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

Commines nodded. The advice was welcome, not only because it was meant kindly but for what it inferred. If disgrace threatened, Lessaix at least had no knowledge of it.

"The messenger who left two days ago, has he returned?"

"Not yet; there was another yesterday."

"I know. Who is on guard?"

"Beaufoy, and the password is Amboise."

Again Commines nodded. Beaufoy? That, too, was all in his favour. Beaufoy was one of the younger men and not at all in the King's confidence. If Louis had any sinister coup in his mind, Leslie, or Saint-Pierre, or Lessaix himself would have been on duty.

With an alert, quick step, that had in it none of the stiffness or fatigue of a long night's ride, Commines mounted the stairs, answering friendly salutes at every turn. As at all times with the King in residence, the halls, corridors, and ante-rooms were like those of a barrack rather than of a royal chateau. Here and there he was challenged and his way barred by a lowered halbert, but it was more or less perfunctory, and at the password the way was cleared. That Beaufoy was unfeignedly glad to see him was another satisfaction. Ever since he had come in sight of Valmy an uncomfortable sense of friendlessness had haunted him with the unreasoning horror of a nightmare, and Beaufoy's welcoming smile was like the wakening into sunshine.

"Dieu merci! but I am thankful you have come," he said, but speaking softly so that no sounds passed through the curtained door at his back. "Four times within the hour the King has sent asking for you. It is like the cry of one of his own parrots, 'Commines! Where is Commines?'"

"Who have seen him this morning?"

"His two janitors of the eternal, if it be no sin to say so—the priest and Tristan. Fortune keep their last ministrations far from me!"

"Then the King is awake?" said Commines, unbuckling his sword-belt and handing it to Beaufoy.

"Awake, but in bed as a good Christian ought to be at this time of day. Faith! Monsieur d'Argenton, you are in fortune's pocket; four times within the hour he has asked for you—four times, as I'm a starving sinner without a hope of breakfast."

"The better appetite later!" Letting the curtains fall behind him Commines pushed the door open softly, closed it softly at his back, and advanced a step. But in spite of the caution of his quiet Louis heard him.

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

"Sire, it is I—Commines."

"Commines!" he repeated, the sharpness of his frightened voice dwindling breathlessly. "Commines, Philip, what—what news from Amboise?"

"The very best, Sire."

"The very best! Ah, God, my son! my son! The very best? Oh, France! France! Philip, tell me—tell me your news. But is the door shut—shut fast?"

Through a prolonged life Commines never forgot that scene and never answered, never dared to answer, even in the secret of his own mind, the question, What news from Amboise was the very best?

A single shutter had been drawn half aside, and in the semi-obscurity the chalk-grey face of the King showed ghost-like against the vaulted darkness of the curtained bed. The fret of spirit through these ten or twelve days had sapped him, worn him like so many days of consuming fever. With one hand, the elbow propped upon the coverlid, he pushed the draperies aside, the other was fumbling with its finger-tips at his convulsed mouth. In impatience, or that he might breathe the freer, the ribbons which knotted his woollen nightrobe at the throat had been unfastened, leaving the lean, parchment-coloured chest and throat, corded with starting sinews, nakedly open. As he leant aslant, the curtains arching overhead, his eyes roundly open in the shadows of their sockets, he was like a corpse new risen from its tomb and full of horror from the dreams which had dogged its sleep.

"The very best! Tell me everything, Philip. Or, no!" The shaking hand ceased plucking at the lip, and the shrunken arm, bare to the elbow where the gown had slipped, was thrust out, beating the air as if to push aside some terror. "Tell me the one—the essential——God's name, man! can you not understand?"

"The best news possible, Sire." Commines' eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom and no detail escaped him. "The Dauphin is innocent, is loving—loyal."

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

"Loving, loyal—living." There was a perceptible pause, and the third word was harsher, drier than the others, and spoken with a jerk as if forced from the throat under compulsion. "You received my letter written two days ago?"

"Yes, Sire, and a second last night. Thank God, with all my heart, it——"

"Let it wait. The messenger of two days ago, has he come back?"

"Not yet. I asked Lessaix."

"Why?"

"Idle curiosity, Sire."

"Only fools are curious for nothing, and you are no fool, or were not when you left to go to Amboise." He paused, and in the silence Commines searched his wit for some plausible reason for the question he had put to Lessaix. But Louis probed no further. To hear the truth would have suited his purpose no better than it would have suited Commines to tell it.



CHAPTER XXVIII

PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST

Commines broke the silence with a bold stroke. "He carried more letters than yours, Sire. A man named Saxe——"

"Saxe?" said Louis, drawling the word. "Who is Saxe?"

"An innkeeper in Amboise. Yesterday, an hour or two after I had received Your Majesty's letter, he came to me with a lying tale."

"What sort of reputation has this Saxe?"

"He is an innkeeper."

"An innkeeper? Innkeepers are decent folk. Travellers trust them nightly with their property, with their lives even. There is no discredit in innkeeping. You know, Monsieur d'Argenton, I do not hold that honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. This Saxe, now, what was his tale?"

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

"Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you understood when you left Valmy. Did I not tell you to sift, and search, and find? Now comes this Saxe, a decent, reputable man——"

"Sire, Saxe lied."

"Lied?" Loosing the curtain Louis slipped back upon his pillows, huddled in a shapeless heap, his hands clenched upon his breast, his chin sunk upon their clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only the eyes, dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed alive. "Who says Saxe lies?"

"All who heard him, Sire."

"What? There were witnesses?"

"There was need of witnesses for the sake of the publicity afterwards."

"Um! I do not say you were wrong, but it has turned out badly. Well?"

"Saxe proved too much. He swore the Dauphin quoted Molembrais' death as a reason why all France was——" Commines paused, fearing to offend by an unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for him.

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

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

The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into the pillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Commines knew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and because Coictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violent emotion might be fatal.

