The Justice of the King Part 27

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

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

"Villon is right!" cried La Mothe. "Monsieur d'Argenton--Uncle--thank G.o.d, Villon is right. Guy de Molembrais was alive a week before we left Valmy. Saxe has lied, lied, lied. Do you see it, Uncle? I knew he lied. Oh, you hound! you hound! And you had a letter from Valmy this afternoon? That accounts----"

"Hush, Monsieur La Mothe, hush." Rising from her chair Ursula de Vesc almost put her hand over La Mothe's mouth in her efforts to silence him. "You have said enough; do not say too much--too much for yourself. Charles, Charles, let us thank G.o.d together," and, turning from La Mothe, she caught the boy in her arms, drawing him to her breast in a pa.s.sion of relief. It was not difficult to see what her chief anxiety had been. "Monsieur d'Argenton, surely you are satisfied now?"

Was he satisfied? By no means. But Commines was spared the embarra.s.sment of an immediate reply. The door, which Villon had just quitted, was thrown hastily open and a servant entered, a sealed envelope in his hand. Ignoring the Dauphin utterly--and it was indicative of the estimate in which the boy was held--he turned to Commines.

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

"From Valmy? But this is not the King's--there! you can go. See that the messenger is well cared for."

With his thumb under the silk thread which, pa.s.sing through the seal, secured the envelope, Commines paused and, in spite of all his trained self-control, his face changed. Of all the emotions, fear is, perhaps, the most difficult to conceal because of its widely varied shades of expression. With some it is a tightening of the nostrils, with others a compression of the lips, a change of colour, or a line between the brows. It may even be the laugh of an a.s.sumed carelessness, a pretence at jest, but upon one and all it leaves some sign. The seal was not the King's seal, and the handwriting was strange to him.

"Saxe, if you have lied, it will go hard with you, understand that.

No, I can hear nothing now; tomorrow, perhaps, or next day. Monsieur Villon, place him in safety for to-night, he must not be allowed to leave the Chateau."

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

"Hold your tongue, you fool," said Villon, hustling him through the doorway; "would you make bad worse, or do you want to hang twice over?"

But even when the door was shut behind them Commines stood irresolute.

There are times when to be alone is the instinct of nature, and this was one of them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, some reverse, a disaster even. Louis' last letter, received that very day, had been harsh in tone, curt to severity, its few words full of a personal complaint which his pride had concealed from Stephen La Mothe.

It had been more than a rebuke, it had been a warning, almost a threat.

Now upon its heels came this, and he knew that of the three who watched him curiously two were his open enemies. If it was his dismissal, his downfall, there would be no pity. But to be alone was impossible. The situation had to be faced there and then. "With your permission.

Monseigneur?" he said, and tore the envelope open.

It was a short letter, as many fateful letters are, and Commines read it in a glance, then a second time. "My G.o.d!" they heard him say twice over, drawing in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him suddenly.

Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the paper, then as unconsciously smoothed it out again. The instinct to be alone had possessed him like a prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick of finding an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitariness he desired had come upon him. He forgot he was not alone, and the truest solitude is the isolation of the spirit when the material world slips from us, and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to face with his own soul. So he stood, the paper shaking in his shaking hands, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he shifted his eyes, and as they fell upon the Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc's arms, the skirt of the white robe half wrapped round him, his head almost upon her breast, he straightened himself with an effort.

"Monseigneur," he began, "the King----" but the words choked in his throat. His coa.r.s.e, healthy face had gone wan and grey, now it flushed and a rush of tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of the head he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe saw him struggling for self-control. "The King is dead," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "G.o.d have mercy on us all; the King is dead--dead."

From the boy his eyes had travelled upwards, following the protecting arm which lay across the slender shoulders, and it was Ursula de Vesc who answered. Charles had caught her hand in both his and held it pressed against his breast. It was clear that he did not understand, but the full meaning of the tragedy of death is not comprehensible in a single moment, nor was the girl's answer much more than an exclamation.

"Monsieur d'Argenton! The King? The King dead?"

"Dead," he said dully, "the greatest King that France has ever known, the greatest mind that was alive in France. In France? In Europe!

There was none like him--none. A great King, great in his foresight, great in his wisdom, great in his love for France; a great King, and he is dead. But yesterday, this very day even, he held the peace of nations in the hollow of his hand, now---- Why, how poor a thing is man. Dead! dead! But his monument is a great nation, a new France; and who shall hold France in her pride of place amongst the nations where his dead hand raised her? Dead; the Great King and my friend."

