darkened it, and theDauphin was thrust in, staggering. On the instant La Follettefollowed, paused, glancing backward as if in hesitation. But one dutywas imperative. Catching the boy in his arms, he half carried, halfforced him up the stairway, while in the open space below La Mothe andHugues, letting Blaise and Marcel slip between them, turned side byside to face whatever was without. What that was she knew, and as shewatched him in the gap an instant, before hastening to the Dauphin'said, the girl's heart went out to Stephen La Mothe in the agony of abitter repentance. If death pays all debts surely the darkening of theshadows 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 fieryinstants which try a man's nerve rather than his courage. For themoment the Dauphin was saved. But they had no illusions. It was onlyfor the moment, and both knew that in the moment to follow the dangerwould 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? Themasked scoundrel who, panting with the rage of disappointment, facedthem three yards away, one hand still gripping the reins of the horseby whose head he stood, the other a naked sword, had his half-score ofcut-throats behind him, and could afford to leave no witness to hisoutrage. 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 hisdespair had not Hugues forced him to keep his place. 

"Not yet, " he whispered. "Wait; perhaps--later----" and the moment ofpossibility 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 usthe Dauphin. We are a dozen, you only three or four. We are sure tohave 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 pausedto ask himself why Hugues should so classify a hedge minstrel of theDuchy of Lackeverything. "It is a fine thing, no doubt, to die foryour honour, but what have I to do with honour? Life is life. Theboy, on what terms?"

"Your lives. And you gain nothing by refusing. The boy is ours in anycase. "

"Never, " said La Mothe, struggling to shake off the restraining handthat pinned him, helpless, half behind the doorpost. "Never while Ilive. "

"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 youwill ruin us all. "

"Three minutes? Play me no tricks, my man. "

"But, monsieur, " and Hugues' voice was a whine as he spoke. "Whattrick is possible? You are a dozen, we three or four. And are we notcaught like rats in a pit?"

"Like rats! You have said the word! Take your three minutes, rat, anddon't forget that like rats we'll kill you. "

Urging his point vehemently, pleadingly, and with every plausibleargument at his command, but never slackening his grip, Hugues drew LaMothe a yard or two into the blackened ruin. There he held him with awary eye to a possible surprise. Blaise and Marcel were on the upperfloor and only La Follette was in sight, standing guard at thestair-head. 

"Listen, " he said. "Monseigneur is dearer to me than to you. Do youthink I would give up one hair of him while I live, I, who sleep at hisdoor of nights? Never, not one hair! But between us we may save himyet. Shake your head, curse me for a coward, for a scoundrel, try tothrow me off, strike me if you like. Yes, yes, " he insisted, raisinghis voice, "it is our lives; why lose our lives for nothing?" Then, ina whisper, "They will give the alarm from the fields; it is only a mileto 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 Mothewith a hand which aped persuasion. The words had a double meaning andheld La Follette quiet, La Follette who might have ruined all throughincomprehension. "You know the bench where Mademoiselle sits to watchthe play? When I cry Now! rush up and fling it across the gap of thestair-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 forlife, 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 unanswerableargument; he loved him best, and love had the right to die for love'ssake. "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! Isay, Now!"

"I have a sword----"

But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel dropped by Marcel in hisflight 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, onewooden sword against a dozen of steel. 

"Bravo, Hugues, " cried La Follette from above. "Hold the scoundrelswhile 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 wayand that, uncertain, drawn to the one man who stood alone against suchodds, yet knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make Hugues'sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the stairs; but not beforethe doorway was darkened; not before he heard the dull clash of steelupon wood; not before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that theoffering 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 hisbare hands, with his very breast, they could only guess when he wasfound later with the staff in splinters, his palms and arms hacked andgashed, his bosom agape with dumb mouths which told their tale of loveand splendid courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all hiswounds in front; he died for loyalty, for love's sake, giving his lifewithout a grudge. Could a Roland or a Charlemagne have done more?

Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, dragging him up the lastthree stairs, "Draw, man, draw, we will fight them here. " But La Motheshook him off. 

"This first, " he said, and catching up the broad, unbacked bench whichday 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 hecould 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 hadleisure to look round him. In the background were Blaise andMarcel--barehanded, silent, helpless. The younger, Marcel, was cryingopenly but dumbly, the tears running unheeded and unwiped down hischeeks; the other, dogged and dour, with teeth and fists clenched, wasof braver stuff, a fighter, but without a weapon. Midway, stillexhausted from his flight, Charles lay on his elbow, propped againstUrsula de Vesc, who stooped above him with one arm round his shouldersas support. The boy's long narrow face was paler beyond his naturalpallor, but his mouth was firm-set, his eyes bright and dry. Thegirl's features were hidden, and Stephen La Mothe was not sure whetherhe was glad or sorry. To have read coldness or reproach in her eyes atsuch a time would have been bitter indeed. 

It was but a glance, then La Follette touched his arm. Down belowthere was no longer the rasp of steel on wood. Hugues was fighting nowbarehanded, but he had been better than his word--the three minutes hadbeen prolonged to four. Then came a cry, "Ah, God!" and La Mothe heardUrsula 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 seeanything but the pain in the grey eyes. A rush of feet on the stairscalled 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 ormore wide at either edge, opening the way for attack. 

But the rush ceased almost as soon as it began. This new obstacle wasunlooked for, and between the slits those above could see the savagelypassionate faces of the besiegers staring up at them. Then one, bolderor 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 showsitself, " and thrust blindly upwards. It was their first sight of baresteel, and Ursula de Vesc drew in her breath with a shiver as she sawthe red smear upon its flat. "Oh! Hugues, Hugues, " she moaned, andthe Dauphin, catching at her hand with both his, shrank closer. 

"Damnation!" cried La Mothe, striking fiercely at the blade as itdarted from side to side or sawed back and forth. But when he wouldhave 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 stephigher. But when he struck afresh La Follette, lunging aslant anddownwards, caught him below the wrist. With a curse he let the bladefall clattering, and there was a pause. But if he were bolder, thosebehind had not been idle. A voice from the background cried out toclear the steps, and before those above understood the altered tacticsa picket, drawn from the palisade, was thrust between the bench and thewall. It was La Follette who first grasped the danger. 

"Blaise--Marcel!" he cried. "Here on the bench both of you and hold itdown. "

But only one answered the call. Marcel was on his knees in the cornerpraying for the miracle which should be his own handiwork, not thefirst man nor the last who has called on God to bear the burden his ownshoulder 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'sstrength, driving the bench aslant till its end dipped and it fell witha crash, scattering those below, but with little hurt. The way wasopen, 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 Iwon't die like a rat, I won't, I won't. " It was the cry of primitivenature and the Dauphin answered it. 

"Here, " said he, rising on his knees as he unbuckled his own smallsword. "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 Ican do?"

"Nothing, mademoiselle, " he answered, and turning met her eyes with asmile. He knew he was forgiven, and thanked Hugues in his heart thathe 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, andnow, in the paradox of nature, because of that comfort it would not beso hard to follow him. 

But if to die comforted would be less hard, there was something muchmore than comfort to live for, and to La Mothe the odds did not seemutterly hopeless. Three resolute men could surely hold the well holetill succour came. Resolute? Much more than resolute--desperate. Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. Had he not the best causethe world holds to be resolute to desperation? Hugues had died forlove'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 roughlaughter and rougher words, words which made Stephen La Mothe's bloodgrow hot and his nerves tingle as, gritting his teeth, he stamped hisfeet so that the girl might not hear them also. Resolute? Desperate?Yes, much more than resolute, much more than desperate, and with muchmore than a man's life to be lost. And all were of one mind. Follettehe was sure of, and at his right Blaise, the stable-lad, panted inshort breaths, swinging his unaccustomed weapon softly. "Damn them!"La Mothe heard him say. "Will they never come?" and when the nineminutes had crawled to twelve they came. 

But not with a rush, not as those above had reckoned. The siege hadgrown cautious. This time there was a system. Up, on the very edge ofthe steps, broad, wide, and shallow for the easier carrying of heavyloads upon the back, came the two with the palisades, up, until thepickets were a full yard through the well-hole, but with those who heldthem out of reach, and with a shout, the wood rasping the ancientflagging, 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 feeton the stones, a glimmer in the half obscurity, and behind the picketsthe 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 aninstant, an act concurrent with his cry, but when he straightenedhimself a picket had dropped into the gloom, and he who held it layupon it, coughing and choking. "Rats!" said Blaise, slashing viciouslyat the blade nearest him. "Dieu! but the rat bit the cur dog thattime! Come on, you curs. "

And the rats had need to bite. The well-hole was double-lined; thosein front fought upward, while those behind protected them and stole astep higher if the defence slackened. Nice play of fence there wasnone. In such a packed confusion the brute strength of Blaise thestableman counted for more than the finest skill of fence in the world. And with the brute's strength he seemed to have the brute'sindifference to pain. Twice, stooping low, he parried with his arm, taking the slash with a gasp but thrusting as he took it, and eachthrust struck home. But those behind filled the gaps, those belowpressed upward stair by stair, and La Mothe, breathless, but without ascratch, knew what it was to be blood-drunken as the din of steelfilled his ears and he saw the flushed and staring faces opposite riseminute by minute more level with his own. The three were doing all mencould 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 hisdrunkenness he dashed a thrust aside as Blaise had done, stabbed asBlaise had stabbed, and laughed drunkenly that he had sent a soul toits Maker with all the passions of lust and murder hot upon it; buthappier than Blaise he took no hurt. 

"Mademoiselle, " said La Follette without turning his head, and speakingsoftly to save his breath, "go you and Monseigneur to the corner behindme, " and La Mothe knew that he too saw the coming of the end. There inthe corner, with Love and France behind them, they would make theirlast stand. 

"I have Monseigneur's dagger, " she answered. Again La Mothe understoodthe inference left unspoken, understood that she as well as he hadheard the brutal jests which had set his blood boiling. That she hadthe dagger was a comfort; but what a splendid courage was hers. Marcelhad even ceased to pray. 

For very life's sake La Mothe dared abate the vigilance of neither eyenor hand, and yet by instinct--there was no sound--he knew they hadrisen to obey. By instinct, too, he knew that Ursula de Vesc had drawnnearer, and it was no surprise to hear her voice behind him. But itwas not to him she spoke. 

"Now, Blaise, thrust, thrust!"

There was a rip of torn cloth, a flutter in the air--the flutter as ofa bird on the wing--an upturned point was caught in a tangle of whitelinen, and through the tangle Blaise rammed his sword-blade almost tothe hilt and laughed, panting. 

"Rats!" he cried, tugging his arm backwards with a horrible jerk. "Goto your hole, cur!" and more blood-drunken even than La Mothe he brokeinto 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 someuse of him; it's all he's fit for. "

But the gap was filled; there were two on the top-most step, and LaFollette, 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 chestlaboured heavily. "Be ready, Blaise. "

"Ready, " answered La Mothe, saving his breath. His heart was verybitter. The twelve minutes were seventeen, succour could not be faroff, but the end had come. "Do you hear, Blaise?"

But Blaise was past hearing. While he fought with his right his maimedleft hand, cut to the bones, had torn his smock open from the throat, and the hairy chest, smeared with his blood, glistened in broad dropsfrom the sweat of his labours. In such a hilt-to-hilt struggle hisignorance was almost an advantage. He had nothing to unlearn, no rulesof fence to disregard, and his peasant's strength of arm whirled asidean attack with a paralyzing power impossible to any skill. Right, left, downward swept the blade, his knees and hips half bent as heleaned forward, crouching, his left arm swinging as he swayed. Right, left, downward, his blood-drunkenness growing in savage abandonmentwith every minute. Yes, he was ready--ready in his own way--but pasthearing. 

"Damn the English, " was his answer to La Mothe, his mind back in thefifty-year-old tragedy. The play was no make-believe, and he wasMichel Calvet, son to Jean the sixth, the Michel whose elder brotherhad been coursed like a hare and killed in the open. Then his songrose 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 heswept aside the opposing points, drew a choking breath, crouched lower, and, with the Dauphin's sword at the charge, he flung himself into thegap breast-forward, missed his thrust, splintered the blade against thewall, and with a wild clutch drew all within reach into his grip. Foran 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 Vesccry, "Oh God! pity him!" in a sob. But he dared not turn, his ownblood-drunkenness fired him to the finger-tips and he lunged furiously, getting home a stroke above a point lowered in the surprise. Againthere was a rush of iron-shod feet upon the stones, but a rushdownward, a moment's pause below, a crossing babel of passionate, clamouring voices, insistence, denial, and yet more denial, then asilence--or what seemed a silence--a few hoarse whispers and a cry ortwo of pain. Yes, the end had come. In the corner stood the Dauphinand, half in front, Ursula de Vesc, her arm stretched out across hisbreast in the old attitude of protection. Marcel lay beside them in afaint. 

"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 almostdied for you?"

"Hugues loved me, " he answered, and at the bitter pathos of the replyLa Mothe forgot the ingratitude. There were so few who loved him. Butthe girl could not forget. 

"Monsieur La Follette, Monsieur La Mothe, " she began, but broke offwith a cry. "Oh, Monsieur La Follette, you are wounded? What can Ido? Words can come afterwards, and all my life I will remember, all mylife. Are you dreadfully hurt? Can I not do something?" But thoughshe spoke to La Follette her eyes, after the first glance, were busysearching Stephen La Mothe for just such an ominous stain as showed inbrown patches upon La Follette. But there was none. Breathless, dishevelled, his clothing slashed, he was without a scratch, and thestrained anxiety faded from her face. 

"I can wait, " answered La Follette, "we must get the Dauphin to theChâteau. La Mothe, see if they are gone, " and he glanced significantlydown the stairway. La Follette knew something of war, and there mustbe sights below it were better Ursula de Vesc should not see lest theyhaunt 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 wantHugues. "

"And Blaise?"

"Oh! Blaise!" He broke into a discordant laugh. "I told him to be aman and, my faith! he was one. Do you think, Ursula, that Father Johnwill ask my thoughts a second time?"

CHAPTER XXI

DENOUNCED

"It was an epic, " said Villon, "a veritable epic, and if you were trulythe Homer I called you half the towns in France would claim you for acitizen. As it is you have only been born twice, once in--where wasit? No matter, it is of very little importance; it is the second thatreally counts, and that second birthplace is--Amboise. A man's soul isborn of a woman just as his body is. And a man's soul is love. Untillove comes he is a lumpish mass of so much flesh without even a sparkof the divine. "

"Then you, " said La Mothe gravely, "have seen many incarnations?"

"Many!"--and Villon's eyes twinkled--"but with each one the pangs ofbirth 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 theFirst: Hugues!" He broke off, shaking his head soberly, every trace ofhis humorous mood gone. "Poor devil of a Hugues! Francois Villon, whomade verses, will be remembered, and Hugues, who made history, forgotten. Why cannot I write epics that we might both be rememberedtogether? But no! a tinkle of rhyme leavened with human nature andsalted by much bitter experience--that is Francois Villon! I know mylimitations. 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 behard upon us. Now, then. Book the Second: Martlets andMullets--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 tospoil his work. Heaven knows I do not love Tristan, but I will givehim this credit: when he sets out on a piece of scoundrelly work hecarries it through. No, no, I'll wager my Grand Testament to theepic--which will never be written--that it was Molembrais' second castof the net, and when he drags Amboise a third time there will be fishcaught. What's more, La Mothe, there is a traitor in Amboise--atraitor 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 deadwere there?"

"Four. "

"And Blaise, the stableman, has two at the least, if not three, to hiscredit. When Charles is king--pray heaven Louis does not hear me atValmy--he should make Blaise, the stableman, a Marshal of France, orperhaps Master of the Horse would suit him better, " and Villon chuckledgleefully. He had always a huge appreciation of his own wit, howeverslender. "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 worsethan 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 allking'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 ofthe day on which Hugues had made history to be forgotten, wasthickening fast, but the air was still warm with all the sultriness ofnoon. To that confined space, with the grey walls towering on threesides, coolness came slowly. The solid masonry held the heat like theliving rock itself, and no current of the night wind blowing overheadeddied downward in refreshment. 

But solid as was the masonry, and mighty the walls in their frowningstrength, there is but little of them left, and of the rose garden nota trace. Time, the great iconoclast, has touched them with his fingerand they have passed away like the humble maker of history, whileFrancois Villon's tinkle of rhyme, leavened with human nature, stillleaves its imprint on a whole nation. Perhaps the reason is that themakers of history could have been done without. In these generationsthe world would be little the worse, little changed had they never beenborn, and have lost nothing of the joy or brightness of life. In hisown generation the patriot is more necessary than the poet, but letfour centuries pass and the poet will wield a larger influence than thepatriot. 

But thick as was the dusk, a dusk thicker than the actual degree ofnight because of the prevailing shadow, La Mothe saw that Commines wasdisturbed by an unwonted excitement. Not from his face. It was deeplylined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, the mouthharsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man breathes who has outrun hislung power, and his uneasy fingers clenched and unclenched incessantly. Those who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs and grewwatchful. But it was upon Villon that the storm fell. 

"For an hour I have been searching for you--in the Château, in theChien 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. "Youlodge at the Chien Noir?"

"It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and I can commend to youits wine of '63. Monsieur La Mothe drinks nothing else. "

"As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make many. But I am nothere to talk of Monsieur La Mothe's drinking bouts, though they explainmuch. 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, curethyself. ' What did I tell you, Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutesare 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 tokeep 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. Whyare you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme ishatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grownbesotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free handin Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child'splay--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand acrossLa Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, andthe cold severity passed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don'tthink I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank Godyou are safe, I thank God he has given me back my son Stephen; but whatam I to say to the King?"

"Ho! ho!" said Villon; "so it is son Stephen nowadays? Then the playis almost played out?"

"Most of all I blame you, " and Commines, his arm still round La Mothe'sshoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of passion. "How is ityou are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure theKing 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 himwhat 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 itis 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 inthe hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mindwilling to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexedanger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error, first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen LaMothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened. 

"Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interesthave 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 himselfdrunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman forher own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprangforward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs youwould cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes shehas philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songstill 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 himin the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patchof grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good asthese lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieurd'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc. "

"Good boy, " said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat atthe feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could nothave said it better myself. "

But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this veryunreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation. Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, aword or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, alittle sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a damningreality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such anamplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel wouldserve no good purpose. 

"Words, Stephen, " he said more gently, "mere words, and what arerhetoric and declamation against proofs?"

"Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly. 

Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the groundslipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "Sofar 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 atits very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeksago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It wasthe very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. TheKing is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In hissick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judgingafterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for nocause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances, and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follownext. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some onemust act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle deVesc. That was weeks ago, and you, " again Commines turned upon Villonin 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 theChâteau, but at its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it JeanSaxe, 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, wasthat Jean Saxe? A traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who elsecould it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave Molembrais his chanceten 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 Saxein league against the boy? Uncle, you are mad and your proof provestoo much. If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursulade Vesc's No! against him. "

"Good boy, " repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, to the world atlarge. "The very first time I saw him I said he was the image ofmyself. Monsieur d'Argenton, what is Jean Saxe's story?"

"That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalfof the Dauphin, but vaguely at first. There was great discontent, saidHugues, and greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteedthough he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking who was secureif once the King had determined on his destruction. Even loyalty wasno safeguard. In the King's sick suspicion his most faithful servantsmight be the first to suffer. Not a day passed but there was ahanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both high and low. For aman 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, twodays ago, Hugues spoke a second time, urging Saxe to a decision. Ifthe Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, all Francewould say, Thank God! The generous nature of the boy was well known. There would be rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him topromise----"

But La Mothe could control himself no longer. Through Commines'indictment, coldly, almost phlegmatically delivered, he stoodmotionless and silent, his hands clenched, every muscle tense withrestraint. It was the fighting attitude, the attitude of a man whowaits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but a blow which willsurely 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 evenCommines' 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 knowSaxe 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 keptthe little wine shop at the corner of----"

"Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxehad 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 hisown 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'sminister, " he added, and turned to La Mothe. "Were I you I would setthem 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 shouldbe killed overnight. Lies breed fast and die hard. "

"But she may refuse. "

"If I know women, " said Villon, "Mademoiselle de Vesc will refuse younothing. "

CHAPTER XXII

"WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER"

But while Stephen La Mothe still hesitated Commines took action. Herecognized that sooner or later there must be a confronting. Ursula deVesc, however deeply implicated, was no patient Griselda to acceptjudgment without a protest. Tacit admission would condemn the Dauphinequally with herself, and she might be trusted to fight for the Dauphinwith every wile and subterfuge open to a desperate woman. In hernatural attitude of indignation she would certainly force a crisis. The sooner the crisis came the better, and amongst those for whom thatwas better Philip de Commines was not the least. With all his heart heloathed the part he was compelled to play, even while determined toplay it to its ghastly end. But to some men, Commines amongst them, the irrevocable brings a drugging of the sensibilities. When thatwhich must be done could not be undone he would be at peace. 

The sooner the crisis came the better, too, for Stephen La Mothe, andCommines' sympathies went out to him with an unwonted tenderness. Thelad's nerves were flayed raw, and for him also there could be no peaceuntil the inevitable end had come. But just what that end would be, and how it was to be reached, Commines feared to discuss even withhimself. 

But the first necessity was that Ursula de Vesc's complicity should bebrought home to her. Let that be done, and La Mothe's despair mightclear aside all difficulties, though, without doubt, the poor boy wouldsuffer. There is no such pain as when love dies in the full glory ofits strength. But then would come the ministrations of Time, thehealer. Mother Nature of the rough hand and tender heart would scarthe hurt, and little by little its agony would numb into a passivesubmission. 

It was a truth he had proved. Suzanne's death had been as the pluckingout of the very roots of life. In that first tremendous realization ofloss there had been no place left for even God Himself. But that hadpassed. The All-Merciful has placed bounds on the tide of humansuffering: Thus far shalt thou go, and no further. The maimed roots oflife had budded afresh, and if no flower of love had shed its fragranceto bless the days, there had been peace. So would it be with StephenLa Mothe. But the Valley of Tribulation must first be crossed, and itwould be the mercy of kindness to shorten the passage, even though theplunge into its shadows was the more swift. For that there must beconviction, 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 withyou. Hugues is dead, the Dauphin too high above us, but Mademoisellede Vesc has the right to know the peril she stands in. Will you do usall a kindness and bring Jean Saxe to the Château? Monsieur La Motheand I will----" he paused, searching for a word which would beconclusive and yet without offence, "will summon Mademoiselle de Vesc. "

"It is an outrage, " said La Mothe stubbornly, "and I protest againstit, protest utterly. "

"Stephen, try and understand, " and Commines laid his hand upon theyounger man's shoulder with something more than the persuasive appealof the father who, to his sorrow, is at variance with the son of hislove. It was the gesture of the friend, the equal, the elder inauthority who might command but elects to reason. "Consider myposition a moment. By the King's command I stand in his place inAmboise. If he were here----"

"God forbid!" said Villon. "The King is like heaven--dearly loved afaroff. "

"But his justice is here----"

"And his mercy?"

"And his mercy, " repeated Commines coldly, "the mercy that gave youlife when justice would have hung you as a rogue and a thief. Of allmen you are the last who should sneer at the King's mercy. And nowwill 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 Comminesheld him fast. His faith was unshaken, but the natural reaction fromthe day's tense emotion had sapped its buoyancy, leaving it negativeand inert rather than positive and aggressive. The half-hour'sslackless concentration of nerve and muscle in the defence of thestairway had drained him of strength and energy like the crisis of afever. For him Ursula de Vesc's curt No! stood against the world; butPhilip de Commines was the King's justice in Amboise, and against JeanSaxe's accusation her denial would carry no weight--no weight at all. But, though the gesture was one of helplessness, Villon chose toconstrue it into consent. 

"Good!" he said cordially, "it is best, much the best. In half an hourI will bring Saxe to--let me see, the Hercules room, I think, Monsieurd'Argenton? It is small, but large enough for the purpose, and as ithas 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 thefirst time in his life, felt kindly disposed towards Commines as he sawhis evident solicitude for La Mothe, but that was forgotten in thecontemptuous recall of a past he held should no longer rise againsthim. What the King forgave the King's minister should forget. Thethrust had wounded his vanity, and now, as he saw his opening, hepromptly 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 willbe no publicity. Monsieur La Mothe, he calls you son; but friend ismore than kin, more than family, remember that Francois Villon says so. "

Commines' answer was an upward shake of the head, a lifting of theshoulders hardly perceptible in the darkness. 

"It is the nature of curs to snarl, " he said. "But his impertinencegrows insufferable and must be muzzled. " Linking his arm into LaMothe's he drew him slowly along the garden path. Both werepreoccupied by the same desire, to win the other to his own way ofthinking, but it was the more cautious elder who spoke first. He wouldappeal to the very affection Villon had gibed at. 

"Stephen, dear lad, with all my heart I grieve for you. Would to Godit were anything but this. Mademoiselle de Vesc has always opposed me, but that is nothing; has always striven to thwart me, but for your sakethat could be forgotten; has always flouted and belittled me, but foryour sake that could be forgiven. You are as the son of my love, andwhat is there that love will not forgive--will not forget? These weighnothing, nothing at all. In the face of this--this--tremendous crimeagainst the King, against all France, I count them nothing, less thannothing. Dear lad, you must be brave. This worthless woman----"

"No, Uncle, no, not that, never that!" La Mothe's voice was as leveland quiet as Commines' own, and the elder knew thereby that hisdifficulty was the greater. Quietness is always strong, always assuredof 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 littlewho it was. It is the fact that damns, and Saxe is explicit. And howcan Villon be sure it was not Hugues?"

"Uncle, Uncle, you can't believe it, in your heart you can't believeit. All these days you have seen her, so gracious, so gentle, sowomanly. 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 Kinghas 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 inher, but even though she were all Saxe says, and more, I would stand byher 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 afew paces away, halted, turned again and faced La Mothe. 

"Poor lad, and I have no alternative. The King and my duty alike allowme none. Stephen, in self-defence I must be frank with you. It is myfirm 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 alie; 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 admitthat Saxe lies. "

"And what then?"

Again Commines turned away. Humanity's Iron Age was as stern, asselfish, as callous, as cruel as in the days of Attila the Hun. Christianity, after its almost fifteen centuries, had no more than, asit were, warmed it through with its gentle fires. There was as yet nosoftening. It was true that some increasing flowers of civilizationobscured the brutality, some decorations of art glorified it, butunderneath the beauty and the art the native ruthlessness remainedunchanged. Might founded a throne upon the ruin of weaker nations, cemented its strength with the blood of innocence, set the crown uponits own head, and reigned in arrogant defiance of right or justice. 

From the barbarous Muscovite in the north to the polished Spaniard inthe south the conditions scarcely varied. Everywhere there was thesame spirit. A Louis pushed wide the borders of France by theft andthe law of the stronger arm, a Ferdinand offered up his holocaust tothe greater glory of God, a Philip yet to come would steep theNetherlands in blood to the very dikes that the same God might beworshipped in violation of the worshipper's conscience, in England aCrookback Richard had neither pity nor scruple when a crown was thereward 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 warupon Florence and Ferrara in the name of the Prince of Peace, while thesinister figure of Alexander Borgia sat upon the steps of the Papalthrone biding its time. If the meek inherited the earth, it wascommonly a territory six feet long and two in breadth. Everywhere theancient rule was still the modern plan: those took who had the power, and those kept who could. There were exceptions, but exceptions wererare. Even at the Round Table there was only one Galahad. 

Commines did not differ greatly from his age, or he would have been nofit minister for Louis. A tool is no longer a tool if it is notobedient to the hand which guides it. Let it fail in the work set itto 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 playedit at all. Ursula de Vesc might have lived out her life in peace sofar 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 thatSaxe made it possible so to do, and yet hold a semblance of justice. Only through her could the Dauphin be reached, therefore Comminessteeled his nerves. 

But to Stephen, partly for his own sake, and yet more for the memory ofthe dear dead woman, his heart went out in a greater tenderness thanthat of cold sympathy. Human love in the individual has been the saltwhich has kept the body politic from utter rottenness. How to softenthe blow to Stephen was his thought as he paced slowly through the cooldarkness of the night: how to do more than that, how to link Stephen tohis own fortunes, which would surely rise after the successfulexecution of this commission of tragedy. Slowly he paced into thedarkness, turned, and paced as slowly back again, to find Stephenstanding motionless where he had left him, his hands linked behind hisback, 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 noreply. What could he answer? To continue protesting her innocencewith nothing but his own word and hers to back the assertion was butbeating the air; to ask, How shall we save her? would, he thought, tacitly admit her guilt. So there was silence until Commines went onslowly and with an evident difficulty; he would need all his diplomacy, he realized, all his powers of sophistry and persuasion if he was tocarry Stephen La Mothe with him along the path he proposed to follow. 

"Let us face facts, " he began, almost roughly. "Saxe will leave me noalternative. No! say nothing, I know it all beforehand, and with allmy soul I wish this had not fallen to my lot. And yet, Stephen, it isbetter I should be here than Tristan; Tristan has a rough way withwomen. Poor lad, that hurts you, does it? Yes, I am better thanTristan, even though Saxe leaves me no alternative. But we shall saveher together, " and this time Stephen La Mothe, out of the horror of thethought of Ursula de Vesc given over to the mercies of such a man asTristan, found it in his heart to ask, "How?" The answer camepromptly, but with grave deliberation. 

"By the King's mercy. "

"What mercy had the King on Molembrais? Will he be more merciful to awoman?"

"Then by his gratitude. Stephen, for her sake we must win the King'sgratitude 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 wasit, the voice of age rather than of youth, and, indeed, he felt as ifin this last hour he had suddenly grown so old that the world was aweariness. 

"There were three in this plot, " answered Commines, unmoved from hisslow gravity, "Hugues, the Dauphin, and Mademoiselle de Vesc. Huguesis 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 cannotsay it; his one son. "

"He has no son but France. Do you remember what I told you that nightin my room? Better the one should suffer than the many. And now thereis a double reason, a double incentive to us both. Mademoiselle deVesc's life hangs upon it. Follow the chain of reasoning, and, forGod's sake, Stephen, follow closely. There is more than the life of agirl in all this. Jean Saxe cannot be suppressed even if we daredattempt it; Francois Villon, the King's jackal, who holds his life by athread, knows everything. Of all men he dares not keep silence, of allmen he would not keep silence if he dared, scum that he is. Within twodays the King will know all Saxe's accusations, and if we do not actfor ourselves another--Tristan or another--will come in our place. Wewill have destroyed ourselves for nothing, and there will be no hopefor 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 havedone our duty to the nation, with heavy hearts and in bitter sorrow wehave done it: even though we have laid love itself on the altar ofsacrifice, we have done it, give us this one life in return'--can theKing refuse? Remember, if it is not we it will be another, and if wehave no claim to ask, there will be no life given. Nor can we have anyclaim but obedience. I see no other way, no other hope. "

The touch upon his arm was half appeal, half admonition, whollyfriendly, but La Mothe winced as he shrank from it. There are timeswhen human sympathy is the very salvation of the reason and the onecomfort possible to the bruised spirit, but now the solitary instinctof the sick animal was upon him and he longed to be alone. Somesorrows are so personal they cannot be shared. Nor was it all sorrow. There was the passion of a fierce resentment, the bitter protest ofhelpless nature against a wanton and callous outrage. 

As plainly as if Commines had said it in so many words he understoodthat, sinless or sinning, Ursula de Vesc was to be sacrificed to somestate advantage; he understood, too, that neither Commines nor the Kingcared greatly whether she was innocent or guilty, and that but for hissake 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 willsave 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 hasa way of laying aside the unpalatable in some pigeon-hole of memory; itis out of sight, not forgotten. Yes, he remembered. Then it had beenobedience to the King, service to the man to whom he owed everythingand a duty to France. Now, more tremendous than all, Ursula de Vesc'slife was thrown suddenly into the scale. That was Commines' plainstatement. Nor was he conscious of any resentment against Commines. If Jean Saxe held to his story Commines could have no alternative, andif not Commines, it would be another, another less kindly. 

No? His rebellion, the bitter upheaval of spirit, was against theconspiracy of iron circumstances which hedged him round on every side, a rebellion such as a man might feel who finds himself in silentdarkness bound hand and foot with grave-clothes, while his brain isstill quick and every nerve quivering with the passionate desire forlife. "I see no hope, " said Commines, "no hope but the one way, " andStephen La Mothe knew that one way was murder. Abruptly he turned uponhis 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 speakwith her in the Hercules room. " It was the Judge who spoke. AlreadyCommines stood in Louis' place to search, sift, find, and his tone wasas 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 colderthan his own, but after a glance at La Mothe's set face he motioned tothe 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 soyourself. 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 beblazed 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 berisked again. "

"Stephen, what do you mean?" But La Mothe, striding ahead as ifimpatient to face the issue and have done with uncertainties, returnedno answer. There could be no answer until he saw how events fell out. 

The Hercules chamber was named after the tapestry which hid the dullgrey plaster of its walls. From the one door--and that there should bebut one was unusual in an age when to provide for the strategy ofretreat was common prudence--where the infant Hero strangled withchubby hands the twin serpents sent for his destruction, the story ofhis labours told itself with all the direct simplicity of medieval art. 

No chronology was followed, the embroiderer having chosen her scenes atpleasure or as the exigencies of space demanded. Here, Samson-like, hetore the Numean lion jaw from jaw, his knee sunk in the shaggy chest, his shoulders ripped to the bone as the hooked claws gripped themuscles, his mighty torso a dripping crimson in the scheme of colour. There he cleansed the Augean stable in a faithfulness of detail moreadmirable in its approach to nature than its appeal to thesensibilities, the artist having left nothing to the imagination;beyond was the more human note, and Omphale bound him to her by asingle thread stronger than all the chains ever riveted in Vulcan'sforge. Next, with perhaps a significance of symbolism, the shirt ofNessus tortured him to madness with its scorching fires till the hugelimbs writhed and the broad, kindly face was all a-sweat with agony, but--and now it was the door again--the benediction of peace crownedthe end. The labours, the sorrows, the fiery trials were behind theback for ever, the faults and failures were forgiven or atoned for;after the stress of toil, the weariness of struggle, came theblessedness of rest; after humanity, divinity and the imperishableglory of high Olympus. Crude in its art, angular in its execution, there still was something of the soul of the worker stitched with thecanvas. To Stephen La Mothe, touched at times by a poet'scomprehension, it seemed not altogether a myth, --a type, perhaps; only, being very human, he hungered with a bitter hunger for the crowning ofthe peace and the divinity of love while life was life. It requires arobust faith to believe that Olympus can bring anything better than thebest of earth. 

A carved oak bench, black with age, stood beneath the centre of thethree narrow windows piercing the outer wall; a four-branched copperlamp gave light from the polished table in the middle of the room; hereand there, flanking the oaken bench, at the ends of the room, and ateither side of the wide fireplace, were chairs and stools. A fewwolfskin 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 bedisturbed when so weary, but as it is of importance to Monseigneur hetrusts she will excuse Monsieur d'Argenton's importunity. "

"I told you how it would be, " said Commines as the servant left theroom, "you might as well have given your name first as last. "

But La Mothe shook his head. "There is a difference, and she willunderstand. " Then the restraint he had put upon himself with so muchdifficulty snapped for a moment: "Uncle, for God's sake, be gentle withher. "

"I will be all I dare, but I trust neither Saxe nor Villon, " and as hespoke the two entered the room. 

In spite of a strong effort at self-control the inn-keeper was visiblyill at ease, while Villon, on his part, was complacently, almostoffensively, cheerful. In a characteristic Puckish humour he hadplayed alternately on Saxe's hopes and fears, but refusing all definiteinformation beyond the bare statement that Monsieur d'Argenton had sentfor him peremptorily. Why? How could Francois Villon say why? He wasno 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 Kingsome service of late? and at the hint Saxe glowed, with expectation. Who was so generous a paymaster as Louis! Perhaps, on the otherhand, --and the wrinkles of Villon's many wrinkled face deepened intopuckers, --Jean Saxe knew too much. That was dangerous. Amboise waslike Valmy, more entered than came out. Louis had many ways of payingdebts. There was Guy de Molembrais, for instance----, but Saxe wasfrankly sweating and Villon broke off. The second hint was clearereven than the first, and Saxe felt that both were true. 

But when he would have spoken Commines impatiently motioned him to bequiet, flinging a "Wait!" at him as one might a command to a restlessdog, and at the evil augury the drops gathered anew round the edge ofhis close-cropped hair; gathered and swelled until they trickled downthe cunning, stupid face. Villon, he noticed, and found another evilsignificance in the act, drew away from him, leaving him solitary justwhen the warm nearness of human kind would have been a comfort. 

They had not long to wait. Hearing a movement in the passage Villonthrew open the door, closing it again behind Ursula de Vesc. Then heleaned against it like one interested but indifferent in his interest. The girl was pitifully pale. Double lines of care creased thesmoothness of the forehead; the weariness she had plead had been nopretence, but was written plainly in the languid gait, the droopedlids, and the dark patches beneath the eyes. By her side walkedCharlemagne, and half a yard behind the three puppies trotted sleepily, Charlot lagging last; even in his anxious preoccupation La Mothenoticed it was Charlot, the best beloved of the three because it wasthe weakest. 

Her first glance was for La Mothe, her second, and this time she bowedslightly, was towards Commines, then it fell upon Saxe, and the browswere raised in a mute interrogation, but there was neither apprehensionnor dismay. Stepping forward La Mothe placed a chair beside the table, and, crossing the room, she sat down with a murmur of thanks, then sheturned 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 strangestory to-day, and it seemed to us it was your right to hear it as soonas 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 oneword to-day was enough. "

"So that is why Monsieur d'Argenton is in Amboise?"

"The story is this, " went on Commines, studiously ignoring the coldcontempt in her voice. But she interrupted him. 

"Let Saxe tell his own story; why else is he here? It is always saferto get such things first-hand. Now, Saxe?"

Turning her shoulder on Commines she confronted Saxe. She knew shewas, somehow, on her defence, but not the offence alleged against her. All day La Mothe's unexpected question had troubled her, and vaguelyshe had connected it with the attempt upon the Dauphin at the BurntMill, though how she, the Dauphin's almost one friend in Amboise, couldhave knowledge of the attempt she could not understand. With thefailure of the attack she had thought the incident closed, but now JeanSaxe had a story to tell, a story in some way linked to Stephen LaMothe's question, a question which flushed the pallor of even herweariness when she remembered how widely it had differed from what herthought had been. 

But Jean Saxe was in no haste with his tale. Jean Saxe shuffled hisfeet, licked his dry lips, and caught at his breath. His throat wasdrier than Villon's had ever been, and Villon's was the driest throatin Amboise. A modest man, though an innkeeper, Jean Saxe did not knowwhich way to look now that he was, for the moment, the centre of theworld. Either the grey eyes, their lids no longer drooping, searchedhim out, or Commines' stern gaze stared him down, or, worst of all, hemet the sardonic light with which Villon beamed his satisfaction at ascene quite to his humour, and so Jean Saxe was dumb, remembering thatLouis had many ways of paying his debts, and more went into Amboisethan came out again. For the trusted servant of so generous a KingJean Saxe was not happy. 

"Come, Saxe, come. Tell me what you told me this afternoon, neithermore nor less. There is nothing in it to your discredit. "

"Yes, monseigneur, certainly. I have nothing to hide. I have alwaysbeen 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. Fromhis place behind her La Mothe could see the upward defiant tilt of thehead as she asked the question. 

"Let him tell his story his own way, " said Commines, "or you willconfuse him. "

"As you will, but Hugues is dead and cannot defend himself, " and thedefiance 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 hastilyforward, then settled slowly into her place again. As for Stephen LaMothe, the beating of his heart quickened, but he stood unmoved. Thetouch 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 itperfectly 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 Iarrived?"

"Yes, monseigneur. " Saxe had thrown off his nervousness. He no longershuffled his feet but stood breast square to the world. Commines'questions had loosened the thread of his story, and he was ready to runit off the reel without a tangle. "He said the King was very sick inValmy, so sick and full of suffering that every hour of life was anhour of misery. It would be pure happiness, said he, pure charity anda blessing if such a life were ended. He was sure the King himself hadno wish to live. "

"That, " said Ursula de Vesc, her eyes fixed on vacancy, "is so verylike what we all know of His Majesty. "

"Yes, mademoiselle. Then he went on to say that those who helped thepoor suffering King to relief would be his best friends, and it oughtto 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 deVesc, 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, andall who love the Dauphin, know well how the King's justice deals withAmboise. Saxe, go on with your story your own way. No names werementioned that day? What then?"

"Hugues said the King's sickness made him peevish and suspicious, sothat he doubted even his own friends. No one was safe, neither highnor low, and no one could tell who would follow the same road asMonsieur de Molembrais, whose safe-conduct couldn't save him. 'Evenyou, Saxe, ' he said, 'faithful as you have been and true servant to theKing, not even you are safe, and you know a man's first duty is tohimself. '"

Francois Villon could not forgo the favourite tag of philosophy wherebyhe had shaped his own career, "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! and that wasthe 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, " andCommines turned to the girl, his face both grave and troubled, "help usto be your friends, help us to save you from yourself before it is toolate. 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, thenfor the Dauphin's, for----" he paused, and, lifting his eyes, glancedat Stephen La Mothe bolt upright within touch of her, "for thehappiness 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 hishand so shook that the whole chair was shaken as he felt the girlstiffen against his knuckles. What his hopes were he did not dareadmit, though the foundations of his faith were never shaken. Bettereven than the girl he understood how great was the issue Comminesplayed for in his effort to move her from her silence. Was it anhonest appeal or was it a trap? Would the love of a father accept ahinted repentance, a veiled regret as sufficient? or did Commines, astute and unscrupulous in his master's service, invite a contritionthat he might triumphantly declare, Here is proof? A single wordspoken in reversal of her afternoon's denial would justify---- Butswiftly as thought grew from thought Ursula de Vesc was yet swifter inher reply. 

"I think you mean to be kind, Monsieur d'Argenton, and for that I amgrateful. 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 speakingdisrespectfully of the Dauphin?"

"Mademoiselle, you must not interrupt; later you can question Saxe ifyou wish. "

"I wished to show you what good friends they were, these two. Huguescannot speak for himself. "

"He had need of me, " said Saxe sullenly, "and that was the reason hecame to me as I say. I was grooming Grey Roland. 'He saved a King forFrance, ' said Hugues, with his hand on his neck, 'and what a King hewill make, so grateful, so generous. Not a man who helps him will beforgotten. And it won't be long now. Saxe, ' he said, 'you should joinus while there is time. ' 'Who are us?' said I. But he wouldn't answerthat. 'You could hang us all if you knew, ' he said. So I told himthat unless I had at least one name I wouldn't listen to him. What washe 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 theDauphin 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; butUrsula 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 youall the same. So I am the brain of it all, Saxe?"

"I only know what Hugues told me, " answered Saxe, looking straightbefore him. Of the two he was the more disturbed. His scalp tingled, and again the little points of perspiration were glistening on hisforehead. Her quietness frightened him. To have shouted down apassion of protest, a passion of terrified, angry denial, would havebeen more natural. "He said you sent him on both days, you andMonseigneur. 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 yetI see that it may serve its purpose. It is not the truth the Kingrequires. Monsieur d'Argenton, I tell you formally that what Saxe hassaid is absolutely untrue. "

"Saxe is explicit, you can question him when he has finished, " answeredCommines coldly. For him the King stood behind Jean Saxe, and no meredenial 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 waittwo days before warning the King? Why wait until Hugues was dead?"

"There was a courier from Valmy to-day, " said Villon, speaking for thefirst time, and, as it seemed, irrelevantly. 

Commines turned upon him sharply. "What has that to do with it? Hebrought letters from the King addressed to me. Monsieur La Mothe knowstheir contents. "

"And for Jean Saxe, " retorted Villon; "letters from the King for JeanSaxe and Monsieur d'Argenton!"

"Ah!" said mademoiselle the second time, "so that is why Monsieurd'Argenton is in Amboise. "

"That is why, " answered Commines, his hand stretched out indenunciation. "At Valmy we more than guessed your treason. But it washard to believe that a woman could so corrupt a boy, that a son couldso 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 hasbeen 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 priestthat his one thought was hate--everlasting hate. The spirit to hurtand the accursed will were there, more shameless every day, moreshameless and more insolent; but until to-day, until Jean Saxe spoke, there was no proof that the courage to act, the courage to carry outthe evident ill desire was callously plotting to set France shudderingwith horror. But Saxe has spoken. That he should have spoken earlieris beside the point. He has spoken at last and the truth is strippedbare. "

"No truth, " said mademoiselle, "no truth; before God, no truth. " Shewas rigidly upright in her chair, her eyes blazing like cold stars, herface very pale. Every limb, every muscle, was trembling, her handpressed under her breast as when La Mothe had seen her for the firsttime. "No truth except that the Dauphin has said unwise things attimes and I also. To that I confess. "

"You confess because you cannot deny, " answered Commines, "and hadHugues not tampered with Saxe the truth might never have been knownuntil all France stood aghast at the tragedy. That Hugues is deadmatters nothing. His death does not affect the issue. He would havedenied it had he lived. But now we know without a doubt that you andhe, and that unhappy boy, the Dauphin--Villon, who is that fumbling atthe latch? Let no one in, and bid whoever knocks begone whence hecame. "

But instead of obeying Villon flung the door wide. The Dauphin was onthe threshold, half dressed, his shoes unbuckled, his laces awry, hisface cadaverous in its pallor. He had been crying, and the traces ofthe unwiped tears lined his cheeks. Underneath the dull eyes, dullerthan common, were livid hollows, and he shook from head to foot in anervous 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 toany conscious will, Ursula de Vesc had risen at the boy's entrance. But the strain of an enforced calmness is greater than that of anypassionate outburst, and only the support of the table kept her on herfeet. Against this she leaned, her open hand flat upon it. 

"Monseigneur--Charles--oh! why did you come just now?" Her voice brokeas it had not broken when confronting Saxe or braving the bitterdenunciation Commines had poured upon her. But the boy's presencefretted her realization to the quick. It was not she alone beforewhose 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 grownembarrassing, and at the same time take the first step along a pathwhich 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, Monseigneurd'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 whichwere as characteristic as they were disconcerting. "Do you, sir, knowyour place and keep it. Ursula, what is Saxe doing here at this timeof night?"

Though he addressed Mademoiselle de Vesc by name, Charles looked roundhim as he spoke. The question was for the room at large. But no oneanswered him. It was no part of Commines' plan to make a public chargeagainst the Dauphin. There was no need to make such a charge, it couldonly provoke a scene of violence, of denial, of protest, ofrecrimination, and raise a storm whose echoes might pass beyond thewalls of Amboise. Not that way would he earn the King's thanks, so heheld his peace. But the Dauphin was not to be cowed by silence. 

"Ursula, what have they been saying to you? All these men against onewoman 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 LaMothe, 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 againstit as before. His shrewd clear eyes had watched every phase of thescene from its beginning. Twice he had spoken, twice or thrice he hadlaughed his soft unctuous chuckle as if his thoughts pleased him. Now, directly addressed, he came forward a step, and his bearing was that ofthe actor who hears his cue. 

"No friend, Monseigneur; the honour would be too great. Who am I tocall myself the friend of a prophet? Or perhaps it was Hugues who wasthe prophet; Hugues who is dead and cannot speak for himself. "

"Speak no evil of Hugues, " said Charles, "he--he----" and the boy'slips quivered, the tears starting afresh under his swollen lids as thememory of his loss came home to him, "he loved me, he died for me, andoh, Ursula! will they take you from me too?"

"No, Charles; surely not. But I think Monsieur Villon has somethingmore to say. Why do you call Hugues a prophet?"

"Because he foretold Guy de Molembrais' death three days before itoccurred--or was it four? You should know, Saxe?"

"I only know what he told me, " answered Saxe doggedly, but the freshruddiness of his face had faded, and he sucked at his lips as if theyhad grown suddenly dry. He knew Villon and Villon's ways of old, knewhis bitter tongue, knew his shrewdness, and feared both. 

"Just so, " said Villon cheerfully, "and a week before Monsieurd'Argenton came to Amboise he told you no one was safe from the King'ssick suspicions, not even if he carried a safe-conduct, andinstanced----"

"Villon is right!" cried La Mothe. "Monsieur d'Argenton--Uncle--thankGod, Villon is right. Guy de Molembrais was alive a week before weleft Valmy. Saxe has lied, lied, lied. Do you see it, Uncle? I knewhe lied. Oh, you hound! you hound! And you had a letter from Valmythis afternoon? That accounts----"

"Hush, Monsieur La Mothe, hush. " Rising from her chair Ursula de Vescalmost put her hand over La Mothe's mouth in her efforts to silencehim. "You have said enough; do not say too much--too much foryourself. Charles, Charles, let us thank God together, " and, turningfrom La Mothe, she caught the boy in her arms, drawing him to herbreast in a passion of relief. It was not difficult to see what herchief anxiety had been. "Monsieur d'Argenton, surely you are satisfiednow?"

Was he satisfied? By no means. But Commines was spared theembarrassment of an immediate reply. The door, which Villon had justquitted, was thrown hastily open and a servant entered, a sealedenvelope in his hand. Ignoring the Dauphin utterly--and it wasindicative of the estimate in which the boy was held--he turned toCommines. 

"From Valmy, for Monsieur d'Argenton, in great haste. The messengerhas left a horse foundered on the road. "

"From Valmy? But this is not the King's--there! you can go. See thatthe 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 trainedself-control, his face changed. Of all the emotions, fear is, perhaps, the most difficult to conceal because of its widely varied shades ofexpression. With some it is a tightening of the nostrils, with othersa compression of the lips, a change of colour, or a line between thebrows. It may even be the laugh of an assumed carelessness, a pretenceat jest, but upon one and all it leaves some sign. The seal was notthe 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. MonsieurVillon, place him in safety for to-night, he must not be allowed toleave the Château. "

"But, monsieur--monseigneur, I mean--it was the King--"

"Hold your tongue, you fool, " said Villon, hustling him through thedoorway; "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 thiswas one of them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, somereverse, a disaster even. Louis' last letter, received that very day, had been harsh in tone, curt to severity, its few words full of apersonal 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 watchedhim curiously two were his open enemies. If it was his dismissal, hisdownfall, there would be no pity. But to be alone was impossible. Thesituation 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 readit in a glance, then a second time. "My God!" they heard him say twiceover, drawing in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him suddenly. Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the paper, then asunconsciously smoothed it out again. The instinct to be alone hadpossessed him like a prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick offinding an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitariness hedesired had come upon him. He forgot he was not alone, and the truestsolitude is the isolation of the spirit when the material world slipsfrom us, and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to facewith his own soul. So he stood, the paper shaking in his shakinghands, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he shifted his eyes, and asthey fell upon the Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc's arms, the skirtof the white robe half wrapped round him, his head almost upon herbreast, he straightened himself with an effort. 

"Monseigneur, " he began, "the King----" but the words choked in histhroat. His coarse, healthy face had gone wan and grey, now it flushedand a rush of tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of thehead he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe saw him struggling forself-control. "The King is dead, " he said hoarsely. "God have mercyon us all; the King is dead--dead. "

From the boy his eyes had travelled upwards, following the protectingarm which lay across the slender shoulders, and it was Ursula de Vescwho answered. Charles had caught her hand in both his and held itpressed against his breast. It was clear that he did not understand, but the full meaning of the tragedy of death is not comprehensible in asingle 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 heis dead. But yesterday, this very day even, he held the peace ofnations in the hollow of his hand, now---- Why, how poor a thing isman. Dead! dead! But his monument is a great nation, a new France;and who shall hold France in her pride of place amongst the nationswhere 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 quietwas like the reverent stillness of a death-chamber. The aweinseparable from sudden death possessed them. And yet, after the firstshock of natural horror, La Mothe was conscious of a great relief. Nottill then did he realize how tense the strain had been, how acute thefear. But at the slow dropping of Commines' bitter-hearted words therecame a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to find a gladness insuch a cause of grief. For the loss to France he cared little. To himLouis had been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not Louis, thenanother, and France would still be France. But as Commines turned awayand, following that other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal, hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he leaned againstthe wall, the lad's heart went out in sympathy to the man who had losthis friend. And surely over and above his greatness of mind there musthave been some deep heart of goodness in the dead man when he movedaffection to such a grief. But at last the silence came to an end, andagain 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 acharacteristic 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 meany 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 petulantboy, but the shaft struck home. Why was he in Amboise? His hope wasthat the full purpose of his lengthened stay at the castle would neverbe known, the truth would ruin him with the new King, ruin him utterly. Hastily he searched his memory how far he had committed himself. Nottoo deeply, he thought, so far as Charles was concerned. Ursula deVesc was of less consequence, and Saxe could always be made ascapegoat. Saxe had lied, Saxe had deceived him, and, except StephenLa Mothe, no one knew how ready he had been to be deceived. PerhapsSaxe had also deceived the father? Yes, he would take that line, ifnecessary; Saxe was the evil genius of them all, but the firstessential was to placate the boy with a generality. Liars andsuccessful diplomatists are rapid thinkers, and no too obvious asilence followed Charles' blunt question. 

"Monseigneur, for ten years I have been your father's trusted andfaithful 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 besafe. All the same, I would be Dauphin again if it could bring Huguesback. I don't understand what it means to be King; perhaps in time Ishall see the difference. Good night, Ursula. I do not know what theywere saying to you, but they had better leave you in peace. Goodnight, Monsieur La Mothe. "

"The King is dead; long live the King! and service to the dead is soonforgotten, " said Commines bitterly as the door closed. The significantignoring of his presence had stung him to the quick. It might be saidit was only the rudeness of an ill-taught boy, but the boy was King ofFrance, and the suggestive omission was an evil augury to the hopes ofhis unsatisfied ambition. 

"Can you blame him? He is a very loyal boy, and was quite honest whenhe 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 neverheard Villon's opinion, but it was his own, and he acted upon itpromptly. 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 endall service!"

"My duty and service are to the living, " replied Commines shortly. "Ishall remain in Amboise. The dead take no offence. "

"You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Monsieur d'Argenton, butthe King was so jealous and, may I add, so generous, it would vex hisghost 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 Mothehad kept silence. He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but foundhimself in a difficulty. In spite of his gratitude and reverence forCommines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounderjudgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned adead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of amoment. Surely the grave should first shut out all that was mortal ofthe old obedience? And yet, because of that unfailing gratitude andprofound faith, he could not join with the girl in her opencondemnation. But crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his headas if the question was distasteful. 

"No. "

"From the King's son-in-law, Monsieur de Beaujeu, then? He would, ofcourse, send you word immediately. Or Leslie? or Saint-Pierre?"

But after each name Commines made a gesture of dissent, pushing thepaper 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 theface. 

"Tristan?" she said icily, drawing herself back with a movement whichLa Mothe recognized by an unhappy experience. "You choose your friendsstrangely. "

"But he is no friend, " protested La Mothe, full of scorn andindignation for Commines' sake at the shame of the suggestion. "Itwould be impossible with such a man. And Monsieur de Commines has toldme more than once that Tristan is jealous of his influence with theKing, and is his bitterest enemy. "

"And yet out of all Valmy it is Tristan--and Tristan only--who isfriend enough to send the terrible news to Monsieur d'Argenton? Isthat not strange? Monsieur d'Argenton, you are a learned man; is therenot 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 amsuspicious, but can you wonder, you of all men? In Amboise we havelearned to doubt everything, even the friends who are ready to die forus, " and, with a sudden impulse, as natural and gracious as it wastouching, she held out her hand to La Mothe, a wistful, kindlytenderness, 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, theknitting together of life-threads torn apart, and where there is such aknitting the union is firmer, closer, stronger, more indissoluble thanbefore the rent. "Monsieur d'Argenton, " she went on, the voice alittle tremulous and yet with a clearer ring, "once before, when theKing doubted the loyalty of Paris, did he not spread abroad such arumour 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 havespent two weeks in Amboise, or that Jean Saxe has coined his lies withsuch carefulness of detail? May we hear Tristan's letter?"

For a moment Commines hesitated. He had regained his fullself-control, and it was with a growing surprise that La Mothe heardhim debate the situation with Ursula de Vesc as with an equal. But notonly was he impressed in spite of his prejudice against her, but he wastoo shrewd a politician to put aside any suggestion which commendeditself to his reason just because he despised its source. And the girlwas right. If there had been a deep policy in setting afloat the Parisrumour, there was a yet deeper policy now, a policy more subtle, darker, and pregnant with tragedy. Belief in the King's death mightwell loosen the tongues of those who had plotted against him, and theirunguarded triumph furnish the very confirmation which had been vainlysought in Amboise these ten days. While he hesitated Ursula de Vescurged her point afresh. 

"Monsieur d'Argenton, in the Dauphin's name I might claim to see theletter, I might even demand and compel it as a right; but there will beno need for that?"

"No need at all, " he answered. "This is the letter. As you see, it isvery short:

"'MONSIEUR, --A great misfortune has overtaken us, the greatestpossible. The King is dead. It is being kept secret, but I send youthe warning that you may make yourself secure in Amboise. Notecarefully how the Dauphin takes it. I commend you to the keeping ofGod. --TRISTAN. '

You see it is explicit. "

"And Saxe was explicit, but he lied. " She was too much of a woman tospare him the thrust, but it was the only revenge she took, and havingtaken it, she sat silent, her brows knit, her fingers playingunconsciously with Charlemagne's soft ears. The dog's head was on herlap, motionless, the gentle brown eyes fixed upon her face. Charlotlay 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 isexplicit, but I do not read his letter as you do. Perhaps it isbecause Amboise has made me so suspicious. It is a sorrowful thing tosay, but we have been taught that safety lies in distrust of Valmy. Itis horrible, but it is not our fault, and I distrust now. Tristan isyour enemy and ours. The King, the great King, is not above setting atrap. I think I see a double snare; a snare to catch the Dauphin, tocatch all who are his friends in Amboise, and a snare to catch thegreat King's minister himself. Perhaps it is foolish, I know it ispresumptuous, but let me read the letter my own way; you can show meafterwards where I am wrong. It is clever, but it is the cleverness ofthe man who thinks only of his own interests, who makes no allowancefor love, loyalty, or single-hearted duty, and judges others byhimself. 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 maymake yourself secure in Amboise! What does that mean? You know thatbetter than I, but I suppose it means that, first in the field, you maywin the Dauphin's confidence and govern France through the boy. Thatis a great gift from an enemy, Monsieur d'Argenton, and what would theKing say if he were alive? But the King is dead! Then why are you tonote carefully how the Dauphin takes the news? For whose benefit areyou to note it? For your own? But you are to make yourself secure inAmboise! 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 theKing, who dictates the letter that he may lay hold of some chance wordand torture it into God knows what vile use against the boy? Bearwitness, gentlemen, both of you, there was no such word. And what isthe ending of the letter? He commends you to the keeping of God!Tristan, the hangman, commends Monsieur d'Argenton to the keeping ofGod. There will be much need for His keeping if you make yourselfsecure in Amboise while the King lives. Do you not smell the King'sunctuous, 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 toValmy 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 furtherand, following the precedent set by Adam in Eden, have said, "Eternallyright!" for what lover ever thought his mistress in the wrong? Butthis time there was more than a lover's agreement. "Uncle, surely yousee that Mademoiselle de Vesc is right, right every way? If thatscoundrel 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 oweeverything you possess in the world to the man who is dead--position, title, office, wealth. Are these forgotten?' In his embarrassment heglanced at Ursula de Vesc. Owing Commines neither respect norgratitude, she had no such scruple. 

"Death is always terrible, " she said softly, "or we make it terrible byour own terrors, but there will be a new terror added if love and theloyalty of gratitude die with the life. Is eaten bread so soonforgotten, Monsieur d'Argenton?"

Almost abstractedly Commines looked up from the paper in his hand. Ifhe heard her, he gave no sign of having heard; certainly he showed noresentment at the implied censure. His mind was busy balancingprospects and possibilities. If Charles were king, Ursula de Vescwould be a power behind the throne. If, as she said, Louis--and notfor the first time--played one of his grim jests full of a sinisterpossibility, to remain at Amboise would be fatal both to himself and tothe boy. The King might say the Dauphin grasped at the crown while thefather lived, and Philip de Commines abetted him. After all, Valmy wassafest. Not many days before, Louis had told him with brutal franknessthat the hand which pulled him from the gutter could fling him backagain. Yes, Valmy was safest. But what account was he to give of hismission? The letter, whether false in its news or true, was asufficient reason for his return. It was most natural, human, andloving that the faithful servant should stand by the bier of his deadmaster. It would even be a point in his favour if the King lived. Nodoubt 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 hadsaid, had proved too much. He must make Saxe the scapegoat. Theobvious lie damned him. It was crass stupidity to put into Hugues'mouth a lie which carried its own disproof with it. To force anaccusation based upon the remainder of the story would be unpolitic. His best course would be to relieve the King of all his fears atAmboise. There was no plot, the Dauphin was loyal and obedient: notaffectionate, that would be proving too much like the fool Saxe, andLouis would never believe it. Then there was the King's letter toSaxe. It must not be forgotten. That shrewd rascal, Villon, was rightwhen he said some one had sounded Saxe, only the some one was notHugues the valet. The letter must be ignored, or, better still, itmight 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 thedisavowal 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 theintention had always been in his mind. "If this misfortune hasovertaken us all, which God forbid, we must meet it with courage andresignation. May He who alone is able comfort the bereaved son of sogood and so great a father. My hope and prayer, mademoiselle, is thatyou are right and the King is making trial of our love and loyalty. Ineither case my place is at Valmy. La Mothe, order a horse to besaddled without delay. "

"There is one ready in Saxe's stable, " answered La Mothe. Then, lesthe should be asked the unpleasant question how he came by thatknowledge and for what purpose the horse was in readiness, he addedhastily, "What shall we do with Saxe?"

