CHAPTER VII
FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN
Many, deep, and diverse are the springs of silence. If Commines askedno question when La Mothe returned from his interview with Louis, andmade no comment beyond "You are late, my son," it was because he knewthat curiosity was almost as dangerous as opposition where the schemesor secrets of his master were concerned. La Mothe, in his ignorance,had on the other hand no such thought, no such fear, but a charge whichhe held sacred had been solemnly committed to him: he shared a secretwith the King and the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines'ultimate orders might be he understood now what his mission was, thismission to Amboise: it was to do for the father what the father mightnot do for himself, and as they rode slowly along the high road fromValmy he thought complacently to himself that he alone recognized thetrue nature of the man who watched them from the walls.
But there were obvious limits to the silence if the line of procedurelaid down by the King was to be followed. A parting and a meeting wereto be arranged, a plan of campaign to be decided upon; and it struck LaMothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make-believe in a boycould yet seize upon make-believe for his own purposes.
"The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise with you," began LaMothe, and it is to his credit that he spoke with hesitation. ToCommines, as Commines himself had said, he owed everything, and yet itseemed as if already he had come between Commines and the King'sconfidence. And yet, just because he was in the King's confidence itwas not easy to keep a touch of importance out of his voice. It was asif he said, "The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are tostand aside." But the bubble of his complacency was soon pricked.
"At Chateau-Renaud you will stay behind after we have dined," answeredCommines, "nor will you leave the inn until three o'clock. You willthen go on foot to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and takethe Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then to ford the Loireat Grand-Vouvray and enter Amboise from the south. Once in Amboise askfor the Chien Noir and put up there for the night."
"So you know all about it," said La Mothe, crest-fallen. Nor was itsimply that Commines knew all about it, it seemed he knew much morethan La Mothe himself.
"Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some one who can open thedoors of the Chateau to you I know nothing, and I want to know nothing.There you are to obey orders, but to have your time to yourself; and,my son, my son, pray God there may be no orders to give."
"But the King told me nothing of all this last night."
"It is enough that he told me this morning," answered Commines drily."You need not look downcast; it is his custom to divide hisinstructions."
But La Mothe had another objection, and one so obvious that hemarvelled how it had escaped Commines' notice.
"One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as a stranger will beimpossible. Riding behind us there are twelve good reasons why Ishould be recognized."
"Do you take us for fools?" retorted Commines. Turning in his saddlehe pointed backwards. Valmy was still in sight, and a keen eye couldhave detected the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the greywalls. "What is that to the right of the castle?"
"Valmy gallows."
"And from it hang three good reasons why the twelve will keep silence.The King's grip is as sure in Amboise as it is in Valmy; it is over allFrance, and God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. Thinktwice, Stephen, before you say the King forgets--and then don't say it."
La Mothe rode on in silence. This sudden reminder of the justice ofthe King had dashed his satisfaction. Wherever he turned it confrontedhim, and always with a warning which was less a warning than a threat.It had been so with Tristan, it was so now with Commines, nor could thememory of the coat of mail and embroidered toy in his saddle-bagsentirely quiet the uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seekingrelief, his thought cast back to Commines' curt instructions.
"Who is this fellow--for I suppose it is a man who is to meet me at theChien Noir?"
"Who is he? Slime of the gutter, contemptible old age unashamed, humanpitch whose very touch is a loathing, a repulsion, a defilement." Itseemed as if Commines was less afraid to speak his mind now that thewalls of Valmy were out of hearing, for he went on bitterly: "The Kingchooses his tools well, a foul tool for a foul use, and neither you norI can come out of it with clean hands. His name? The gallows-cheathas a dozen names and changes them as you would your coat. He is likea Paris rag-picker, and his basket of life is full of the garbage hehas raked from the gutter."
"And the woman?"
"The woman! To hear you say the woman one would think there was butone in the world. The King told me of no woman."
"Then I am not likely to get drunk in Amboise, unless your rag-pickerpours the wine.
'Heigh ho! Love is the sun, Love is the moon and the stars by night.'
The scheme seems a foolish one to me. I can never play the part. But,Uncle, what do you say? Shall I make a good troubadour?"
"Sing while you may," answered Commines, with a dry gravity behind thesoftening of his stern mouth, "and remember that at Amboise you singfor a King's pay."
"And I would sing five songs for nothing but the pleasure of singingrather than one for a fee. What kind of a little lad is the Dauphin?"
Commines made no reply, but rode on with knit brows. The question solightly asked was one he had often weighed in his own mind nor found aclear answer. Rumour said of him--but under her breath, for to speakat all was dangerous--that he was shamefully neglected, slow-witted,ill-taught, or, worse still, untaught, but, and here rumour whisperedyet lower, that flashes of shrewdness broke the dull level of theundeveloped intellect when least expected. That he was small for hisage he knew, that he was weakly, ill-formed, and awkward. These thingswere patent to the eye and common knowledge, but into the depths of thelad's nature he had not ventured to probe lest Louis' suspiciousjealousy should be aroused. Now that he found himself between afather's twilight and a son's dawn, with "The king is dead, long livethe king," an imminent proclamation, he blamed himself for hiscowardice as men always do who are wise after the event. With a littlemore certain knowledge his star might rise with the dawn, instead of,as he feared, setting with the twilight.