"Oh, the fool! the—the—the—I must be calm. May all the devils—no, I must be calm, I must control myself; my miserable, wretched heart—but to be cursed with such a fool, such a fool!"

"A scoundrel, Sire, rather than a fool; a villainous, lying scoundrel, who would traduce the Dauphin himself. Let us thank God he overreached himself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince your son is innocent of all blame, is loving and loyal. Let us publicly, promptly stamp Saxe for the liar he has proved himself to be, lest he malign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now the one course possible."

"Eh, Philip? What was that? Accuse the King himself? Accuse me—me? Of what, Philip, of what? Where is this Saxe? In whose keeping? Monsieur d'Argenton, have you been imprudent—careless? By God! you shall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me—at me. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he has lied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of his loving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news. Yes, we rejoice—we rejoice—God knows how we rejoice! Philip, the cordial—there, on the table—that crystal flask. This joyful emotion is killing me."

Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a hand which faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless on the bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to his mouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly. As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of the chest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblance of life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for a moment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst, been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closed his eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest the easier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes still closed he beckoned to Commines to stoop lower.

"Saxe—where is Saxe?"

"In safe keeping, Sire."

"Safe? He cannot talk?"

"Quite safe. Only La Mothe and Villon visit him.

"La Mothe? Faugh! another fool. There is no end to the breed. I think God made them as He made flies, to be the fret and plague of life. You vouched for the fool, Philip, remember that."

"And I still vouch for La Mothe," answered Commines. He felt that he was now safe, so safe that he might even venture to plead for Stephen. "Consider, Sire, you who are so just, is it the boy's fault that we failed to discover what does not exist? Remember, Saxe lied, lied throughout, and has always lied." He paused, but if he expected to draw some further comment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent, his face void of expression, and Commines went on: "That cruel jest the Provost-Marshal played upon us all cut me to the heart. Sire, Sire, how could you permit it? All night long I have ridden from Amboise in despair and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved of so good and true a friend, so great a King. The awful shock——"

"There, there, no more of that," said Louis harshly. The reminder of the grim, inevitable certainty which had lately been so significantly near was more than he could bear. With an effort he struggled on his elbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I am strong—stronger than for years. Coictier says so; but he says, too, that I should rest, so I will lie back again. Yes, yes, a jest—and yet not all a jest." From under his drooped lids he looked up at Commines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what did Charles say? Charles, who is so loving and loyal. Laughed and thanked God—eh, Philip?"

"No, Sire, no. For the moment he seemed struck dumb, as we all were. True grief is silent. When sorrow is at its sorest, words do not come easily, and never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin's last night." Which was true, for Hugues, who had loved him, lay dead. And Hugues' death gave Commines another inspiration, which, because of the end in view, he seized upon without a scruple. "But when at last words came they were worthy of him, worthy of his loyalty both as son and subject. 'I would be Dauphin again,' said he, 'if I could but bring him back.'"

Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis caught Commines by the arm with a greater strength than had seemed possible in one so frail, caught him and held him, and if the hand shook, it was not from weakness.

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

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

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

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

With a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis lay back. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lips were firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at this or that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence at animation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forced himself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But the outcome of the thought surprised and disappointed the watcher.

"La Mothe?"

"Sire, I vouch for La Mothe."

"God's name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for himself?"

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

"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you told me the truth to-day? Charles? My son? That he said those things? More hangs on it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as I have made you what you are, do not deceive me."

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

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

"Beaufoy, Sire."

"Pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy to me—now, this very instant. Go, man, go! Why do you stand staring there like a wax image? Oh! pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy—do you not hear? Send Beaufoy, send Beaufoy this instant! Beaufoy! Beaufoy! And, Philip, have the fastest horse in Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make haste, for the love of Heaven, make haste! Beaufoy! Beaufoy!"

Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden outburst which filled Louis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. He thought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agony of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him. Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken down finally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to draw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why such anxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond the door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled.

"The King—go to him."

"Ill? Dying?"

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

"You called me, Sire?"

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

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

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

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

"Go where, Sire?"

"To Amboise—Amboise, and ride as if all hell clattered at your back. Go, man! Go, go!"

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

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

And riding down the slope to the river Beaufoy read:

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



CHAPTER XXIX

THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST

For men there is no such ladder to place and fame as their fellow-men. Over their crushed and trampled backs, or with a hand in their pocket, ambition or greed can climb to heights which would be hopelessly unattainable but for the unwilling foothold of another's disadvantage. La Mothe? Who the deuce was La Mothe? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared. He had his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between his knees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with all the subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy, which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He was almost as fully in fortune's pocket as Monsieur d'Argenton!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My energy and discretion are my affair," answered Beaufoy, more nettled by his inability to dispute the truth than by the truth itself. "I am from Valmy upon the King's business, and must have a horse without delay."

"Let Valmy buy its own horses, I am no dealer," was the brusque answer. But the hands which had caught up the loosened reins promptly tightened them afresh. "How long from Valmy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pray God he pays his debts and mine, and that I be there to see," retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of all prudence. "Again, in the King's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your men can ride double."

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

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

Lurching forward in the saddle the elder man—he was eight or ten years the senior—shook his clenched gauntlet in Beaufoy's face, his own crimson from the gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. "The King! The King! The King!" he cried furiously. "Curse you and your King! What devil's plot is that lying old tiger-fox scheming now that you ride to death an honester brute than either of you? Whose murder comes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give some account of yourself."

"If you are a gentleman, if you are not a coward as well as a bully," answered Beaufoy, his face as white as the other's was flushed, "come down from your horse and meet me man to man. You'll not ask me to give an account of myself a second time."

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

"My name is Beaufoy——"

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

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

"Now that my reasons are plainer to you, will you answer my question—where are you going? No reply? And yet no one understands the logic of numbers better than your coward of a master. But I'll have my answer. Are you going to Blois? No! To Tours? No! Amboise? Ah! your eyes have a tongue of their own. You cannot have lived very long in Valmy, my ingenuous friend. Why to Amboise? You won't tell? But, by God, you shall! Do you think I'll be baulked for a scruple?" His hand crept to his hilt as he spoke; now, with a swift wrench the blade was out and its point at Beaufoy's throat. "Come, your message?"

But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the quality of its defects. The law that might was right had bred a contempt for life, one's own or another's, it mattered little which. In the great game of national aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the man who slew without pity could die without fear. If any second incentive were needed, Beaufoy found it in the gibe at his name. Beaufoy would hold good faith let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himself rigidly he answered nothing.

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

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

"For this time," he said between his teeth; "but God granting me life——"

"Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I trust you as I would never trust that brute without a soul you call King. Trust the King? God help the man who trusts King Louis! One very dear to me trusted him, trusted his pledged word with his life, and I humbly pray God's mercy has him in its keeping, for he found none in Valmy." Sheathing his sword he sat back in the saddle and smoothed the looted paper carefully. "Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.—LOUIS."

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

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

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

"'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without delay.' It follows that you do not know this Stephen La Mothe nor he you?"

"No," repeated Beaufoy.

"Nor his offence?"

"Not even that."

"God knows there need be no offence at all. 'Tell him his orders are cancelled.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not ask you what these orders are."

"And if I knew, I would not tell you."

"Then you do not know?"

"No."

"'On your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.' Is it fair to ask why?"

"Again, if I knew, I would not tell you, but I do not."

"Then it comes to this: you, a stranger in Amboise, are to arrest a stranger to yourself for an offence of which you are ignorant?"

"With my orders clear and explicit I have no need of knowledge."

"Is this order public property at Valmy?"

"No one knows of it except myself and the King," replied Beaufoy, clinging desperately to the remnants of his authority.

The other nodded abstractedly, his thoughts busy elsewhere. He quite recognized the type of man with whom he had to do—light-hearted, careless, frivolous even up to a certain point, but beyond that immovable. To question further would be useless, and almost in violation of the strange code of honour which permitted unscrupulous violence but respected the right of reticence in an equal—in an equal, be it observed; an inferior had no rights, none whatever.

"'Bring him to Valmy.'" Turning in his saddle he beckoned to one of his followers, a man older than the rest, shrewd-faced and grizzled. "What do you think, Perrault; can we do it?"

"Enter Amboise?"

"Enter Valmy."

But Beaufoy could control himself no longer. "Monsieur, whoever you are, I demand back the King's order. These instructions are for me alone and I must——"

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

"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustled across the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Some day you shall answer me for this."

"If the King permits," was the ironic reply. "Be a little more gentle, Jan. Now, Perrault?"

"Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy."

"Not all of us, not you—I alone."

"Alone? Monsieur Marc, you would never venture——"

"Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would venture to the gates of hell for just five minutes with Louis of France, and you know it."

"But it is impossible."

"Desperate, not impossible. This," and he shook the paper in his closed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King's signet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmy if I have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast—La Mothe, through whom I have twice missed the Dauphin! Perrault, I'll do it; by all the saints, I'll do it."

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

"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung in my way? And would Guy have done less for me?"

But Perrault returned no answer.



CHAPTER XXX

"LOVE IS MY LIFE"

"Blessed be the man who first invented sleep," said the wise Spaniard. And yet there are times when even a sleepless night can leave a light heart behind it. For the first time since coming to Amboise Stephen La Mothe felt at peace with himself and with all the world, though the latter is a secondary consideration. As between the two disturbers of his comfort a man's most triumphant foe is his conscience. And he had good cause for comfort. When at their very worst, things had gone well with him, and as he reckoned up his mercies the morning Paul Beaufoy rode post from Valmy, he found his pouch of life full to the rim with white stones.

First: Ursula! There was a little tremulous contraction of the heart, a little sudden sense of warm sunlight as he said the name over. Ursula—Ursula! What a kindly cunning mother is Fate: she always gives the one sweet woman in the world the sweetest of names. For where was there a sweeter name than Ursula? So soft, so—so—well, just Ursula. Ursula was safe and had forgiven him. Which of these two mercies was the greater he hardly knew; the second, perhaps, since it was undeserved. He was a very humble lover, as all true lovers should be who realize, with a wondering incomprehension, that in creating woman last of all the Lord God had concentrated all the wisdom of His six days' experience, and even then only consummated the perfection after a seventh day of thoughtful rest. He did not know that the miracle of a loving woman's forgiveness is as common and natural as the sunshine, and, let it be said sorrowfully, as necessary to life.

And Ursula was safe. For that they had to thank Villon. It was he who had grasped the flaw of Saxe's over-proof, and so tumbled the whole fabric of lies into a ruin never to be built up again. For both these mercies he humbly thanked God. It is to be noted by the student of the ways of men that he never gave the Dauphin's safety a thought. He had risked his life for the boy, and would risk it again if necessary, risk it cheerfully, but as an abstract proposition he cared little whether the Dauphin lived or died. Next after Ursula came Commines. There had been a bitter moment when Commines had tottered on his pedestal, but Ursula's hand had steadied him just when the touch was needed. Ursula again! It was marvellous how the whole of Amboise had its orbit round Ursula. In the end Commines had justified himself, and in that belief the loyal heart of Stephen La Mothe found the early May sunshine yet more pleasant and the air sweeter.

Nor was there now any fear but that he would leave Amboise with clean hands. The white horse and the piebald were ambling side by side under his feet, and all danger of a sprawling tumble between them in the mud was at an end. And because he would leave Amboise with clean hands he could without shame say to Ursula de Vesc such things as are the sacred treasures of the heart's Holy of Holies. At least it would not be an unworthy love he had to offer, unworthy of her acceptance, since no man's love could be fully worthy of Ursula de Vesc, but not unworthy in itself. But first he had the King's commission to fulfil, and if Louis really lay dead at Valmy surely he might violate the letter of his orders and say, "These are the message of a father's love." Or, rather, Ursula came first, always first, even before the King's commission, and with the thought came Ursula de Vesc herself.