"Keep Saxe safe until you hear from Valmy; let no one but Villon oryourself have speech with him. Such a liar would calumniate the Kinghimself. Now, Stephen, the horses in ten minutes. "

"Horses?" said La Mothe blankly. Was he also to leave Amboise now thata new dawn was breaking?

"Yes, tell two of my men to be ready. I do not trust Tristan, and willtake no risks. An accident might happen to a lonely man on anall-night's ride. "

"And yet, " said the girl as La Mothe left the room, "you were ready totrust Tristan ten minutes ago?"

"But you have opened my eyes. Why? That is the one thing I cannotunderstand. We have always been opposed, always at enmity, and nevermore bitterly than to-night. Mademoiselle de Vesc, why did you nottake 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 amoment the pale face flushed, and the beginnings of a smile playedabout the mouth, only to die away in a tender gravity. "And yet, totell the truth, it was a woman's reason: it was because there was oncea friendless, helpless boy, and Philip de Commines--you were neitherArgenton 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 ofmouth and eyes growing yet more tender, "to be honest, this is for aman'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, bettercomprehension upon a common ground. At heart they were akin--thepolitic unscrupulous opportunist vowed to the compulsion of hisambitions, and the girl who through all her threat of danger had givenno thought to herself. For the sake of the man; for the sake of thewoman: they are the twin cogwheels, working the one into the other, which keep this great machine of life, this sordid material world, upona sure, if slow, ascent from the baser to the nobler, from the kingdomsof 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 ismoved in his depths. "Simple in his faith, simple in his reverence forthe best as he understands it, simple in his simpleness of heart: a ladso loyal that he can see no disloyalty in others. God bless him for agood lad. He came here a boy, but Amboise has made a man ofhim--Amboise and you together. " It was Francois Villon's second birthover again, but in different words. "Mademoiselle, it will be mycharge 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 tothe King? I would rather he ploughed the fields for bread than servedyour King. Here he is. Good-bye, Monsieur d'Argenton, may you findall well at Valmy; good night, Monsieur La Mothe, we shall meet againin the morning, or is it already the new day?" and with a smilingcurtsy to each she was gone. To Stephen La Mothe it seemed a cold goodnight after all that had come and gone between them that day, themisunderstood question in her work-room, the shadow of death in theBurnt Mill, and, above all, their nearness as he had stood behind herchair. But she had her purpose. She might spare Philip de Commines, she might even forgive him, but she would not touch his hand infriendship. 

In silence Commines returned to his room, La Mothe following; insilence made himself ready for the road; in silence they both wenttogether to the great gate and passed without. Perhaps it was thateach felt the need of quiet to adjust his thoughts. But once the heavydoor, bolted and studded with iron, had clanged behind them, and thestars were clear overhead, Commines linked his arm with La Mothe's, drawing him close with the affectionate equality and confidence of theold days when they were father and son, brother and brother, friend andfriend in one. Let their union in blood be what it may, it is the mostperfect relationship man and man can know, and differs from thesweeter, more tender relationship of man and woman in that nothing issought, nothing granted. 

"Stephen, lad, we have been at odds, you and I, and it has hurt usboth, but that's over. I think we were both to blame. Perhaps I havegrown old, and so forgot that youth must have its day; perhaps youcould not understand my duty to the King, or how, when a man is riddenby a dominant purpose, he must go straight forward and make or break away 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 loveand reverence the King as the truest friend France has. May God sparehim to France until the boy has grown to be a man. Woe to thee, Oland, when thy King is a child. Henceforward I think the Dauphin hasnothing to fear; all that man can do to draw father to son and son tofather I will do. Stephen, your mission here is ended. "

But in the darkness La Mothe shook his head; this was the real Philipde Commines, the Commines he had known and loved. The crust ofselfishness which overlies the heart of every man given overmuch to onepurpose, even the most honourable, had broken up, and the generouswarmth of the kindly nature within asserted itself. To such an one LaMothe could speak as he could not speak to the shrewd politician, orthe leader of men. 

"Not ended yet, Uncle. With you I pray the King still lives, and thatis more than I could honestly have said in the Hercules room yonderwith Saxe spinning his lies. Tell him that within twelve hours I shallhave fulfilled to the very letter the orders he gave me. Watch him asyou tell him, you who are so shrewd a judge of men, and I think youwill 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 LaMothe assisted Commines to mount, standing by his knee as he settledhimself in the saddle. Then Commines stooped and the two men claspedhands. 

"God keep you, Stephen. "

"And you, too, and may all be well at Valmy, " answered La Motheearnestly, and added impulsively, "Uncle, have you nothing to say tome?"

"Only this, Stephen, thank God for a good woman, " and with a lastpressure of the hand Commines rode on into the darkness, his two guardsa 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 toldhimself that failure was his true success. The King--he had come tothe conclusion that Louis had played one of those grim jests which werenot all a jest and at times had tragic consequences--the King, nodoubt, had been deceived, possibly by Saxe, and to have Saxe proved aliar beyond question could not but be a relief. So all was well; theKing's fears could be set at rest, and he himself was freed from anodious duty. Against his expectation he had quitted Amboise with cleanhands. 

Nor even as regards the Dauphin, and the future the Dauphinrepresented, was there much to regret. There was even, he believed, much to hope. Ursula de Vesc controlled the boy, Stephen La Mothewould influence the girl, and Stephen owed him everything. These wereall so many links in a chain, and the chain bound him not only tosafety but to continuance in his present offices, perhaps even toadvancement. Even though the King had died there was no need to remainin Amboise to secure himself; La Mothe would do that for him. But theKing was living, the King would welcome his failure, would be touchedby his prompt return to Valmy, and the world was a very good world forthose 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 alikein 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 theLoire, treacherous in the darkness and swollen by heavy rains in theupper reaches, travelling was as safe by night as by day, and Comminesmet with no delays but those at all times inseparable from such ajourney. Tristan's forethought, as it proved, had provided noaccident. This time there was no halt at the Château-Renaud. Throughthe little straggling village they rode at a hand-gallop, and except tobait or breathe the horses on a hill-crest, no rein was drawn until thedawn had slipped from grey to glory and a new day lay broad upon thefields. When that hour broke, they had made such progress that theyhad reached the place whence Commines had shown La Mothe the three goodreasons why his men would keep their counsel. 

"Dismount and ease the saddles, " he said, slipping a foot from thestirrup as he spoke, "the gates will not be opened for two or threehours 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 currentsof enthusiasm, like those of life, run slow. It is then that thespirit of a man is at its weakest. Or perhaps it was the sight ofValmy that cooled his optimism. There it lay, grey and forbidding evenwith the yellow sunlight of dawn full upon it, and there, stark andclear, an offence against the sweetness of the new day, were the threeroyal gibbets. Their sinister hint was emphatic. The justice of theKing was without mercy, and sombrely he asked himself, Was he so surethat in his failure he had no need of forgiveness? Was it not rathertrue that with Louis failure had always need of forgiveness and wasnever forgiven? He was not so certain, now that his blood was sluggishin the vapoury chill of dawn, but that he had been hasty in quittingAmboise at all; and yet, what if Tristan, playing on the jealoussuspicions of the King, had set a trap? And even as he speculated withdull eyes whether there was a trap or no, whether the King lived atall, and what course was the most politic to follow, a stir of lifewoke at Valmy: a small troop passed out from the grey arch facing theriver and took the Tours road. The distance was too great todistinguish who comprised it. But Valmy was awake, and with Valmyawake the sooner he faced his doubts the better--doubts grow bynursing, and given time enough their weight will kill. 

Walking briskly forward he mounted and urged his tired horse to itsbest speed. That it should reach Valmy in its last extremity, foam-flecked and caked with sweat, would appeal to the King's sicksuspicions. It was a petty trick, mean and contemptible, but had theKing not played a still more mean and contemptible trick on him?Commines knew with whom he had to deal; it was the vulgar cunning hismaster had taught him, and any apparent absence of anxious haste wouldbe a point lost in the game: so their spurs were red, and their beastsutterly blown, utterly weary from their last climb up the river's bankwhen they drew rein before the outer guard-house. The Tours troop wasalready out of sight. 

Lessaix himself was on duty, and as he came forward with outstretchedhand Commines required no second glance to tell himself that Ursula deVesc had construed Tristan's letter aright. Not so frankly would hehave been greeted if Valmy's master lay dead in Valmy. 

"The King expects you, " he said, "and by your horses' looks you havelost no time on the road. " As he spoke he ran his finger-tips up thehot 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 madehaste 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 onthe way and might arrive any moment. You are to go to the King atonce. "

"So Tristan left half an hour ago?"

Try as he would Commines could not quite control his voice. He owedmore to Mademoiselle de Vesc than he had supposed. The trap had, as itwere, snapped before his face and he had escaped by a hair-breadth. Tristan's cunning was as deep as simplicity. His forethought must haverun somewhat thus. Lessaix knows that Monsieur de Commines is expectedany 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 tothe Dauphin at Amboise. The inference would be clear to all men, andMonsieur 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 thechange of tone and again looked up, but this time with something morethan curiosity--an anxious wariness, a fear lest some current of eventshe failed to discover might catch him in its flood and drag him downwith 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 havealways been friends, always good comrades, is there--" he hesitated, uncertain how far he dared commit himself with his good friend andcomrade, "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 questionof new taxation, perhaps; or it may be that England threatens to breakthe peace. What did Tristan say?"

"Nothing but what I tell you, but he laughed as he said it. If I wereyou, I would not delay, but would go to the King booted and spurred anddusty as you are. "

Commines nodded. The advice was welcome, not only because it was meantkindly but for what it inferred. If disgrace threatened, Lessaix atleast 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'sconfidence. If Louis had any sinister coup in his mind, Leslie, orSaint-Pierre, or Lessaix himself would have been on duty. 

With an alert, quick step, that had in it none of the stiffness orfatigue of a long night's ride, Commines mounted the stairs, answeringfriendly salutes at every turn. As at all times with the King inresidence, the halls, corridors, and ante-rooms were like those of abarrack rather than of a royal chateau. Here and there he waschallenged and his way barred by a lowered halbert, but it was more orless perfunctory, and at the password the way was cleared. ThatBeaufoy was unfeignedly glad to see him was another satisfaction. Eversince he had come in sight of Valmy an uncomfortable sense offriendlessness had haunted him with the unreasoning horror of anightmare, and Beaufoy's welcoming smile was like the wakening intosunshine. 

"_Dieu merci_! but I am thankful you have come, " he said, but speakingsoftly 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 islike 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 priestand Tristan. Fortune keep their last ministrations far from me!"

"Then the King is awake?" said Commines, unbuckling his sword-belt andhanding 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 timeswithin the hour he has asked for you--four times, as I'm a starvingsinner without a hope of breakfast. "

"The better appetite later!" Letting the curtains fall behind himCommines pushed the door open softly, closed it softly at his back, andadvanced a step. But in spite of the caution of his quiet Louis heardhim. 

"What's that? Who's there? Beaufoy--Beaufoy----"

"Sire, it is I--Commines. "

"Commines!" he repeated, the sharpness of his frightened voicedwindling breathlessly. "Commines, Philip, what--what news fromAmboise?"

"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 doorshut--shut fast?"

Through a prolonged life Commines never forgot that scene and neveranswered, 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-obscuritythe chalk-grey face of the King showed ghost-like against the vaulteddarkness of the curtained bed. The fret of spirit through these ten ortwelve days had sapped him, worn him like so many days of consumingfever. With one hand, the elbow propped upon the coverlid, he pushedthe draperies aside, the other was fumbling with its finger-tips at hisconvulsed mouth. In impatience, or that he might breathe the freer, the ribbons which knotted his woollen nightrobe at the throat had beenunfastened, leaving the lean, parchment-coloured chest and throat, corded with starting sinews, nakedly open. As he leant aslant, thecurtains arching overhead, his eyes roundly open in the shadows oftheir sockets, he was like a corpse new risen from its tomb and full ofhorror from the dreams which had dogged its sleep. 

"The very best! Tell me everything, Philip. Or, no!" The shakinghand ceased plucking at the lip, and the shrunken arm, bare to theelbow where the gown had slipped, was thrust out, beating the air as ifto push aside some terror. "Tell me the one--the essential----God'sname, man! can you not understand?"

"The best news possible, Sire. " Commines' eyes were growing accustomedto the gloom and no detail escaped him. "The Dauphin is innocent, isloving--loyal. "

The King shrank as if he had been struck and the cadaverous face grewyet more ghastly. Shifting uneasily on his elbow he pushed thecurtains wide apart, rasping the rings sharply on the rod, and drawingback his hand fumbled anew at his mouth. 

"Loving, loyal--living. " There was a perceptible pause, and the thirdword was harsher, drier than the others, and spoken with a jerk as ifforced from the throat under compulsion. "You received my letterwritten 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 notwhen you left to go to Amboise. " He paused, and in the silenceCommines searched his wit for some plausible reason for the question hehad put to Lessaix. But Louis probed no further. To hear the truthwould have suited his purpose no better than it would have suitedCommines to tell it. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST

Commines broke the silence with a bold stroke. "He carried moreletters 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 hadreceived 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 themnightly with their property, with their lives even. There is nodiscredit in innkeeping. You know, Monsieur d'Argenton, I do not holdthat honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. ThisSaxe, now, what was his tale?"

"One, Sire, that if true would have plunged all France into sorrow, andyou into the deepest grief of all. He accused the Dauphin, a girlnamed Ursula de Vesc, and one Hugues, the Dauphin's valet, of plottingagainst Your Majesty. "

"Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you understood when youleft Valmy. Did I not tell you to sift, and search, and find? Nowcomes 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, hischin sunk upon their clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only theeyes, dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed alive. "Whosays 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' deathas a reason why all France was----" Commines paused, fearing to offendby an unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for him. 

"Why France was afraid. Well, that was probable. I see no lie inthat. "

"No, Sire; but Saxe fixed the day definitely, and Molembrais was aliveat the time. "

The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into thepillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Comminesknew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and becauseCoictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violentemotion 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, wretchedheart--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 overreachedhimself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince yourson 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 hemalign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now theone 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! youshall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me--atme. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he haslied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of hisloving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news. Yes, we rejoice--we rejoice--God knows how we rejoice! Philip, thecordial--there, on the table--that crystal flask. This joyful emotionis killing me. "

Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a handwhich faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless onthe bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to hismouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly. As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of thechest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblanceof life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for amoment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst, been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closedhis eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest theeasier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes stillclosed 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. Ithink God made them as He made flies, to be the fret and plague oflife. You vouched for the fool, Philip, remember that. "

"And I still vouch for La Mothe, " answered Commines. He felt that hewas 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 wefailed to discover what does not exist? Remember, Saxe lied, liedthroughout, and has always lied. " He paused, but if he expected todraw some further comment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent, his face void of expression, and Commines went on: "That cruel jest theProvost-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 indespair and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved of sogood and true a friend, so great a King. The awful shock----"

"There, there, no more of that, " said Louis harshly. The reminder ofthe grim, inevitable certainty which had lately been so significantlynear was more than he could bear. With an effort he struggled on hiselbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I amstrong--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--andyet not all a jest. " From under his drooped lids he looked up atCommines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what didCharles say? Charles, who is so loving and loyal. Laughed and thankedGod--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 comeeasily, and never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin's lastnight. " Which was true, for Hugues, who had loved him, lay dead. AndHugues' death gave Commines another inspiration, which, because of theend in view, he seized upon without a scruple. "But when at last wordscame they were worthy of him, worthy of his loyalty both as son andsubject. 'I would be Dauphin again, ' said he, 'if I could but bringhim back. '"

Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis caught Commines by thearm 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 fromweakness. 

