The Justice of the King Part 31

"G.o.d's name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for himself?"

"I had forgotten. To-day's blessed relief drove it from my head. Can you blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, as I left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell him that within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me.'"

"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you told me the truth to-day? Charles? My son? That he said those things?

More hangs on it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as I have made you what you are, do not deceive me."

"Most true, Sire; I would plead for the Dauphin----"

"Plead? What need have you to plead, you or any man? Plead? Your officiousness goes too far. Is he not my son? Who is on duty?"

"Beaufoy, Sire."

"Pray G.o.d 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 G.o.d there is time. Send Beaufoy--do you not hear? Send Beaufoy, send Beaufoy this instant! Beaufoy! Beaufoy! And, Philip, have the fastest horse in Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make haste, for the love of Heaven, make haste! Beaufoy! Beaufoy!"

Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden outburst which filled Louis' frail body with pa.s.sion, Commines hastened to the door. He thought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agony of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him.

Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken down finally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to draw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why such anxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond the door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled.

"The King--go to him."

"Ill? Dying?"

"No, he needs you. Go at once--at once," answered Commines, with a jerk of his head, and was gone.

"You called me, Sire?"

"Pen--ink--paper. There, on the table. Quicker, dolt, quicker!"

But with the quill between his fingers and the paper flattened on a pad against his knee, Louis was in no haste to write. Gnawing with unconscious savagery at his under-lip he stared into vacancy, searching, searching, searching for the precise words to express his thought. But they eluded him. It was not so simple to be precise, so clear that even a fool like Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yet be so cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of the order, would not betray him. Commines' voice was clanging in his ears like the clapper of a bell, and would not let him think coherently. Twelve hours! Twelve hours! Even now--no, not yet, but soon, very soon, it might be too late. "Perdition!" he cried, striking his hand upon the woollen coverlid--he was chilly even in May--"will they never come?"

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

"There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your horse is waiting you in the courtyard. Read your orders as you go, but let no man see them, not even Argenton. The moment they are executed return to Valmy."

"Go where, Sire?"

"To Amboise--Amboise, and ride as if all h.e.l.l clattered at your back.

Go, man! Go, go!"

Until Beaufoy had dropped the curtain behind him Louis sat rigidly upright; then, as if the very springs of life were sapped to their utmost limit, he sank back in collapse upon the pillows. From the half-opened shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table, flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver Christ upon the cross, propped amongst the litter, and drew his eyes.

"Twelve hours," he whispered, staring at it, fascinated. "Thy power, Thy power and infinite love, O Lord! G.o.d have mercy upon us! G.o.d have mercy upon me! My son! My son!"

And riding down the slope to the river Beaufoy read:

"Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST

For men there is no such ladder to place and fame as their fellow-men.

Over their crushed and trampled backs, or with a hand in their pocket, ambition or greed can climb to heights which would be hopelessly unattainable but for the unwilling foothold of another's disadvantage.

La Mothe? Who the deuce was La Mothe? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared.

He had his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between his knees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with all the subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy, which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He was almost as fully in fortune's pocket as Monsieur d'Argenton!

Nor was that all. There was even the hope that this poor devil of a La Mothe might say, "No, thank you!" to the order for arrest, and so give Paul Beaufoy opportunity to prove to the world at large, and the King in particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, that Paul Beaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever with his head, and fit for something much better than arresting poor devils accused of G.o.d knows what. But that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhile the world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of worlds, with just one small fret to mar its perfection--he had had no breakfast! That must be remedied, and the half hour's delay could be made good by harder riding afterwards.

So, midway to Chateau-Renaud, at the junction of the St. Amand road, he gave a little auberge his custom, comforting nature with an omelet while a fowl was being put on the spit. But because custom such as Paul Beaufoy's came that way but seldom the fowl was slow to come by, yet slower to cook, and more time went to its eating than would have been to Paul Beaufoy's advantage had the King known the excellence of his appet.i.te. But the King knew nothing and would know nothing, so no one was hurt by the picking of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothe would naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a p.r.i.c.k of the spur would drag back some of the lost minutes.

Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as light as a bird on the wing or the paper which was to consign this unknown poor devil of a La Mothe to he neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantly the generous beast between his knees answered the call. But--surely disjunctive conjunctions are the tragedies of the language! They tumble our castles in Spain about our ears with neither ruth nor warning. Man would be in Paradise to this day--but Eve ate the apple; Napoleon would have conquered Europe--but England stood in the way. So was it with Paul Beaufoy. His lost hour would have been regained--but but the pace killed, and with Amboise a weary distance away he found himself stranded and disconsolate beside a foundered horse. And linked to the tragedy of the disjunctive was this other tragedy. It is the generous-hearted who pay for the follies of others. Had the broken-down beast been a cowardly sc.u.m it would never have lain a castaway by the roadside.

And now, indeed, in the King's vigorous phrase, h.e.l.l was at his back; only, as is so often the way with blinded humanity, he never guessed the truth, but thought it salvation, from behind, down a side-road, clattered a small troop at a quick trot, and taking the middle of the highway Beaufoy called a halt.

"In the King's name!" he cried, holding up the hand of authority. The intoxication of a first commission is almost as self-deceiving as that of a first love. In his place Philip de Commines, recognizing that he was outnumbered ten to one, would have been diplomatic. When there is no power to strike, it is always unwise to clench the fist, especially when a hat in the hand may gain the point. But the authority sufficed, and at a motion from their leader the troop halted.

"More energy than discretion," said he, with a glance at the disabled horse. "What can I do for you, and why in the King's name?"

"My energy and discretion are my affair," answered Beaufoy, more nettled by his inability to dispute the truth than by the truth itself.

"I am from Valmy upon the King's business, and must have a horse without delay."

"Let Valmy buy its own horses, I am no dealer," was the brusque answer.

But the hands which had caught up the loosened reins promptly tightened them afresh. "How long from Valmy?"

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

"Having, like a fool, killed your own! But that, as you say, is no affair of mine. When did you leave Valmy?"

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

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

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

"You, not me; I did not founder your horse." The half banter pa.s.sed from his voice, and the bronzed face hardened. "And we have accounts enough as it is, the King and I."

"Pray G.o.d he pays his debts and mine, and that I be there to see,"

retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of all prudence. "Again, in the King's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your men can ride double."

"Must this! Demand that! Tut, tut! you forget the reasons behind me."

But though he spoke with a return of the banter which goaded the unfortunate Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert and there was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy been a Philip de Commines he would have known that jest with no laughter at its back is more dangerous than a threat. "Where are you going?"

"That is my affair and the King's."