"Good morning, Monsieur La Mothe."

"Mademoiselle! you so early?"

"I do not think many slept in Amboise last night. Did you hear that Tristan's letter was one of your King's merry jests?"

"But are you certain?"

"Absolutely. He was seen on the walls just before the closing of the gates last night. You know at Valmy they do not wait for the sun to set. Shall I let you into a secret I would not have told you a fortnight ago?" The white night, its long hours haunted by anxious thoughts, had left a wan reflection on her face, but now the pallor warmed; into the tired eyes a little light of laughter flickered, part humorous, part tender, and the Cupid's bow trembled on its string. "In Amboise we are not so forlorn as you think. The innkeeper at Chateau-Renaud is our very good friend, or how could we have known that a certain Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, a wandering minstrel with lute and knapsack on his back, was coming our way?"

"You knew that?"

"From the first," she answered, still smiling, but with so kindly a raillery that not even a lover could take offence. "Did you think you played the part so well that you deceived us? Or that the Dauphin had sunk so low as to make a friend of the first hedge-singer who came his way? We were warned from Chateau-Renaud that you who arrived with Monsieur d'Argenton on horseback departed alone on foot."

"That raw-boned roan which passed me on the road?"

"Yes. And can you wonder if we were suspicious and just a little frightened? You were from Valmy and Valmy is our Galilee: nothing good comes out of it."

"I wonder at nothing but your goodness in bearing with me."

"You owe us nothing for that. That," the colour mounted to her forehead; she, too, had grown ashamed of the first night, ashamed and astonished that she had not understood Stephen La Mothe's transparent good faith from the very first, "that was precaution. In the Chateau we could watch the watcher. Then you began that fairy tale and your face told me you believed it every word. That puzzled me. How could anything good come out of Valmy? Yet next day you saved the Dauphin's life and again yesterday. But I am forgetting the King and how we know the letter was a lie. Cartier, the innkeeper at Chateau-Renaud, has a son in Valmy and had been to visit him: the King was on the walls when he left before sunset last night. The hangman's letter was a trap to catch us all, and the Great King consented to it. What a worthy King! Oh! I am very human and my bitterness must speak out when I remember last night. Saxe, Tristan, the King, Monsieur d'Argenton, and against them one weak coward of a girl. They would have lied my life away last night; and not mine only, the Dauphin's."

"Mademoiselle, am I forgiven for my folly of yesterday?" He knew he was, but for a cunning reason of his own he wished to hear her say so.

"Can I blame you?" she answered, making no pretence at misunderstanding him. "You, too, are from Valmy. No, no. I do not mean that. That was a cruel thing to say; it is you who must forgive me, for you are not of Valmy, you who stood by me and believed in me even when I seemed the vile thing they called me."

"The sweetest and truest woman on God's earth," he said. "I believed in you even before I loved you—no, that is not true, for I think now I loved you that very first night when you had nothing for me but the contempt I deserved. Every day since then you have grown sweeter, dearer, more reverenced: so strong for others, so full of courage for others, so full of thought for others and without a thought for yourself: never one thought for yourself, never one and never a fear. And every day I have hungered for you; I don't know any other word for it but just hungered, hungered, hungered that a little of the dear womanly graciousness might be mine. Though that would not be enough, not that only: love must have love or go starved."

Except for a shake of the head in depreciation or denial she had heard him without interruption. Why should she interrupt what was so sweet to hear? But though it was the very comfort her heart longed for, there was no smile on her face, a fresher glow on the cheeks, perhaps, a fuller light in the eyes, but beyond these a pathetic wistful gravity rather, as if in the presence of a solemn sacrament. And surely the revelation of that which is nearest in us to the divine is a true sacrament of the spirit. But when he ended she put out a hand and touched him gently, her fingers lingering on his arm in a caress.

"And I? Oh, my dear, my more than dear, have I not hungered? I think a woman starves for love as a man never can." From his arm the hand stole up and caught him round the neck, the other joining it, and his face was drawn down to her own. "Am I shameless, beloved? No! for there is no shame in love, and Stephen, my heart, my hero, my man of men, I love you, I love you, I love you."

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

"Yesterday——"

"Hush, beloved, do not talk of yesterday," nor, for the moment, could she. But she was wilful, and being a woman, had her way.

"Yesterday you sang; will you ever sing again?"

"Yes, listen!

'Heigh-ho, love is my life, Live I in loving, and love I to live.'

Until to-day I never knew how true that is. Ursula, my sweet, you must teach me the ending, for I have never yet found one to please me."

"You talk of endings when life has just begun. Tell me, was Homer blind?"

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

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

"Yes, laugh at my foolishness; I love to see you laugh, you who have laughed so little all these days. But I think the time of laughter has come for us both."

"Until you go back to Valmy."

"And that must be soon."

On the instant she belied his optimism, for the laughter faded from her eyes leaving her once more the woman of many sorrows, and with a sigh she released herself from his clasp.

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

"He is more human than you think. Ursula, I know it, so you need not shake that dear, wise head of yours."

"You say so because you are so human yourself. Dear, I love you for your charity."

"Love me for what you will so long as you do love me," answered he. "And do not be afraid. I am quite sure I am not making any mistake. The King trusts me as he never trusted Monsieur de Commines."

"And how well he trusts him we saw last night," she said, with a little bitter irony which surely might be pardoned. "But how can I help being afraid? Are you not all I have in the world?"

"Charles?"

"Do you think Charles counts for anything now? And yet he is a dear boy who has the good taste to approve warmly of Monsieur Stephen La Mothe. Did I not tell you, that day you were playing with the dogs, that you would win all our hearts?"

"And Monsieur Stephen La Mothe," said Stephen jestingly, "approves so warmly of the dear boy's approval, that if it would not be presumptuous he would ask his leave to beg his acceptance of a little remembrance of these last days."

"Ask his leave! Poor boy, he would be delighted. Dauphin of France though he is, he gets so few presents. What is it? Let me guess. Your lute! and you would sing——"

"No, not my lute, wicked that you are. And if I sang at all it would be Blaise's song adapted to this most blessed of blessed days.