CHAPTER XXV

"IT IS A TRAP"

This time no one broke the silence, and for a little s.p.a.ce the quiet was like the reverent stillness of a death-chamber. The awe inseparable from sudden death possessed them. And yet, after the first shock of natural horror, La Mothe was conscious of a great relief. Not till then did he realize how tense the strain had been, how acute the fear. But at the slow dropping of Commines' bitter-hearted words there came a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to find a gladness in such a cause of grief. For the loss to France he cared little. To him Louis had been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not Louis, then another, and France would still be France. But as Commines turned away and, following that other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal, hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he leaned against the wall, the lad's heart went out in sympathy to the man who had lost his friend. And surely over and above his greatness of mind there must have been some deep heart of goodness in the dead man when he moved affection to such a grief. But at last the silence came to an end, and again it was Ursula de Vesc who spoke.

"Monsieur d'Argenton, you will, of course, go to Valmy at once?"

"To Valmy?" Commines brushed his hand across his forehead with a characteristic gesture and paused, hesitating. "Why--I--Monseigneur, have you nothing to say?"

"What is there to say?" answered the boy. "Do you think he loves me any better than he did? Why are you in Amboise at all?"

It was only a bow at a venture, the ill-tempered fling of a petulant boy, but the shaft struck home. Why was he in Amboise? His hope was that the full purpose of his lengthened stay at the castle would never be known, the truth would ruin him with the new King, ruin him utterly.

Hastily he searched his memory how far he had committed himself. Not too deeply, he thought, so far as Charles was concerned. Ursula de Vesc was of less consequence, and Saxe could always be made a scapegoat. Saxe had lied, Saxe had deceived him, and, except Stephen La Mothe, no one knew how ready he had been to be deceived. Perhaps Saxe had also deceived the father? Yes, he would take that line, if necessary; Saxe was the evil genius of them all, but the first essential was to placate the boy with a generality. Liars and successful diplomatists are rapid thinkers, and no too obvious a silence followed Charles' blunt question.

"Monseigneur, for ten years I have been your father's trusted and faithful servant----"

"Ursula, I am tired and shall go to bed. Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe, but I do not think you need sleep at my door. To-night I shall be safe. All the same, I would be Dauphin again if it could bring Hugues back. I don't understand what it means to be King; perhaps in time I shall see the difference. Good night, Ursula. I do not know what they were saying to you, but they had better leave you in peace. Good night, Monsieur La Mothe."

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

"Can you blame him? He is a very loyal boy, and was quite honest when he said he would be the Dauphin again if that would bring Hugues back, and as Dauphin he has been miserably unhappy."

"He is very fortunate in your love, mademoiselle." Commines had never heard Villon's opinion, but it was his own, and he acted upon it promptly. Win the girl and the boy will follow.

"I loved him for himself and for his unhappiness," she answered simply.

"But will you not return to Valmy at once? Surely death does not end all service!"

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

"You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Monsieur d'Argenton, but the King was so jealous and, may I add, so generous, it would vex his ghost to think he was so soon forgotten."

"Mademoiselle, I serve France, and to-night France is in Amboise."

"Is the letter from Coictier, his doctor, Uncle?" Hitherto La Mothe had kept silence. He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found himself in a difficulty. In spite of his grat.i.tude and reverence for Commines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounder judgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned a dead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of a moment. Surely the grave should first shut out all that was mortal of the old obedience? And yet, because of that unfailing grat.i.tude and profound faith, he could not join with the girl in her open condemnation. But crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his head as if the question was distasteful.

"No."

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

But after each name Commines made a gesture of dissent, pushing the paper into his pocket at the last to end the questioning.

"Not from any of these?" said mademoiselle. "Who, then, has written?

Surely the Dauphin has a right to know?"

"Tristan," answered Commines, and, turning, he looked her full in the face.

"Tristan?" she said icily, drawing herself back with a movement which La Mothe recognized by an unhappy experience. "You choose your friends strangely."

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

"And yet out of all Valmy it is Tristan--and Tristan only--who is friend enough to send the terrible news to Monsieur d'Argenton? Is that not strange? Monsieur d'Argenton, you are a learned man; is there not some proverb about distrusting the Greeks when they bring presents?"

"Tristan would never dare to spread such a report never, never."

"But Tristan's master might. You don't think so? Forgive me if I am suspicious, but can you wonder, you of all men? In Amboise we have learned to doubt everything, even the friends who are ready to die for us," and, with a sudden impulse, as natural and gracious as it was touching, she held out her hand to La Mothe, a wistful, kindly tenderness, deeper than the emotion of grat.i.tude, moistening her eyes.