"Eh?" he said, rousing himself as La Mothe repeated the question. "TheDauphin? I know little of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy orPlessis with the King: it is long since the two have met. An ailing,obstinate, dull boy, they say, with no more wit than can be put in himwith a spoon. If it were not that weak natures often turn vicious thatthey may be thought strong I would say the King's fear of a plot wasbaseless."
"But surely there is no plot--a son against a father: a father wholoves him," added La Mothe, remembering the contents of his saddle-bags.
"I wish the plot was as doubtful as the love; we might then have stayedcomfortably in Valmy," answered Commines cynically, and La Mothe's eyestwinkled as he thought how much better he had read the King in hissingle hour than Commines had in all his ten years of intimacy. "Thewoman," he went on, "must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spendyour hour or two's walk from Chateau-Renaud to Amboise adding a verseto your love song."
"Why not a new song all for herself!" replied La Mothe, the twinklebroadening to a laugh, "or had I better wait till I see her? She wouldnever forgive me if the adored dimple was in the right cheek instead ofthe left, or the sweet eyes of my song grey instead of blue. Which arethey, Uncle?"
"I never knew the colour of any woman's eyes but one," answeredCommines; and La Mothe knew by the softened voice that he spoke ofSuzanne. "And when a woman has taught you the colour of her eyes mayyou see that in them which will make black or blue or grey the onecolour in the world for you. As to Ursula de Vesc, she detests me muchas I detest that offscouring from the dregs of brazen Paris who willmeet you at the Chien Noir. But there is Chateau-Renaud, where youwill find something better for your age and more to your lik
ing thanwomen's eyes."
"Dinner! and I twenty-four!"
"Eighteen, Stephen, eighteen, not a day older, and be thankful for theheart of a boy."
"Why not be thankful for the heart of a girl!" retorted La Mothe."Pray the Saints, as the King would say, that Ursula de Vesc is aspretty as her name."
Partly that his men might be free from the restraint of his presence,and partly because he did not wish to advertise his visit to Amboisemore broadly than necessary, Commines ordered their meal to be servedin a private room. It was to the front, with two small windowsoverlooking the roadway. These were open, and as the stamping of hoofsand jingling of bridle-chains came through them Commines bade La Mothesee who were without.
"But do not show yourself. Between Valmy and Amboise every man is afriend or an enemy, with fewer friends the further Valmy is leftbehind."
"A priest, with three of an escort," said La Mothe, "King's men, I amsure. Some of your own have gone out to meet them. Shall I go down tomake sure?"
"No; go into that inner room, rather, for I hear feet upon the stairs.If you are to be a stranger in Amboise the fewer who see you atChateau-Renaud the better. We cannot give a priest the Valmy gallowsas a reason for silence."
As the inner door closed the outer opened, and a Franciscan entered,his robe strewn thickly with the dust from the highway. Comminesrecognized him at once; he was from Valmy, one of the many clerics theKing's strange religiosity gathered round him, and justly held by Louisin deep respect for the simplicity and saintliness of his life. In anage when the fires of scandal scorched the Church with such a flamingvehemence that the heat kindled round the throne of the Chief Bishophimself, Father John escaped without so much as the smell of burning onhis garments. None could lay self-seeking to his charge, nor even thesmallest of the many vices which in every order raised their heads,rampant and unashamed. It was characteristic of Louis that he shouldattach to himself men of such unselfish humility and austere purenessof life. God and the Saints would surely forgive a little chicanery toone who lived in an atmosphere of other men's holy lives.
"Father John!" and Commines caught the Franciscan by the arm almostroughly, a sudden fear setting his pulses throbbing. "Has Saint-Pierresent you? Is the King ill--is he--is he?--you of all men know what wefear for him."
"No, my son, no; the King is as you left him, well, praise God! andstrong: it is he himself who has sent me after you. He said that sucha mission as yours had great need of the blessing of God upon it."
"And was that all his message?"
"That he committed France to your care. He spoke, no doubt, of theDauphin, who is the hope of France."
"Yes," answered Commines drily, "I do not doubt he spoke of theDauphin. Now, Father, I fear you must dine in haste, for it is time wewere on the road."
"A crust in my hand to eat as we go is enough. It makes me so happy,Monsieur d'Argenton, to see the King at last taking thought for hisson."
"Yes," repeated Commines, with the same dryness. "The Dauphin isindeed much in his thought. But though we are in haste there is noneed you should die of starvation. France has need of you, FatherJohn. There are plenty to play the devil's game by living, do not youplay it by dying before your time."
Twenty minutes later they were again on the road, La Mothe'ssaddle-bags fastened on his led horse. He himself followed at the hournamed by the King, but on foot, a knapsack strapped across hisshoulders and on it a lute in open advertisement of his new trade. Hissword was with his saddle-bags, but was no loss, so free from dangerwere the roads under the iron persuasion of the justice of the King.Nor were travellers numerous. Only twice was he passed, once by acourier riding post to Valmy, and once by a lad, little more than achild in age, who thundered up from behind on a great raw-boned roanhorse and disappeared ahead in a cloud of dust.
The Justice of the King Page 7