Ursula is sweet to kiss, Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss."

I told Monsieur de Commines that was one thing I must have in a wife, and praise God, I have got it!"

"Hush, Stephen! Do you want all Amboise to hear your foolishness?"

"If that is foolishness, may I never be wise again. To me it is the one wisdom of the world. I think I am drunk this morning and it is only seven o'clock. Is not that scandalous? Love-drunk at seven in the morning and never to be sober again! Mademoiselle de Vesc, do you know you are the most beautiful woman in all France?"

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

"And you are the very truest woman——"

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

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

"Would you spoil his pleasure? No, I shall say nothing at all about Valmy, just that a wandering minstrel be so rich that he can make presents to a Dauphin of France! Sing me a song, Master Homer the blind, and I will give you—let me see: no, not what you think—a silver livre!" But she did not wait for his music. Dropping him a little demure, mocking curtsy she turned and ran down the box-edged path, singing as she went, and the air she sang was Stephen La Mothe's "Heigh-ho! love is my life; Live I in loving and love I to live!" and the lilt of the music set Master Homer's heart throbbing.



CHAPTER XXXI

SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION

"There was a time," said Villon, "when I, too, could forget that rose arches are open at the ends. The world is always gaping at our elbow. If we taste a peach in an orchard, the wall is low; if we smell a rose in a garden, there are, Heaven be thanked, more flowers than leaves when life's at May; and either way the world is with us."

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

"Not gaping, no! But is a man to close his eyes when heaven opens? I beg you to believe," he went on with great dignity, "that just so soon as I made certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you to your rose-gathering. Observe I have not said one word about the thorns. That is the stale gibe of the cynic whose heart of youth has dried before its time. And what if there are thorns? A single rose with the dew of love upon it is worth more than a pair of scratched hands. Gape? Could you believe it of me—of me, Francois Villon? No, son of my teaching, I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe."

"Saxe!" cried La Mothe. "Never once have I thought of Saxe, never once all day, and now it is almost night."

"Don't distress yourself on that account. Saxe has wanted for nothing, thanks to his two best friends. That reminds me." Pausing, Villon rapped loudly on the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until a servant familiar with his ways answered the summons. "My friend, fetch me a bottle of wine, one single bottle from the furthest-in bin on the right-hand side of the cellar. It is the '63 vintage," he explained to La Mothe, "and I have the best of reasons for knowing Saxe will not object."

"But why one bottle only?"

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

"But what of Saxe?"

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

"But Monsieur de Commines' orders were strict, only you and I were to see him."

"Not even your Monsieur de Commines can shut out a man from himself, and who is a better friend or a worse enemy? Saxe, the wise man, has hanged himself."

"Hanged himself? Saxe?"

"An intelligent anticipation," said Villon, nodding thoughtfully. "I did not think he had so much good sense or good feeling. He always struck me as a man of a coarse, material mind; but one can never tell."

"Villon, it is horrible! How can you talk so callously? But you know you do not mean what you say."

"Every word of it. Hanged he would have been in any case, that was inevitable. I warned him last night that he knew too much, and that more went into Amboise than came out again. And was it not better he should go to his end quietly, decently, just God and himself alone together—the Good God who understands us so much better than we do ourselves and so makes allowances? You don't agree with me?"

"I can only say again, it is horrible."

"Then what of the justice of the King which makes a man a spectacle in the market-place, with all the world agape at the terror of it, the world that licks its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbeting of wretches no worse than itself? Think of the terror of it! Think of the shame of it! The men he had drunk with, the women he had laughed with, the children he had played with, all ringed round him to see him die. And there he would hang till his bones dropped, a shame and a blot on the clean face of the earth, blackened by the heat, drenched white by the rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while the pies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, a waste rag of humanity. Come now, which is the decenter?"

"Poor Saxe!"

"If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no dew on the roses this morning. He would have lied Mademoiselle de Vesc to death without a scruple."

"She wished him no harm, of that I am certain."

"It is of the quality of roses to be sweet. But, La Mothe, say nothing to her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold to spend through a whole day of life," a cynical truth La Mothe was to remember before a new morning dawned.

"Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine?"

"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, to be serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a second bottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life like a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he would have bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is no infection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think of it, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between us three that I wonder which will go next."

"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe."

"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, I palmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off upon mademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and—bah! your presentation will save us two."

"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance."

"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choose presentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at La Mothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it another intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better—a remembrance. The King—God bless him!—will presently die in earnest; the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget the stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases in princes. When, lo!—a wise youth you are, La Mothe—a remembrance jogs his recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over. Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligent anticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way of remembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophets fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-foot rope may be infectious after all."

"Villon, you are quite wrong."

"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh few recover from. But let us go to the Chateau." Pushing the unemptied bottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had changed; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face were those of age, not laughter.



CHAPTER XXXII

LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION

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

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

"So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, and we will have no more games together."

"When I return, Monseigneur."

"And I hope that will be soon, though I don't know why you are going. But, then, I never quite knew why you came at all."

"Nor I until to-day, but the reason is the very best in the world," answered La Mothe, and the boy, following his glance, caught the significance of the colour warming Ursula de Vesc's cheeks.

"So you have made up your quarrel, you two?"

"Never to quarrel again, Monseigneur."

"I hope so, but I don't believe it. Two people can't live together without quarrelling. Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur La Mothe, will you please call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish."

"Monseigneur, you are very good."

"Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don't forget. It's all I have to give. Father John, who never saved my life or did anything for me, calls me Charles, so why not you who saved my life twice? Down, Charlot, down! leave Monsieur La Mothe's parcel alone. You are always pushing your nose where it is not wanted. What have you in that napkin, Monsieur La Mothe?"

"For your acceptance, Monseigneur——"

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

"Hush, Ursula! I cannot hear what Monsieur La Mothe says if you keep chattering. For my acceptance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give me presents; but then, I don't think there is much love in the world."

