The Justice of the King

by Hamilton Drummond

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST

  Commines broke the silence with a bold stroke. "He carried moreletters 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 hadreceived 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 themnightly with their property, with their lives even. There is nodiscredit in innkeeping. You know, Monsieur d'Argenton, I do not holdthat honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. ThisSaxe, now, what was his tale?"

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

  "Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you understood when youleft Valmy. Did I not tell you to sift, and search, and find? Nowcomes 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, hischin sunk upon their clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only theeyes, dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed alive. "Whosays 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' deathas a reason why all France was----" Commines paused, fearing to offendby an unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for him.

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

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

  The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into thepillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Comminesknew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and becauseCoictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violentemotion 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, wretchedheart--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 overreachedhimself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince yourson 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 hemalign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now theone 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! youshall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me--atme. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he haslied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of hisloving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news.Yes, we rejoice--we rejoice--God knows how we rejoice! Philip, thecordial--there, on the table--that crystal flask. This joyful emotionis killing me."

  Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a handwhich faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless onthe bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to hismouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly.As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of thechest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblanceof life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for amoment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst,been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closedhis eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest theeasier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes stillclosed 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. Ithink God made them as He made flies, to be the fret and plague oflife. You vouched for the fool, Philip, remember that."

  "And I still vouch for La Mothe," answered Commines. He felt that hewas 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 wefailed to discover what does not exist? Remember, Saxe lied, liedthroughout, and has always lied." He paused, but if he expected todraw some further comment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent,his face void of expression, and Commines went on: "That cruel jest theProvost-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 indespair and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved of sogood and true a friend, so great a King. The awful shock----"

  "There, there, no more of that," said Louis harshly. The reminder ofthe grim, inevitable certainty which had lately been so significantlynear was more than he could bear. With an effort he struggled on hiselbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I amstrong--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--andyet not all a jest." From under his drooped lids he looked up atCommines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what didCharles say? Charles, who is so loving and loyal. Laughed and thankedGod--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 comeeasily, and never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin's lastnight." Which was true, for Hugues, who had loved him, lay dead. AndHugues' death gave Commines another inspiration, which, because of theend in view, he seized upon without a scruple. "But when at last wordscame they were worthy of him, worthy of his loyalty both as son andsubject. 'I would be Dauphin again,' said he, 'if I could but bringhim back.'"

  Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis caught Commines by thearm 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 fromweakness.

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

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

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

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

  With a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis layback. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lipswere firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at thisor that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence atanimation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forcedhimself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But theoutcome 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. Canyou blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, asI left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell himthat within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me.'"

  "Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you toldme 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 Ihave 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? Yourofficiousness 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 thefastest 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 filledLouis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. Hethought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agonyof a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him.Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken downfinally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard todraw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why suchanxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond thedoor stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled.

  "The King--go to him."

  "Ill? Dying?"

  "No, he needs you. Go at once--at once," answered Commines, with ajerk 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 padagainst his knee, Louis was in no haste to write. Gnawing withunconscious savagery at his under-lip he stared into vacancy,searching, searching, searching for the precise words to express histhought. But they eluded him. It was not so simple to be precise, soclear that even a fool like Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yetbe so cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of the order,would not betray him. Commines' voice was clanging in his ears likethe clapper of a bell, and would not let him think coherently. Twelvehours! Twelve hours! Even now--no, not yet, but soon, very soon, itmight be too late. "Perdition!" he cried, striking his hand upon thewoollen coverlid--he was chilly even in May--"will they never come?"

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

  "There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your horse is waiting you inthe 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 rigidlyupright; then, as if the very springs of life were sapped to theirutmost limit, he sank back in collapse upon the pillows. From thehalf-opened shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table,flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver Christ upon thecross, 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 havemercy 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 toValmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on yourlife let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS."