The Justice of the King Part 40

"And the Dauphin--Charles--does he know----"

Again he paused, and again La Mothe filled the blank, reading into the completed words the uncompleted question.

"The Dauphin knows nothing but that the gifts were mine."

"Yours! Yes, yours, yours only, and you dared--who is that at the table?" His voice rose shrilly into a cry. "That is not Paul Beaufoy."

The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than the words themselves warned La Mothe. Round he spun, irresolute in surprise.

Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached for the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that light clear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears--"A martlet with three mullets in chief." Then the lamp flickered out.

"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, as they twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in an indrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the dead had risen.

Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yet tighter, La Mothe fought for his life. Molembrais was the stronger, Molembrais was the more desperate, and desperation is a strength in itself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped and fell; and with the blood drumming in his ears La Mothe heard nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing but Molembrais' hot breath in his face, Molembrais' tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the room was ablaze, a racking violence wrenched. Molembrais from his clasp, and he was pressed back downward on the floor, a sword at his throat.

It was Commines; Leslie and a guard held Molembrais; beyond, at the doorway, stood Ursula de Vesc; by the bedside Father John stooped above the King, his arm thrown round him.

"Stephen, Stephen, what madness is this?"

Propped on his arm La Mothe pointed to Molembrais.

"Molembrais!" he panted. "Twice--the Dauphin--now the King. Thank G.o.d I knew him at the last."

By the bedside the Franciscan stooped lower, whispering in the King's ear--whispering urgently, insistently, pleadingly. What he said none heard, but the hard face slowly softened.

"Philip, let him rise; you did well to vouch for Monsieur La Mothe.

And you, young sir, who have learned when to speak and when to keep silence, was I not right? Amboise was dull, and queen and waiting-maid are all of the one flesh? Mademoiselle, take him back to Amboise with you and watch together over my son, the Dauphin, and the G.o.d of Mercy be gracious to you both as He has been to me this day."

He paused a moment. Shifting on his elbow he laid an arm round the Franciscan's neck, drawing him closer, and as he whispered to the priest a laugh wrinkled his worn face. Father John nodded, smiling.

The King's arm slipped from him and he straightened himself.

"You are right, Sire, it is their due. Mademoiselle, come nearer. Who giveth this woman to this man?"

"I do," answered Louis.

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