"There is more love in the world than you think," said La Mothe, "and some day you will very reverently thank God for it, as I do. Some day, too, you will know that these are from the very heart of love itself."

"Yes, yes," said the boy, shifting impatiently in his chair as La Mothe, laying the package on the table, busied himself untying the knotted corners, "I know very well all you have done for me; but what have you there?"

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

"Hush, man, hush! Had you never young blood in you? Why, I am like Charlot the puppy, just itching to know what is inside."

"But it is not good for youth——"

"It is good for youth to be young," said Villon testily. "Ah, Monseigneur, I like that better than a frock with a cord that goes all round, and no offence to you, Father John."

Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points, La Mothe shook it out and held it hanging with such a careful carelessness that the lamplight, picking out each separate link, fired its length and breadth into a dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through by the colder blue of hammered steel. With every cunning, unseen movement of the fingers a ripple from the throat rolled downward and out at the edges in a white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he caught it in his open hands, shaking them till it settled so compactly down that it lay entirely hidden in their cup.

"Monsieur La Mothe! Oh, Monsieur La Mothe!"

To La Mothe the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, and, above all, the exclamation, were so pathetically eloquent of a stinted, starved, neglected childhood that a rush of passionate resentment swept across him in arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those common joys which are childhood's natural food and rightful heritage. To be a man in responsibilities, a man bearing the burden and sorrows of his years, without having first been a boy at heart is more than an irreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy which has killed the purest sweetener of the sours of life. Rob the twig of its sunshine and you rob the tree of its strength. But even while the flame of his anger scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had come the gifts which brightened the boy's eyes, and was ashamed. Had he not said there was a wealth of unimagined love in the world?

"For me, Monsieur La Mothe?"

"If you will accept them."

"See, Ursula! See, Father John! Now I can really be a knight like Roland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. Oh, thank you, Monsieur La Mothe, thank you. And what is this?"

"An embroidered mask for your plays, only none but you must wear it. See, this is the way it fastens behind, and this fringe hides the mouth."

"I don't think I like that so well. Yes, I do! For now I can be the man who attacked the Burnt Mill yesterday—he wore a mask, you remember. Poor Hugues! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that I might show him my armour. But I will show it to Blaise instead. You know Blaise is to sleep at my door now? Come, Father John, while I show it to Blaise. I will put on the mask afterwards."

"And meanwhile, Monseigneur," said Villon, "I will try how it fits."

But La Mothe, remembering the King's instructions, intervened. "No, no, Villon, that is for the Dauphin alone—that and the coat-of-mail—no one else must use them."

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

"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning the edge of the awkwardness with a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should see they are nothing but common flesh and blood like the rest of us."

Slipping her hand into La Mothe's arm Ursula de Vesc drew him to the door, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin half dragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaise his treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve, his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, and was hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm.

"More and more you are my dear," she whispered, her lips so near his ear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It was a beautiful thought and I love you for it, but it was just like you. Oh, Stephen, how I wish Villon was not here!"

Now why did she wish that? And why did the white rose flame suddenly red?

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

So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with an enquiring mind. There was something new on the table, something strange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiosity was piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitching nose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, so new and strange that he must enquire further. Again, very cautiously, for he knew he had no business there at all, he caught the mask in his teeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by his success he looked about him. The humans were at the door talking quietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-meme were biting one another's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and could investigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the mask face downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as he sniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under him rigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a little soft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legs relaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buried in the hollow of the mask.

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

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

"But France is never long bereaved," replied Villon, and from his tone they could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soul went, a great soul came—I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is no respecter of the rights of princes."

"Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursula de Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; but at the first touch she let him slip from her hold and drew back, startled, looking up into La Mothe's face as he bent over her. The plump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen, Charlot is dead!"

"Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; but the limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on the shoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched back from the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be no doubt—Charlot's days of curiosity were ended.

"Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" But when reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villon anticipated her, setting his foot upon it.

"Don't touch it, for God's sake, don't touch it!"

"Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin's."

"It killed Charlot!"

"Killed Charlot? How?"

"Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and should know."

Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction of the Dauphin's toy and the tone of Villon's reply, she caught at the table-edge, pulling herself upright.

"Stephen, what does it all mean?"

But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension had been staggered but had recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances, luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselves together in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How put in words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villon who gave her the key.

"Poison."

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

"I cannot." He spoke curtly, harshly, but the determination was unmistakable. Twice he repeated it. "I cannot, I cannot."

"But, Stephen——"

"Ursula, you don't doubt me? You don't think—you can't think I knew? You can't think I planned this—this——" He faltered as his eyes turned upon the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had passed his word to the King to be silent, and even if he spoke, the truth would only add horror to horrors. "Ursula—beloved!" Laying Charlot on the table he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught in both hers, and he himself drawn into her arms.

"Doubt you? No, Stephen, no, no; I trust you utterly—utterly. And cannot you trust me? We have the boy to think of—the Dauphin—he must be protected. But for Charlot he—he—oh! I cannot say it. Stephen, don't you see? don't you understand? How can we guard him in the dark? The mask, Stephen: whose was it? where did it come from? Tell me for the boy's sake."

"I cannot, Ursula. Dearest heart, I cannot."

Lifting from the table the napkin in which the mask had been wrapped, Villon shook it out, holding it up much as La Mothe had held the coat-of-mail. Then he threw it on the table, spreading it flat.

"Fleur-de-lys," he said, his finger on the woven pattern.

"Fleur-de-lys and—Stephen, you came from Valmy? Oh! My God! My God! I understand it all. So that is why you are in Amboise?"

Villon nodded gravely. Temperamentally he was the most emotional of the three, and the tragedy in little, which so nearly had been a tragedy in great, had so shaken his nerve that he controlled his tongue with difficulty.