"He said that? Charles said that? Who prompted him?"

"No one, Sire. He spoke his own thought frankly, and every word hesaid came from his heart. "

"Philip, as God lives, is that true?"

"As God lives, " said Commines deliberately, "these were the Dauphin'svery words, and he spoke them from his heart. No one prompted him, noone led him; they were his own thoughts, his only. "

With a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis layback. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lipswere firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at thisor that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence atanimation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forcedhimself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But theoutcome 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. Canyou blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, asI left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell himthat within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me. '"

"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you toldme 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 Ihave 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? Yourofficiousness 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 thefastest 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 filledLouis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. Hethought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agonyof a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him. Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken downfinally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard todraw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why suchanxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond thedoor stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled. 

"The King--go to him. "

"Ill? Dying?"

"No, he needs you. Go at once--at once, " answered Commines, with ajerk 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 padagainst his knee, Louis was in no haste to write. Gnawing withunconscious savagery at his under-lip he stared into vacancy, searching, searching, searching for the precise words to express histhought. But they eluded him. It was not so simple to be precise, soclear that even a fool like Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yetbe so cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of the order, would not betray him. Commines' voice was clanging in his ears likethe clapper of a bell, and would not let him think coherently. Twelvehours! Twelve hours! Even now--no, not yet, but soon, very soon, itmight be too late. "Perdition!" he cried, striking his hand upon thewoollen coverlid--he was chilly even in May--"will they never come?"

And at last they came, not what satisfied him, but what perforce mustsuffice, and with a hand marvellously steady under the compulsion ofthe iron will he dashed off two or three sentences at white heat, addedhis signature in the bold, angular characters which had so oftenvouched a lie as the truth, and flung the paper across to Beaufoy. 

"There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your horse is waiting you inthe 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 rigidlyupright; then, as if the very springs of life were sapped to theirutmost limit, he sank back in collapse upon the pillows. From thehalf-opened shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table, flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver Christ upon thecross, 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 havemercy 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 toValmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on yourlife 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 hopelesslyunattainable 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 hisknees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with allthe subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy, which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He wasalmost 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 LaMothe might say, "No, thank you!" to the order for arrest, and so givePaul Beaufoy opportunity to prove to the world at large, and the Kingin particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, that PaulBeaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever with his head, and fitfor something much better than arresting poor devils accused of Godknows what. But that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhilethe world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of worlds, with justone small fret to mar its perfection--he had had no breakfast! Thatmust be remedied, and the half hour's delay could be made good byharder riding afterwards. 

So, midway to Château-Renaud, at the junction of the St. Amand road, hegave a little auberge his custom, comforting nature with an omeletwhile a fowl was being put on the spit. But because custom such asPaul 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 havebeen to Paul Beaufoy's advantage had the King known the excellence ofhis appetite. But the King knew nothing and would know nothing, so noone was hurt by the picking of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothewould naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a prick of thespur would drag back some of the lost minutes. 

Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as light as a bird onthe wing or the paper which was to consign this unknown poor devil of aLa Mothe to he neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantlythe generous beast between his knees answered the call. But--surelydisjunctive conjunctions are the tragedies of the language! Theytumble our castles in Spain about our ears with neither ruth norwarning. Man would be in Paradise to this day--but Eve ate the apple;Napoleon would have conquered Europe--but England stood in the way. Sowas it with Paul Beaufoy. His lost hour would have been regained--butbut the pace killed, and with Amboise a weary distance away he foundhimself stranded and disconsolate beside a foundered horse. And linkedto the tragedy of the disjunctive was this other tragedy. It is thegenerous-hearted who pay for the follies of others. Had thebroken-down beast been a cowardly scum it would never have lain acastaway 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 guessedthe truth, but thought it salvation, from behind, down a side-road, clattered a small troop at a quick trot, and taking the middle of thehighway Beaufoy called a halt. 

"In the King's name!" he cried, holding up the hand of authority. Theintoxication of a first commission is almost as self-deceiving as thatof a first love. In his place Philip de Commines, recognizing that hewas outnumbered ten to one, would have been diplomatic. When there isno power to strike, it is always unwise to clench the fist, especiallywhen 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 disabledhorse. "What can I do for you, and why in the King's name?"

"My energy and discretion are my affair, " answered Beaufoy, morenettled 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 horsewithout 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 tightenedthem afresh. "How long from Valmy?"

"That can matter nothing to you; what does matter is that I am on theKing's business and must have a horse. "

"Having, like a fool, killed your own! But that, as you say, is noaffair of mine. When did you leave Valmy?"

"I see no reason----" began Beaufoy, but with a backward gesture theother silenced him. 

"Reasons enough, " he said. "Count them for yourself. For the thirdtime, when did you leave Valmy?"

"This morning, and I warn you that the King will call you to accountfor every minute's delay. "

"You, not me; I did not founder your horse. " The half banter passedfrom his voice, and the bronzed face hardened. "And we have accountsenough 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 theKing's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your mencan 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 theunfortunate Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert andthere was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy been a Philip deCommines he would have known that jest with no laughter at its back ismore 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 yearsthe senior--shook his clenched gauntlet in Beaufoy's face, his owncrimson from the gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. "TheKing! The King! The King!" he cried furiously. "Curse you and yourKing! What devil's plot is that lying old tiger-fox scheming now thatyou ride to death an honester brute than either of you? Whose murdercomes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give some account ofyourself. "

"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, "comedown from your horse and meet me man to man. You'll not ask me to givean account of myself a second time. "

"That is Valmy all over! Give up my advantage that you may gain! Andwho are you with your musts and demands?"

"My name is Beaufoy----"

"Then you are not from Valmy, " broke in the other, running on Beaufoy'sname, "for no faith, beau, bonne, or belle, ever came out of Valmy. "

With a shrug of his shoulders Beaufoy turned on his heel. "Coward aswell as bully, " he began, but at a sign from their leader the troopgathered round, hemming him in in a circle. 

"Now that my reasons are plainer to you, will you answer myquestion--where are you going? No reply? And yet no one understandsthe logic of numbers better than your coward of a master. But I'llhave 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 verylong 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 theblade was out and its point at Beaufoy's throat. "Come, your message?"

But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the quality of itsdefects. 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 ofnational aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the manwho slew without pity could die without fear. If any second incentivewere needed, Beaufoy found it in the gibe at his name. Beaufoy wouldhold good faith let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himselfrigidly he answered nothing. 

"Come, the message! I'll have it, though I rip it out of you. Youwon't answer? Then there is no help for it. Once!"--and the pointtouched--"twice!"--and the point pricked--"three times! Monsieur, youare a brave fool, but on your life do not stir. Grip him by theelbows, Jan. Now you, Michault, go through his pockets. What first?An empty purse! And yet you must have a horse, must you? Was I tocollect its price at Valmy, my good sir? When I go to Valmy it will befor more than the life of a horse. Next, a woman's ribbon! No wonderthe purse was empty. A paper! Give it me--a love-letter! Icongratulate you, Monsieur Beaufoy, and return it without reading thesignature. No doubt the empty purse is justified. May she show asfirm a faith as you have done; her cause is the better of the two. Nowthat. This time we have it. Monsieur Beaufoy, you have doneeverything a brave and honourable gentleman could do. Give me yourparole to hurt neither yourself nor us and Jan will release your arms. "

Panting, every nerve tense with impotent resentment, Paul Beaufoylooked up into the not unkindly eyes turned down to his. Aphysiognomist would have said it was a reckless face rather than anevil one. The blade had been lowered, but Jan's muscular hands stillheld his elbows behind his back in an iron grip; beyond him wasMichault. No prisoner in shackles was more helpless. 

"For this time, " he said between his teeth; "but God granting melife----"

"Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I trust you as I would nevertrust that brute without a soul you call King. Trust the King? Godhelp 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 mercyhas him in its keeping, for he found none in Valmy. " Sheathing hissword he sat back in the saddle and smoothed the looted papercarefully. "Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bringhim to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and onyour life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin. --LOUIS. "

Having read the order through from beginning to end, he read it over asecond time, sentence by sentence, pausing to consider each separately. 

"'Go to Amboise. ' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not wish to ask you anythinga man of honour such as you are cannot answer. Do they know you inAmboise?"

"No, " answered Beaufoy, after a moment's consideration; "and if Ithought it mattered one way or the other, you would get no answer fromme. I am from the north, and a stranger both in Valmy and Amboise. "

"'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy withoutdelay. ' It follows that you do not know this Stephen La Mothe nor heyou?"

"No, " repeated Beaufoy. 

"Nor his offence?"

"Not even that. "

"God knows there need be no offence at all. 'Tell him his orders arecancelled. ' 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 itfair 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 astranger 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 quiterecognized the type of man with whom he had to do--light-hearted, careless, frivolous even up to a certain point, but beyond thatimmovable. To question further would be useless, and almost inviolation of the strange code of honour which permitted unscrupulousviolence 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 ofhis 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 youare, I demand back the King's order. These instructions are for mealone and I must----"

"What? More musts? No, no, you have done all a man of honour cando--except hold your tongue and acknowledge the inevitable. Jan andMichault, take Monsieur Beaufoy into the field yonder, but quietly, courteously. "

"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustledacross the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Someday 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 gatesof 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 hisclosed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King'ssignet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmyif 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; byall the saints, I'll do it. "

"Yes, " said Perrault, and there was a wistful tenderness in his roughvoice, "you may get into Valmy, but, Master Marc, you'll never win outagain. "

"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung inmy 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 lightheart behind it. For the first time since coming to Amboise Stephen LaMothe felt at peace with himself and with all the world, though thelatter is a secondary consideration. As between the two disturbers ofhis comfort a man's most triumphant foe is his conscience. And he hadgood cause for comfort. When at their very worst, things had gone wellwith him, and as he reckoned up his mercies the morning Paul Beaufoyrode post from Valmy, he found his pouch of life full to the rim withwhite 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 givesthe one sweet woman in the world the sweetest of names. For where wasthere a sweeter name than Ursula? So soft, so--so--well, just Ursula. Ursula was safe and had forgiven him. Which of these two mercies wasthe greater he hardly knew; the second, perhaps, since it wasundeserved. He was a very humble lover, as all true lovers should bewho realize, with a wondering incomprehension, that in creating womanlast of all the Lord God had concentrated all the wisdom of His sixdays' experience, and even then only consummated the perfection after aseventh day of thoughtful rest. He did not know that the miracle of aloving 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 whohad grasped the flaw of Saxe's over-proof, and so tumbled the wholefabric of lies into a ruin never to be built up again. For both thesemercies he humbly thanked God. It is to be noted by the student of theways of men that he never gave the Dauphin's safety a thought. He hadrisked his life for the boy, and would risk it again if necessary, riskit cheerfully, but as an abstract proposition he cared little whetherthe Dauphin lived or died. Next after Ursula came Commines. There hadbeen a bitter moment when Commines had tottered on his pedestal, butUrsula's hand had steadied him just when the touch was needed. Ursulaagain! It was marvellous how the whole of Amboise had its orbit roundUrsula. In the end Commines had justified himself, and in that beliefthe loyal heart of Stephen La Mothe found the early May sunshine yetmore pleasant and the air sweeter. 

Nor was there now any fear but that he would leave Amboise with cleanhands. The white horse and the piebald were ambling side by side underhis feet, and all danger of a sprawling tumble between them in the mudwas at an end. And because he would leave Amboise with clean hands hecould without shame say to Ursula de Vesc such things as are the sacredtreasures of the heart's Holy of Holies. At least it would not be anunworthy love he had to offer, unworthy of her acceptance, since noman's love could be fully worthy of Ursula de Vesc, but not unworthy initself. But first he had the King's commission to fulfil, and if Louisreally lay dead at Valmy surely he might violate the letter of hisorders and say, "These are the message of a father's love. " Or, rather, Ursula came first, always first, even before the King'scommission, 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 thatTristan'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 thegates last night. You know at Valmy they do not wait for the sun toset. Shall I let you into a secret I would not have told you afortnight ago?" The white night, its long hours haunted by anxiousthoughts, had left a wan reflection on her face, but now the pallorwarmed; into the tired eyes a little light of laughter flickered, parthumorous, part tender, and the Cupid's bow trembled on its string. "InAmboise we are not so forlorn as you think. The innkeeper atChâteau-Renaud is our very good friend, or how could we have known thata certain Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, a wandering minstrel with lute andknapsack on his back, was coming our way?"

"You knew that?"

"From the first, " she answered, still smiling, but with so kindly araillery that not even a lover could take offence. "Did you think youplayed the part so well that you deceived us? Or that the Dauphin hadsunk so low as to make a friend of the first hedge-singer who came hisway? We were warned from Château-Renaud that you who arrived withMonsieur 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 littlefrightened? You were from Valmy and Valmy is our Galilee: nothing goodcomes 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 herforehead; she, too, had grown ashamed of the first night, ashamed andastonished that she had not understood Stephen La Mothe's transparentgood faith from the very first, "that was precaution. In the Châteauwe could watch the watcher. Then you began that fairy tale and yourface told me you believed it every word. That puzzled me. How couldanything good come out of Valmy? Yet next day you saved the Dauphin'slife and again yesterday. But I am forgetting the King and how we knowthe letter was a lie. Cartier, the innkeeper at Château-Renaud, has ason in Valmy and had been to visit him: the King was on the walls whenhe left before sunset last night. The hangman's letter was a trap tocatch 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 rememberlast night. Saxe, Tristan, the King, Monsieur d'Argenton, and againstthem one weak coward of a girl. They would have lied my life away lastnight; and not mine only, the Dauphin's. "

"Mademoiselle, am I forgiven for my folly of yesterday?" He knew hewas, 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 misunderstandinghim. "You, too, are from Valmy. No, no. I do not mean that. Thatwas a cruel thing to say; it is you who must forgive me, for you arenot of Valmy, you who stood by me and believed in me even when I seemedthe vile thing they called me. "

"The sweetest and truest woman on God's earth, " he said. "I believedin you even before I loved you--no, that is not true, for I think now Iloved you that very first night when you had nothing for me but thecontempt I deserved. Every day since then you have grown sweeter, dearer, more reverenced: so strong for others, so full of courage forothers, so full of thought for others and without a thought foryourself: 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 forit but just hungered, hungered, hungered that a little of the dearwomanly 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 heardhim without interruption. Why should she interrupt what was so sweetto 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 gravityrather, as if in the presence of a solemn sacrament. And surely therevelation of that which is nearest in us to the divine is a truesacrament of the spirit. But when he ended she put out a hand andtouched 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 thinka woman starves for love as a man never can. " From his arm the handstole up and caught him round the neck, the other joining it, and hisface was drawn down to her own. "Am I shameless, beloved? No! forthere is no shame in love, and Stephen, my heart, my hero, my man ofmen, I love you, I love you, I love you. "

But presently, as she lay in his arms, her head drawn into the hollowof that which held her near, the grey eyes smiled up at him in a returnto the tender mockery he knew and loved so well, nor was it less sweetfor the moisture behind the lashes. 

"Yesterday----"

"Hush, beloved, do not talk of yesterday, " nor, for the moment, couldshe. 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 mustteach 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 Homerblind?"

"So they say, " he answered, marvelling much what new shift of thoughtwas coming next. 

"I thought so, " and the smile deepened until the grey eyes shonethrough their thin veil of unshed tears. "And Homer was blindyesterday or he would have seen I expected a very different question. "

"Yes, laugh at my foolishness; I love to see you laugh, you who havelaughed so little all these days. But I think the time of laughter hascome 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 hereyes leaving her once more the woman of many sorrows, and with a sighshe released herself from his clasp. 

"I hate Valmy; I have a horror of it and of your terrible King. Healways seems to me like some dry-hearted, cold-hearted beast ratherthan a man. Is there nothing human in him?"

"He is more human than you think. Ursula, I know it, so you need notshake that dear, wise head of yours. "

"You say so because you are so human yourself. Dear, I love you foryour 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 littlebitter irony which surely might be pardoned. "But how can I help beingafraid? Are you not all I have in the world?"

"Charles?"

"Do you think Charles counts for anything now? And yet he is a dearboy who has the good taste to approve warmly of Monsieur Stephen LaMothe. 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 sowarmly of the dear boy's approval, that if it would not be presumptuoushe would ask his leave to beg his acceptance of a little remembrance ofthese last days. "

"Ask his leave! Poor boy, he would be delighted. Dauphin of Francethough 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 wouldbe 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 theone wisdom of the world. I think I am drunk this morning and it isonly seven o'clock. Is not that scandalous? Love-drunk at seven inthe morning and never to be sober again! Mademoiselle de Vesc, do youknow you are the most beautiful woman in all France?"

"I know I am the happiest, " she answered soberly. "But, Stephen, whathave you got for the boy? I would not be a true woman if I was notcurious. "

"And you are the very truest woman----"

"Stephen, I will not have any more foolishness. Tell me at once whathave you got for Charles?"

"Two small gifts: a coat-of-mail so fine in the links that you couldhold it in your two hands--no! not in your two hands, they are onlylarge enough to hold my heart. Then there is an embroidered mask, atinselled toy of a thing but pretty enough. They will help him todress his plays. Ask him, Ursula, if he will accept them from me eventhough I came by way of Valmy. "

"Would you spoil his pleasure? No, I shall say nothing at all aboutValmy, just that a wandering minstrel be so rich that he can makepresents to a Dauphin of France! Sing me a song, Master Homer theblind, and I will give you--let me see: no, not what you think--asilver livre!" But she did not wait for his music. Dropping him alittle demure, mocking curtsy she turned and ran down the box-edgedpath, 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!" andthe 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 rosearches 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 rosein a garden, there are, Heaven be thanked, more flowers than leaveswhen life's at May; and either way the world is with us. "

"And you were the gaping world!" answered La Mothe, vexed for Ursula'ssake that Villon of the bitter tongue should have discovered theirsecret. "Was that friendly of you?"

"Not gaping, no! But is a man to close his eyes when heaven opens? Ibeg you to believe, " he went on with great dignity, "that just so soonas I made certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you to yourrose-gathering. Observe I have not said one word about the thorns. That is the stale gibe of the cynic whose heart of youth has driedbefore its time. And what if there are thorns? A single rose with thedew 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 ofmy teaching, I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe. "

"Saxe!" cried La Mothe. "Never once have I thought of Saxe, never onceall 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, Villonrapped loudly on the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until aservant familiar with his ways answered the summons. "My friend, fetchme a bottle of wine, one single bottle from the furthest-in bin on theright-hand side of the cellar. It is the '63 vintage, " he explained toLa Mothe, "and I have the best of reasons for knowing Saxe will notobject. "

"But why one bottle only?"

"I have been invited to a certain presentation, " he answered, thecrow's feet round his twinkling eyes deepening as he laughed. "Thanks, my friend, " he went on as the drawer returned with the wine; "place iton the table and retire to your kitchen to meditate on the mutabilityof human fortune in the person of the greatest poet of his age, fromthe Guest of the Three-legged Maid of Montfaucon to 'Francois Villon, my friend' of the Dauphin of France! At last they are beginning toappreciate me at the Château. "

"But what of Saxe?"

"Ah, Saxe?" Filling his horn mug he emptied it with such slowsatisfaction that the flavour of no single drop of the wine missed hispalate. "Saxe's best friend had been before me this morning. "

"But Monsieur de Commines' orders were strict, only you and I were tosee 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, hashanged himself. "

"Hanged himself? Saxe?"

"An intelligent anticipation, " said Villon, nodding thoughtfully. "Idid not think he had so much good sense or good feeling. He alwaysstruck 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 knowyou do not mean what you say. "

"Every word of it. Hanged he would have been in any case, that wasinevitable. I warned him last night that he knew too much, and thatmore went into Amboise than came out again. And was it not better heshould go to his end quietly, decently, just God and himself alonetogether--the Good God who understands us so much better than we doourselves 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 inthe market-place, with all the world agape at the terror of it, theworld that licks its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbetingof wretches no worse than itself? Think of the terror of it! Think ofthe shame of it! The men he had drunk with, the women he had laughedwith, the children he had played with, all ringed round him to see himdie. And there he would hang till his bones dropped, a shame and ablot on the clean face of the earth, blackened by the heat, drenchedwhite by the rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while thepies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, a waste rag ofhumanity. Come now, which is the decenter?"

"Poor Saxe!"

"If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no dew on the rosesthis morning. He would have lied Mademoiselle de Vesc to death withouta 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 nothingto her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold tospend through a whole day of life, " a cynical truth La Mothe was toremember 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, tobe serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a secondbottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his lifelike a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he wouldhave bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is noinfection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think ofit, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between usthree 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, Ipalmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off uponmademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and--bah! your presentation will saveus 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 choosepresentation. Or, " he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at LaMothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it anotherintelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better--aremembrance. The King--God bless him!--will presently die in earnest;the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen LaMothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget thestairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases inprinces. When, lo!--a wise youth you are, La Mothe--a remembrance jogshis recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards MonsieurStephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over. Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligentanticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way ofremembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophetsfare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-footrope may be infectious after all. "

"Villon, you are quite wrong. "

"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh fewrecover from. But let us go to the Château. " Pushing the unemptiedbottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour hadchanged; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face werethose of age, not laughter. 

CHAPTER XXXII

LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION

Partly to divert the boy from his grief at Hugues' death, but partlyalso as an outlet for her new-found lightness of heart, Ursula de Vescwould have turned what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into aplayful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand Turk, seated on adivan of shawls and cushions, would receive the envoy of the Sultan ofAfrica bringing presents from his master. It would be just such a playof make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe proposed topresent the offering in the name of the King of the Genie her zestwaned, and a little alloy seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day. That would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, shedeclared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the night's amusement. 

So only she, Father John, and the dogs were present in the Dauphin'sprivate apartment, study and playroom in one, when La Mothe and Villonentered. As is almost always the case, the room reflected many of thecharacteristics of its owner, and in its ordered disorder, its hints ofstudies, its litter of wooden swords and broken dog-whips, might beseen the boy who was almost man in gravity and yet still a child in achild's love of toys. Rising as the two were announced, his effort atdignity was sorely marred by the eager curiosity with which he eyed thelinen bundle carried by La Mothe. 

"So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, and we will have nomore 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 thesignificance 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 togetherwithout quarrelling. Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur LaMothe, 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 togive. 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 alwayspushing your nose where it is not wanted. What have you in thatnapkin, Monsieur La Mothe?"

"For your acceptance, Monseigneur----"

"Charles, not Monseigneur, " said Ursula softly. "You will be callingme mademoiselle next!"

"Hush, Ursula! I cannot hear what Monsieur La Mothe says if you keepchattering. For my acceptance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give mepresents; 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, "andsome 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 LaMothe, laying the package on the table, busied himself untying theknotted corners, "I know very well all you have done for me; but whathave you there?"

"Wait, my son, wait; you will know all in good time. " But when theFranciscan would have laid a restraining hand on the Dauphin'sshoulder, Villon twitched him by the sleeve of his robe. 

"Hush, man, hush! Had you never young blood in you? Why, I am likeCharlot 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 allround, and no offence to you, Father John. "

Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points, La Mothe shook it outand held it hanging with such a careful carelessness that thelamplight, picking out each separate link, fired its length and breadthinto a dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through by thecolder blue of hammered steel. With every cunning, unseen movement ofthe fingers a ripple from the throat rolled downward and out at theedges in a white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he caughtit in his open hands, shaking them till it settled so compactly downthat 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, theexclamation, were so pathetically eloquent of a stinted, starved, neglected childhood that a rush of passionate resentment swept acrosshim in arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those commonjoys which are childhood's natural food and rightful heritage. To be aman in responsibilities, a man bearing the burden and sorrows of hisyears, without having first been a boy at heart is more than anirreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy which haskilled the purest sweetener of the sours of life. Rob the twig of itssunshine and you rob the tree of its strength. But even while theflame of his anger scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had comethe gifts which brightened the boy's eyes, and was ashamed. Had he notsaid 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 likeRoland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. Oh, thank you, Monsieur LaMothe, 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 themouth. "

"I don't think I like that so well. Yes, I do! For now I can be theman who attacked the Burnt Mill yesterday--he wore a mask, youremember. Poor Hugues! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that Imight show him my armour. But I will show it to Blaise instead. Youknow Blaise is to sleep at my door now? Come, Father John, while Ishow 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 thecoat-of-mail--no one else must use them. "

For a moment it seemed as if Villon, vexed at what he took to be arebuke for presumption, would have pushed aside La Mothe's protestinghand, but with a shrug of his shoulders he gave way. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he said, turning the edge of the awkwardnesswith a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should seethey 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 thedoor, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin halfdragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaisehis treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve, his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, andwas hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm. 

"More and more you are my dear, " she whispered, her lips so near hisear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It wasa 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 suddenlyred?

Left to promptings of his own desires, Charlot the inquisitive debatedwhether the door or the table offered the better field for amusementand improving observation. The door, with its group of three crowdedinto the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage-way, promisedwell, but the table was nearer and forbidden, which promised better. Besides, some play he did not share was in progress, and he owed it tothe dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once already, when hetried to push his nose into that linen package, he had been baulked. Rearing himself on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of theDauphin's chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the chairwas blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon the seat, his earscocked, his head aslant. 

So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with anenquiring mind. There was something new on the table, somethingstrange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiositywas piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitchingnose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, sonew 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 histeeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by hissuccess he looked about him. The humans were at the door talkingquietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-même were biting oneanother's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and couldinvestigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the maskface downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as hesniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under himrigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a littlesoft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legsrelaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buriedin the hollow of the mask. 

"In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of France herself!" saidVillon as they turned back from the doorway. 

"And perhaps his plays may waken something of the Maid's great soul inhim. " Then, before La Mothe could tell her that she herself had shownmuch of Joan's strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfishspirit, she added, "It was a sorrowful year when France lost so great asoul. "

"But France is never long bereaved, " replied Villon, and from his tonethey could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soulwent, a great soul came--I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is norespecter of the rights of princes. "

"Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursulade Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; butat 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. Theplump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen, Charlot is dead!"

"Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; butthe limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on theshoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched backfrom the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be nodoubt--Charlot's days of curiosity were ended. 

"Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" Butwhen reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villonanticipated 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'stoy 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 buthad recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances, luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselvestogether in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How putin words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villonwho gave her the key. 

"Poison. "

"Poison?" she repeated, shrinking in a natural repulsion. "Poison on amask you gave the Dauphin? Stephen, how could that be? But you mustanswer, you must tell us, " she insisted as he shook his head for thesecond time, "you must, you must!"

"I cannot. " He spoke curtly, harshly, but the determination wasunmistakable. 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 eyesturned upon the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had passedhis word to the King to be silent, and even if he spoke, the truthwould only add horror to horrors. "Ursula--beloved!" Laying Charloton the table he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught inboth hers, and he himself drawn into her arms. 

"Doubt you? No, Stephen, no, no; I trust you utterly--utterly. Andcannot you trust me? We have the boy to think of--the Dauphin--he mustbe 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 forthe 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 thecoat-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 ofthe three, and the tragedy in little, which so nearly had been atragedy in great, had so shaken his nerve that he controlled his tonguewith difficulty. 

"Yes, " he said slowly, "that is why he is in Amboise, and he never knewit. There were two arrows on the string, Saxe and this. And it mighthave been me. " He turned to La Mothe. "You saved me; but for you itwould have been me. "

But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the moment it seemed as if he hadforgotten Villon's existence altogether. His arms were round the girl, one hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her fears, loverfashion, and comfort her with his nearness. But his thoughts were inValmy, a thin, tired voice whispering in his ears, a white face whoseeyes 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 thisvery night. Saxe used to keep a horse always ready, " he ended, withthe 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 youknow more than Saxe ever guessed at. "

"Saxe dead?" said Ursula, turning to Villon in her distress. "MonsieurVillon, how did Saxe die?"

"Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let himgo anywhere--anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, andMonsieur 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 strongto go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surelyto be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin mustknow 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 upa tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs--anything that he may notsee the pain on your dear face. He is coming back--listen how helaughs, 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 sofull of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness ofliving, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphinof France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I wouldrather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask. "

"Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot hastorn 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 Iwant it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am veryangry with you. "

"Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never havesaid 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 ofpassion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance andtears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders underthe coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done. 

"You are right, Father, though you do come from Valmy. Monsieur LaMothe, I am sorry for what I said, and do not forget you are to call meCharles. Ursula, you have been crying; is that because Charlot spoiltmy mask?"

"No, Charles; but because Monsieur La Mothe must go to Valmy. "

"Oh! Valmy?" he said dully. "I am never happy but somehow it isValmy, 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 hellthey hate, do they not? Monsieur Villon, " he went on as the poetre-entered the room, "they were talking of Valmy as I passed thestair-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 andyet drawn to the comfort of a strength greater than his own. All hispride of possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and insteadof wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed spirit looked out of hisdull 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 sostirred La Mothe's heart, she held him close to her, the anxiety of herwatchfulness no less evident than his own. The darkness of her dreadhad deepened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, no good toStephen 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 ayard or two within the room. Four or five troopers showed behind himin the doorway, but made no attempt to cross the threshold. All weredusty, travel-stained, and with every sign of having ridden both farand fast. Their leader alone was bareheaded, his sheathed sword caughtup in a gauntleted hand. 

"In the King's name, Monseigneur, " he said, turning to the Dauphin witha salute which halted evenly between respect and contempt. But theDauphin only shrank closer to Ursula de Vesc and it was La Mothe whoanswered. 

"You are from Valmy?"

"By order of the King. "

"With despatches?"

"With instructions, and, " he paused, motioning to the open doorwaybehind 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 theinstinct of attack: her love for the boy was satisfied with a passivitywhich could never content her love for the man. 

"If I could tell you, I would, " he replied courteously, "but I fearMonsieur La Mothe must ask the King that question himself. I knownothing 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 aredirected. "

"Certainly; no doubt you can identify the writing. "

"I can, " answered Ursula, stretching out her hand for the paper whichwould have been Beaufoy's passport to promotion but for his unluckyappetite. But it was withheld in obvious hesitation. 

"Remember, mademoiselle, that if it is destroyed, I still have themeans behind me----"

"Oh, monsieur, " she interrupted, striking at him with her tongue andfinding a relief in the contempt, "it is easy to see you come fromValmy. "

A sour smile crossed his face as the colour rose at the gibe, but heonly 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, '" sheread, "'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, and bring him to Valmywithout delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life lethim hold no communication with the Dauphin. --LOUIS. '" With everysentence her voice hardened; spots of colour flecked the pallor of hercheeks, grew and deepened. "It is vile, infamous, contemptible, " shesaid, "but it is like your King. Yes! You come from Valmy, there canbe no doubt you come from Valmy. Stephen, I shall speak. Useless?Perhaps; but I shall speak all the same. Your King has hid spies inAmboise, we know that, spies who can lie or tell the truth as it suitstheir master. Through them the King knows that Monsieur La Mothe hastwice 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 forcethat lent her words power and meaning, "now he is to hold nocommunication with the Dauphin! Monsieur La Mothe may set his own lifeon the hazard to save the Dauphin but he may not speak with him! Thatis Valmy gratitude and the King's miserable, jaundiced mind. And hiscommission 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 andtravelling behind to where the Dauphin stood hugging the wall withDiane and Lui-même at his feet. The significance of the glance wasunmistakable, and the girl paused, breathless, in the revelation. Thegifts were his commission, the mask which killed Charlot was hiscommission, and the commission was cancelled. The King had repented, had he not repented there would be no cancellation. "Yes, " repeated LaMothe, "very humbly I thank God, nor do I think the King can have heardas 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 canunderstand that I have no option. "

"I quite understand, and here is my sword. Monseigneur--no, since youpermit it, Charles, my friend, I leave you in good keeping. You willhave Mademoiselle de Vesc, Father John, and Villon here, to watch overyou. Villon, beware of that third cast of the net. I think that isnow the one great danger. "

"La Mothe, La Mothe, must you go? Is there no other way? RememberMolembrais. "

"What other way is possible? The King has my word, and if that werenot enough there are what Monsieur de Commines would call five goodreasons behind the door. Monsieur, you have my parole. Somethingstronger than your five reasons holds me. Good-bye, Charles, myfriend----"

But somewhere in the boy's blood a dash of the Crusader's spirit he hadsneered at stirred. Brushing past Ursula de Vesc he ranged himself byLa Mothe's side, his coat-of-mail an undulating pool of light as whenthe moon shines on a falling wave pitted by the wind. 

"Monsieur from Valmy, Mademoiselle de Vesc is right. You may tell myfather that Monsieur La Mothe has twice saved my life and that allAmboise knows it. That he saved me may not count for much in Valmy--itmay even be against him--but what all Amboise knows all France willknow. 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'tthink 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 sooncome back to us. "

"Monseigneur--Charles!" cried La Mothe, taking the stretched-out handin both his, "you are a gallant little gentleman. No; I do not thinkyou will forget to be Roland. God save the Dauphin!"

"Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe. Monsieur from Valmy, you have my leaveto go. Come, Father John. " With a stiff little bow he hooked his arminto the brown sleeve of the Franciscan, and the two left the room. 

"I think, monsieur, " said Ursula de Vesc, "the Dauphin speaks thesentiments of us all. You have Monsieur La Mothe's parole: he willfollow you in five minutes. "

But how spirit drew to spirit as lip to lip in these five minutes needsnot to be told. Whoso has seen love go out of life, uncertain ofreturn, will understand. But if that morning there had been a passingbehind the veil into the holy of holies where immortal love dwelleth, then in these five minutes there was the very throbbing of the heartwhich 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 evena ballad can save him. "

CHAPTER XXXIV

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

But for two happenings by the way Stephen La Mothe's ride over theroute taken twenty-four hours earlier by Commines was without event. Of these happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in mercy thebitter 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 aprearranged plan his followers gathered round them, hemming them into acircle as they had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day. 

"Monsieur La Mothe, " he said civilly, but speaking with the air of aman who had a fixed purpose, "there is a certain signet which I mustdemand. 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 PaulBeaufoy would have appreciated. 

"Your instructions said nothing about a signet. "

"I must have it, nevertheless. You can see for yourself that the orderwas written in haste, and how should I know the ring exists if the Kinghad not told me? To be frank with you, these men do not go with us allthe way to Valmy, and where would I be if, when we arrived, you playedyour signet against my scrap of paper?"

"But you have my parole. "

"Valmy's parole!" he said scornfully. "I mean no offence, but I canafford no risks. Come, Monsieur La Mothe, do not put me and yourselfto the indignity of a search. "

At the contempt in the scornful voice La Mothe started, flushing hotlyin the darkness. But the memory of the deadly deceit practised on hisown faith was too recent, and he controlled himself. How could heblame a stranger for judging the servant by the master?

"The ring came from the King and should go back to the King. On yourhonour, is this part of your duty?"

"My most solemn duty, as God is above us; without the signet I cannotfulfil all that has been laid upon me"--which was true in a sense. Theorder stolen from Beaufoy might gain him entrance to Valmy, but withoutthe signet he could not count on forcing a way to Louis himself. 

"On compulsion, then, " said La Mothe, giving up the signet, andthenceforward they rode in silence, not pressing their horses unduly;but it vexed him to think that Louis would not trust him to return thering. 

If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could blame him or charge itto the discredit of his courage? The rough lesson had been roughlytaught that it is better to tramp the road of life afoot and one's ownmaster 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 whichpucker the mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As to theways of women, that is an altogether different book--a serial, let ussay, but in how many numbers?

Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun of a new day hadrisen. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the auberge where PaulBeaufoy had purchased breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, the troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from which LaMothe was excluded, and the two rode on alone. Each was preoccupiedand neither spoke. Knowing the relationship which existed betweenValmy and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange in theprocedure followed both at the Château and afterwards. If the Kingsuspected he had joined the camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might havebeen resisted; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, there wasno further need for force. The King who kept no faith was shrewd toknow when he could trust the faith of others, and the troopersdoubtless were required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at adistance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais' flight in the desperatepossibility of his escape from Valmy. 

Unconsciously following the precedent set by Commines, they drew reinwhile it was yet dark. Daylight, both knew, would show Valmy in thedistance. But as they crawled at a foot's pace in the yet darkershadow of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a sullen greyribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the horizon like an inverted giantmonolith, there sounded behind them the remote pad, pad of rapid hoofsmuffled by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when even natureis steeped in the quiet of a child's sleep, and the rhythmic beat brokethe stillness like the throbbing of a heart. 

"This way and be silent. "

La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught, wrenching his horsebackward into a gloom so heavy that those behind them would have passedthem by but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the bit, tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. Instantly theforemost rider checked, and a voice called out of the darkness, "Who isthere? Stephen! Stephen!" It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch ofthe spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, dragging the rein from thehand 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 shallbe together to the end. "

"But the Dauphin?"

"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer anyfear for the Dauphin. And if there was, " she added half defiantly, "Iwould 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 tellhim--that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-bemurderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as allFrance shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the mostloyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be toolate, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmybefore 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. Youtook your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, mustnot, 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 todissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in thelittle time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?"

"Do you mean, " demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will giveadmission 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 sideof 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, Ihold your parole. "

"But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe's parole. "

"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do withyou. "

"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but Ibelieve 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 tothe 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 endmay be. Yes, " he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seenin the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short ofkilling me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you canturn 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 facedwith him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. Theleaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the comingglory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divinehad clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit mighttake comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid. 

Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat insilence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and theKing 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 noharm. "

"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 sleeplesseyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance ofescape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once onlyMolembrais 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, hewas mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, they had changed horses at Château-Renaud, and now their freshness morethan balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, theweakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiffwith 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 firsttime speech was possible. 

"Stephen, you are not vexed? I could not wait in Amboise eating myheart out, knowing nothing. "

"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across thecurrent. "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 couldspeak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses werescrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart. 

"God guard you, Ursula. "

"Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, butnot in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might besaid in Valmy. 

Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up withhim. 

"We must keep together now. If I have done my part courteously, helpme in return by silence. Remember, no one in Valmy knows of thearrest. Mademoiselle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves. "

La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was natural. For his part hehad no desire to be a target for curious questions. He had noexplanation to give, nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, he knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining the Dauphin'sparty. As to Ursula, it seemed safer for her to be disassociated fromhim in either case; safer, too, that the King should see him first andalone; the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two rode onahead, Ursula and Father John following more leisurely. The dawn wasas 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 shouteda command to halt, but Molembrais, holding the signet above his head, called back "In the King's name, " and rode on. Every moment of gloomwas precious, and a bold assertion of privilege was his surest hope. If he appeared to doubt his own credentials, who would believe? Thereis 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 theouter gate with every appearance of haste. 

"In the King's name, " he cried, scarcely giving himself time to lightupon his feet and holding fast by Paul Beaufoy's formula. "To HisMajesty, Monsieur La Mothe and I--quickly now. "

As he more than half expected, the very importunity staggeredopposition. 

"His Majesty is asleep; you cannot pass----"

"His orders are imperative--sleeping or waking--any hour by day or bynight. Who is on guard?"

"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. "

"Send for him, then. Stir yourself, my man, and don't stand theregaping like a fish. "

But Saint-Pierre had already heard the altercation, and at the rasp ofhis spurs on the flags Molembrais turned sharply. Quick to note thericher dress he drew his own conclusion. Waiting for neither questionnor explanation he again held out the signet. 

"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, we must see the King at once--at once, youunderstand. 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 haverisked my neck galloping these accursed roads all night to be delayednow just because you do not know me? Is it the King's signet or is itnot?"

"Pass, then, " said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. "Does Monsieur La Mothego with you?"

For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say no? He would havegiven 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 wakenthat suspicion which slept so lightly in Valmy. While he paused, LaMothe answered, deciding the question. 

"Unfortunately, yes, Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. Will you please tellMonsieur de Commines that I have arrived?"

"Is it arrest? My dear lad----" he began as La Mothe nodded, butMolembrais 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 ofValmy?"

"Monsieur, a little civility would do you no harm. "

"Monsieur, once I have seen the King I will be as civil or as uncivilas you please. "

Turning on his heel Saint-Pierre beckoned to an under officer. "Passthese gentlemen to Captain Leslie: he is on duty in the King'sante-room. Don't fear, La Mothe, I will send word to Monsieur deCommines without delay. He is anxious about you, for he has beenenquiring at the gates once this morning already. "

"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, there is a lady behind us; she has riddenall 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, Ihave been young myself, " and with that La Mothe had to be content. 

Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais took up his positionlast of the three. Now that he was within its walls the indefinableterror of Valmy possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was notthat he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly determined, not that he had grown coward or would have turned back had return beenpossible, but the chill of the shadows through which the path lay creptdeeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, in part theinexpressible revolt of nature against an inevitable sacrifice, in partthe sinister suggestions inseparable from Valmy itself. 

And how could he escape from that suggestiveness? There, where thedenser gloom sloped from the roof across a paved courtyard, Guy'sscaffold might have stood; through that doorway, dimly outlined againstthe greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light for the last time;these obscure, uncertain windows, blind eyes in the slowly waningnight, might have seen the axe fall; down these cellar stairs mighthave 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 herepented, not that he had turned coward, but would fate andcircumstances trick him of his revenge at the last?

There are some men whom the dread of failure chills to the heart whenthe crisis calls them, and Marc de Molembrais was one of them. He hadno definite plan of either attack or escape. How could he have, whenevery angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room through whichthey passed was strange to him? But if he had no plan, he had apurpose firmly set in his determination, which neither gloom nor chillcould check; from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice ofrevenge, he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow he wouldget Louis of France into his grip, and somehow he would break toliberty. At the door of the King's ante-room Leslie met them, andtheir guide stepped aside: his work was done. 

In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinctively he felt thatneither bluster nor importunity would serve him now. Then he glancedaside at La Mothe. "We must see the King and at once, " he almostwhispered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his dread offailure he feared the excitement in his voice would betray him at thelast. 

"Where from?"

"Amboise. "

Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy should go and astranger 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 swordfor the one thrust necessary, then to aid him in his escape, or atleast that he might die fighting. 

"Don't you know that no one approaches the King armed? not even I, noteven Lessaix. There is nothing personal in it. "

"No, I never heard that. " He stood a minute, gnawing his lip, thenwrenched the buckle open. What matter, he had his dagger hidden!

Laying the weapon aside, Leslie softly lifted the portière, holding itlooped with one hand while with the other he opened the door verygently. 

"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 endalmost 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 aquietness rare in one so roughly natured and so strongly built. ButLouis 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. Looseningthe wick in its socket with the silver pin hanging from the lamp forthat purpose, Leslie returned to the door. 

"Are you ready, Sire?"

An affirmative wave of the hand was the answer, as, high upon hispillows and pushed to the very outer edge of the bed, the King leanedforward. Was he ready? He dared not say so. Words do not come easilywhen 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 GodI'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 littleof kings' courts. Leave them on the table. You can pick them up asyou go out. "

"I know my duty, " answered Molembrais, "and that is enough for me. " Tospeak sharply steadied his nerve. But at the door he stood aside andmotioned to La Mothe. "Do you go in first. " Again it was not that hiscourage failed him, but La Mothe would be so much covert, La Mothewould draw the King's attention. It would ruin everything if, while hewas 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'sface he drew a shivering sigh and clenched his teeth with a snap. Lifeor death had passed the door--which was it?

"Come nearer, " he said, beckoning. "Nearer yet. You, Beaufoy, staythere by the door. The Dauphin?--Charles?"

"Well, Sire. "

"Well!" The beckoning hand dropped, then he leaned forward, coveringhis face. "Oh, God--God--God--God be thanked!" he sobbed, hisshoulders shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. "God bethanked!" La Mothe heard him whisper a second time, and in the silenceMolembrais crept forward and aside, edging by the wall where theshadows were thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench thelamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he stole towards thetable. 

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 thecompleted 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 thetable?" His voice rose shrilly into a cry. "That is not Paul Beaufoy. "

The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than the wordsthemselves warned La Mothe. Round he spun, irresolute in surprise. Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reachedfor the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that lightclear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears--"Amartlet with three mullets in chief. " Then the lamp flickered out. 

"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, asthey twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in anindrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the deadhad risen. 

Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yettighter, La Mothe fought for his life. Molembrais was the stronger, Molembrais was the more desperate, and desperation is a strength initself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped andfell; 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 rolledupon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the roomwas 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 thedoorway, stood Ursula de Vesc; by the bedside Father John stooped abovethe 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 GodI knew him at the last. "

By the bedside the Franciscan stooped lower, whispering in the King'sear--whispering urgently, insistently, pleadingly. What he said noneheard, 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 keepsilence, was I not right? Amboise was dull, and queen and waiting-maidare all of the one flesh? Mademoiselle, take him back to Amboise withyou and watch together over my son, the Dauphin, and the God of Mercybe 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 theFranciscan's neck, drawing him closer, and as he whispered to thepriest 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. Whogiveth this woman to this man?"

"I do, " answered Louis. 

Seven years after the boy Charles succeeded to the throne a certainStephen de Vesc, chamberlain to the King, was appointed, first, Seneschal of Beaucaire, then Governor of Gaeta, and finally Constableof France. Could it be that Stephen La Mothe adopted his wife's nameto please the Dauphin? Such changes are not unknown in our day, andfor less cause.