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

But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the moment it seemed as if he had forgotten Villon's existence altogether. His arms were round the girl, one hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her fears, lover fashion, and comfort her with his nearness. But his thoughts were in Valmy, a thin, tired voice whispering in his ears, a white face whose eyes smouldered fire looking into his. With a shiver he roused himself.

"Yes, I came from Valmy, and I must go back to Valmy; I must go this very night. Saxe used to keep a horse always ready," he ended, with the bitterness of shame in his voice.

"Stephen, was it for this?"

"I suppose so. But I must go to Valmy to-night. As to the Dauphin, when I return——"

"When you return!" echoed Villon drearily. "Did Molembrais return? Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is dead. You will be the next, for you know more than Saxe ever guessed at."

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

"Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let him go anywhere—anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, and Monsieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct."

"Stephen, Stephen, for my sake! Oh, that terrible King!"

"Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. Help me to be strong to go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surely to be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin must know nothing of what has happened. Let him be happy while he can. Take away poor Charlot and that horrible thing, and leave me to make up a tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs—anything that he may not see the pain on your dear face. He is coming back—listen how he laughs, poor lad! Go, Villon; go, man, go, go!"

"Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy, rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so full of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness of living, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphin of France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I would rather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask."

"Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot has torn it."

"Charlot? Where is Charlot?"

"Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is banished for a week."

"But my mask, I want my mask!"

"It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one—a better one."

"But I don't want a new one or a better one; I want this one, and I want it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am very angry with you."

"Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never have said that; and I am sure it was not Monsieur La Mothe's fault."

For a moment the boy turned upon the priest in a child's gust of passion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance and tears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders under the coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done.

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

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

"Oh! Valmy?" he said dully. "I am never happy but somehow it is Valmy, Valmy, Valmy! I think hell must be like Valmy."

"My son, you must not say such things."

"But what if I think them? Am I not to say what I think? And in hell they hate, do they not? Monsieur Villon," he went on as the poet re-entered the room, "they were talking of Valmy as I passed the stair-head. Will you go and see if my father is dead a second time? No! stay where you are, I hear some one coming."

Hastily crossing the room, Charles cowered close to Ursula de Vesc, furtively catching at her skirts as if half ashamed of his fears and yet drawn to the comfort of a strength greater than his own. All his pride of possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and instead of wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed spirit looked out of his dull eyes. He was no longer Roland, but the son of Louis of France. Laying her arm about him in the old attitude of protection which had so stirred La Mothe's heart, she held him close to her, the anxiety of her watchfulness no less evident than his own. The darkness of her dread had deepened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, no good to Stephen La Mothe.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE ARREST

There was no long delay. Passing Villon with a single, keen, scrutinizing glance, a man, a stranger to them all, entered, pausing a yard or two within the room. Four or five troopers showed behind him in the doorway, but made no attempt to cross the threshold. All were dusty, travel-stained, and with every sign of having ridden both far and fast. Their leader alone was bareheaded, his sheathed sword caught up in a gauntleted hand.

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

"You are from Valmy?"

"By order of the King."

"With despatches?"

"With instructions, and," he paused, motioning to the open doorway behind him, then added, "means to carry them out."

"What are your instructions?"

"To arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe——"

"Arrest Monsieur La Mothe? Why? On what ground—on what charge?" Sweeping the Dauphin aside Ursula de Vesc moved forward as she spoke. The instinct of protection had given way to something very like the instinct of attack: her love for the boy was satisfied with a passivity which could never content her love for the man.

"If I could tell you, I would," he replied courteously, "but I fear Monsieur La Mothe must ask the King that question himself. I know nothing beyond my instructions."

"Are your orders in writing?" It was Villon who spoke.

"Yes, but I do not recognize your right to see them."

"My right, then," said La Mothe, "since it is against me they are directed."

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

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

"Remember, mademoiselle, that if it is destroyed, I still have the means behind me——"

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

A sour smile crossed his face as the colour rose at the gibe, but he only shrugged his shoulders with a little outward gesture of the hands.

"Yes, we grow suspicious in Valmy. There are my instructions, mademoiselle; you will see they leave me no alternative."

"Yes, the writing is the King's throughout. 'Go to Amboise,'" she read, "'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, and bring him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.—LOUIS.'" With every sentence her voice hardened; spots of colour flecked the pallor of her cheeks, grew and deepened. "It is vile, infamous, contemptible," she said, "but it is like your King. Yes! You come from Valmy, there can be no doubt you come from Valmy. Stephen, I shall speak. Useless? Perhaps; but I shall speak all the same. Your King has hid spies in Amboise, we know that, spies who can lie or tell the truth as it suits their master. Through them the King knows that Monsieur La Mothe has twice saved the Dauphin at the risk of his own life, and now—now!" She paused, beating the paper with the back of her hand with a force that lent her words power and meaning, "now he is to hold no communication with the Dauphin! Monsieur La Mothe may set his own life on the hazard to save the Dauphin but he may not speak with him! That is Valmy gratitude and the King's miserable, jaundiced mind. And his commission is cancelled! What that commission is I do not know, but, thank God! Monsieur La Mothe, you are freed from it, whatever it is, since it came out of Valmy."

"I thank God too," said La Mothe, his eyes meeting hers a moment and travelling behind to where the Dauphin stood hugging the wall with Diane and Lui-meme at his feet. The significance of the glance was unmistakable, and the girl paused, breathless, in the revelation. The gifts were his commission, the mask which killed Charlot was his commission, and the commission was cancelled. The King had repented, had he not repented there would be no cancellation. "Yes," repeated La Mothe, "very humbly I thank God, nor do I think the King can have heard as yet of the Dauphin's second danger. Monsieur, I am at your service; I was about to leave for Valmy to-night in any case."

"So much the better; but I regret you must go as my prisoner. You can understand that I have no option."

"I quite understand, and here is my sword. Monseigneur—no, since you permit it, Charles, my friend, I leave you in good keeping. You will have Mademoiselle de Vesc, Father John, and Villon here, to watch over you. Villon, beware of that third cast of the net. I think that is now the one great danger."

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

"What other way is possible? The King has my word, and if that were not enough there are what Monsieur de Commines would call five good reasons behind the door. Monsieur, you have my parole. Something stronger than your five reasons holds me. Good-bye, Charles, my friend——"

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

"Monsieur from Valmy, Mademoiselle de Vesc is right. You may tell my father that Monsieur La Mothe has twice saved my life and that all Amboise knows it. That he saved me may not count for much in Valmy—it may even be against him—but what all Amboise knows all France will know. I think my father will understand. Monsieur La Mothe, good-bye, and when you come back we shall play our games together again. I don't think I care about the mask, but I shall not forget to be Roland. Come, Father John, let us go and pray that Monsieur La Mothe will soon come back to us."

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

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

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

But how spirit drew to spirit as lip to lip in these five minutes needs not to be told. Whoso has seen love go out of life, uncertain of return, will understand. But if that morning there had been a passing behind the veil into the holy of holies where immortal love dwelleth, then in these five minutes there was the very throbbing of the heart which beats eternal even in these earthly walls of time.

Nor was Villon drier of eye as he waited under the stars.

"He knows too much," he said; "and when a man knows too much, not even a ballad can save him."



CHAPTER XXXIV

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

But for two happenings by the way Stephen La Mothe's ride over the route taken twenty-four hours earlier by Commines was without event. Of these happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in mercy the bitter came first, leaving the sweet to comfort the end of the journey.

Once fully clear of Amboise the leader of the troop halted, and by a prearranged plan his followers gathered round them, hemming them into a circle as they had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day.

"Monsieur La Mothe," he said civilly, but speaking with the air of a man who had a fixed purpose, "there is a certain signet which I must demand. We who come from Valmy always say must and demand," he added, with a touch of grim humour, which was lost on La Mothe, but which Paul Beaufoy would have appreciated.

"Your instructions said nothing about a signet."

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

"But you have my parole."

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

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

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

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

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

If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could blame him or charge it to the discredit of his courage? The rough lesson had been roughly taught that it is better to tramp the road of life afoot and one's own master than to ride a-horseback under compulsion. He had learned, too, that on the tree of knowledge of the ways of men are many fruits which pucker the mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As to the ways of women, that is an altogether different book—a serial, let us say, but in how many numbers?

Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun of a new day had risen. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the auberge where Paul Beaufoy had purchased breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, the troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from which La Mothe was excluded, and the two rode on alone. Each was preoccupied and neither spoke. Knowing the relationship which existed between Valmy and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange in the procedure followed both at the Chateau and afterwards. If the King suspected he had joined the camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might have been resisted; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, there was no further need for force. The King who kept no faith was shrewd to know when he could trust the faith of others, and the troopers doubtless were required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at a distance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais' flight in the desperate possibility of his escape from Valmy.

Unconsciously following the precedent set by Commines, they drew rein while it was yet dark. Daylight, both knew, would show Valmy in the distance. But as they crawled at a foot's pace in the yet darker shadow of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a sullen grey ribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the horizon like an inverted giant monolith, there sounded behind them the remote pad, pad of rapid hoofs muffled by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when even nature is steeped in the quiet of a child's sleep, and the rhythmic beat broke the stillness like the throbbing of a heart.

"This way and be silent."

La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught, wrenching his horse backward into a gloom so heavy that those behind them would have passed them by but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the bit, tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. Instantly the foremost rider checked, and a voice called out of the darkness, "Who is there? Stephen! Stephen!" It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch of the spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, dragging the rein from the hand which held it.

"Ursula! You! Why are you here? Who is with you?"

"Where else should I be?" she answered between laughter and a sob. "Did you think I could wait, breaking my heart alone in Amboise? Besides, there is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we shall be together to the end."

"But the Dauphin?"

"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer any fear for the Dauphin. And if there was," she added half defiantly, "I would be here all the same."

From the shadow of the pines La Mothe's captor rode slowly forward. "For what purpose, mademoiselle?"

"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell him—that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be too late, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmy before me."

"But there is no entering Valmy in the dark."

"Monsieur La Mothe's signet——"

"La Mothe, you never told me that."

"Why should I?" replied La Mothe. "I owed you no information. You took your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must not, dare not, go to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be madness, the danger——"

"Where you go I go," she answered steadily. "Dear, do not try to dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in the little time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?"

"Do you mean," demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will give admission to the King at any hour, day or night?"

"At any hour, yes."

"And we are ready to go," said the girl, ranging her horse by the side of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe was within touch of her hand.

"Neither you nor the priest—La Mothe and La Mothe only," he answered, his voice roughening into passion for the first time. "Come, sir, I hold your parole."

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

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

"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I believe the King will thank you."

"Flatly, I decline to take you."

"Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not."

"Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to the priest.

"She is right," answered the Franciscan, speaking for the first time, "and when one is right there is no turning back, no matter what the end may be. Yes," he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seen in the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short of killing me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you can turn back the finger of God from lifting the sun yonder."

He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his arm all faced with him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. The leaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the coming glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divine had clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit might take comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid.

Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat in silence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the King of Glory shall come in,'" he murmured. Then he roused, straightening himself in the saddle. "Let us ride on. Have no fear, mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I serve you shall taste no harm."

"They will never let you pass the outer guard."

"A way will open; ride on."

"Well ride, then!" And ride they did, furiously. The fewer sleepless eyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance of escape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once only Molembrais looked round.

"Remember your parole. Keep near me, La Mothe!" Then, crouching low, he drove his spurs home and dashed forward at a reckless gallop.

But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and the Franciscan, he was mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, they had changed horses at Chateau-Renaud, and now their freshness more than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, the weakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff with pain and every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed fatigue, kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen and Ursula came last, side by side. Crossing the Loire the pace slackened, and for the first time speech was possible.

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

"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across the current. "But, beloved, I am in terror for you. The King——"

"Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is right, God's over all, and I have no fear." The clasp tightened in a message neither could speak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses were scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart.