The Justice of the King Part 15

"You sleep in the Dauphin's room o' nights as Hugues does at the door, and now and then you lay your head on her knee, while she strokes and pets you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not born a dog, tell me that?"

At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their play, sat up panting a moment, and then in a tumultuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe.

Charlemagne vouched for him, Charlemagne who was their oracle as grown-up brothers so often are, and they could let loose the exuberance of their puppydom without a fear that a sudden cuff would teach their youth that wild delights find an end in sorrow. Over each other they sprawled in their heedless eagerness to get near to this new playfellow, one, a little weaker than the rest, lagging a half-tail's length behind, and La Mothe was so busy trying to find a hand for each to mumble that he never knew how long Ursula de Vesc stood watching him.

Nor was she in any haste to break the silence. A puzzling factor had come into her life, and she was impatient of the enigma. The solution was not a question of curiosity but of safety, and a safety not her own. On one side was Commines, Louis' devoted adherent, devoted not alone in service, but in blindness, the blindness which questions neither means nor purpose; on the other side was Villon, Louis' jackal and open ears in Amboise. Between these two so profoundly distrusted stood Stephen La Mothe. Between them, but was he of them? That was the problem.

That morning, from Hugues' report of the visit in the darkened quiet of the Chateau, and remembering how familiarly Villon had introduced La Mothe overnight, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy of the rendezvous with Commines argued some sinister threat. But now she doubted, and as she watched La Mothe's careless play with the dogs the doubt grew. Hugues had kept his eyes open: the gapped bank and the narrow strip of gra.s.s between the bay and the river into which the grey horse had been thrust, without a hesitating thought of the inevitable result which must follow a slip or a swerve, spoke not alone of personal courage, but said plainly that La Mothe was ready to risk his life for the Dauphin. Neither Commines nor Villon would have done that, they would have let him perish and raised no hand to save him.

Where, then, was the sinister threat? And had not the devotion which she had so contemptuously scoffed at the night before already proved itself to be no empty word? Yes, she had scoffed, and he had answered her scoff at the risk of his life. How, then, could he be one with Commines and Villon? The thought that she had so misjudged him flushed her as with a sudden heat, the grey eyes grew tenderly troubled in her self-reproach, and unconsciously she drew a deeper breath. Slight as the sound was the dogs heard it; round they spun from their play, their mouths open, their tongues hanging, and next moment were leaping upon her skirts with little yelps of greeting.

"Mademoiselle!" and La Mothe sprang to his feet. "I did not hear you coming: how could I have been so deaf?" It was on his tongue to add, "I, who have been listening for the sound of your feet these hours past," but he wisely checked himself in time.

"Are you going to win all Amboise in a single day?" she answered, stooping so that the jubilant puppies almost scrambled into her lap.

"You do not ask after the Dauphin?"

"I fear I had forgotten him," he replied, and though there was no intentional significance in his voice Ursula de Vesc was woman enough to understand the subtle compliment. "How is he?"

"If you forget, we do not. He is as well as a nervous boy can be after such an ordeal. He is looking forward to seeing you this afternoon to try to say to you what we all feel. Monsieur La Mothe, let me----"

"Nervous he may be, but he is no coward," interrupted La Mothe hastily.

He foresaw what was coming and had all a shy man's horror of being thanked. "He sat his horse like a little hero. There is no such courage as to wait quietly for death."

"And what of the courage which goes to meet death?" Pus.h.i.+ng the dogs from her Ursula de Vesc looked up, her face very grave and tender in the shadows, as the spring of tears glistened under the lashes. Life had brought her so little to be grateful for that the happiness of grat.i.tude was very great.

"No, you must let me speak this once, I said hard things to you last night, and my thoughts were still harder: to-day you have answered me, and I am ashamed. Devotion? Grat.i.tude? It is we who owe you these, and we have nothing wherewith to pay. Monsieur La Mothe----"

But again La Mothe interrupted her.

"Think kindly sometimes and I am more than paid. Forgive the presumption, for why should you think of me at all? Forget the hard thoughts, mademoiselle, and let that pay in full."

"There can be no more hard thoughts. How could we think hard thoughts of our friends?"

"Friends? If that might be."

With the quick instinct which belongs to well-bred puppydom, and is not unknown even in children, the dogs had caught the graver note which changed her voice. By common consent they ceased their restless play and, seated on their haunches, their sleek heads aslant, watched her with wistful eyes; here was something their love could not quite understand.

"Friends? Amboise has more need of friends than Landless of the Duchy of Lackeverything." The girl had risen slowly to her feet as she repeated La Mothe's words, and now as she paused the shadow again broke in lines of troubled care along her forehead. "Monsieur La Mothe, what was the end of the story you began last night?"

"It has no end as yet. The end is here in Amboise, and my hope is we may find it together. I am sure we will if you will but help me. But the story is true."

"How can you say that?" she burst out pa.s.sionately. "Where do you find one little, little sign of love in Amboise? I can see none, none at all. Nothing but neglect, suspicion, even hate. Oh! it is terrible that a father should so hate his son. And yet you say there is love."

"I say what I know. Trust me, and give me time to prove it."

"We do trust you, indeed we do. Love in Amboise? Is it for that you are here?"

"Yes," answered La Mothe soberly. "It is for that I am here?"

"And Monsieur d'Argenton? Is that why he is here too?"

For a moment La Mothe returned no reply, but stood pa.s.sing his fingers through Charlemagne's soft hair. The lie direct or the lie inferential would parry the question and possibly serve both Commines and the King; but how could he keep his hands clean in Amboise and lie even by inference to Ursula de Vesc who had said so simply, "We trust you"? It was impossible, not to be thought of for a moment, but neither was the whole truth.

"Monsieur d'Argenton and I are not upon the same errand," he said at last. "Some day, when you know me better, and trust me for something better than a little brute courage which any man in my place would have shown, I will ask you a question. When you have answered it--and I know what the answer will be--I will tell you why Monsieur d'Argenton is in Amboise."

"Monsieur La Mothe, ask your question now."

"No, the time has not come. But I will ask this: Help me that the Dauphin may trust me, and together we will make the end of the story Love and Peace and Faith."

"Love and Peace and Faith," she repeated, her eyes filling for the second time. "They have long been strangers to Amboise. G.o.d send our France such a trinity."

And again La Mothe had to check himself lest he should reply, "To you too, mademoiselle." To bring just such a trinity into her life, Love which worketh Faith, and the Peace which is born of both, was the one supreme good which the world could offer out of all the gifts in its treasure-house. But, as he said of his question, the time had not yet come, so he changed the blunt directness to the more oblique "Not to France alone," and was rewarded by seeing the serious wistfulness s.h.i.+ft into a gay smile, as she curtsied mockingly with a "Merci, monsieur!"

very different from the same words of the previous night. Then she added, as the dogs, following her lighter mood, sprung upon her anew:

"Here I have two of them already, but certainly they give one little peace. Have they been formally introduced? This is Diane, who will be a mighty huntress in her day. This we call Lui-meme because," she paused, flas.h.i.+ng a mischievous glance at La Mothe, "well, just because his temper is not very good. He is a bully and uses his teeth on poor Charlot, who is the weakest of the three and the one we love best. But Charlot has one bad habit, he is very inquisitive, and it will get you into trouble some day, Charlot dear": whereat Charlot c.o.c.ked his ears and looked wise.

Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for himself, and said them with the dignity of a Dauphin of France struggling through the shy manners of a self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating both dignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frankness which told La Mothe that Ursula de Vesc's influence was already at work. The cold distaste had already disappeared, nor was there any suggestion of a compelled grat.i.tude. Commines and La Follette had not returned from their hawking, and only Father John and the girl were with the Dauphin.

He had been conversing with the priest, but broke off abruptly when La Mothe was announced.

"Monsieur," he said, his hand stretched out as he went hastily to meet him, "there are some services hard to repay. No, I don't mean services, services is not the word. Services are for servants and I don't mean that, but perhaps you understand? And perhaps, too, some day you will teach me to ride as well as you do?"

"There is little to teach," answered La Mothe. "And as I told Hugues, it is Grey Roland who should be thanked."

"What the heir cannot do, being as yet a child," said the priest, "the grateful father can and surely will." Then he laid his hand on the Dauphin's shoulder. "Were you greatly afraid, my son? At such a time, with death so near, fear would not shame a man, much less a boy."

"When Bertrand swerved I was afraid just for a moment, for I did not know what was going to happen, but not afterwards."

"But afterwards, in that awful moment when hope was gone and the world slipped from you, when there was nothing real but G.o.d and your own soul, what were your thoughts then?"

The boy made no reply, but s.h.i.+fted uneasily under the hand which still rested upon him. The heavy eyes which had brightened while he spoke to La Mothe grew dull and peevishly sullen again as, according to habit, he glanced towards Ursula de Vesc. Following the glance La Mothe saw the girl shake her head warningly, apprehensively even: but Charles had not the obstinate Valois chin for nothing.

"Perhaps you have forgotten? At such times the mind is not very clear.

Or perhaps it was like a dream? Dreams, you know, are forgotten when we wake."

"I remember very well. Yes, Ursula, I shall tell him since he asks. I wondered whether a son who hated his father, or a father who hated his son, would be most certainly d.a.m.ned."

"My son, my son," cried the priest, horrified. "How could you allow such a terrible thought?"

"Oh!" And the boy shook off the restraining hand impatiently. "You come from Valmy and are like all the rest of them. Monsieur La Mothe, let us go and thank Grey Roland."

But as he followed the Dauphin out of the room La Mothe asked himself whether, even with Ursula de Vesc's help, the end of the story could possibly be Love, Peace, and Faith.

CHAPTER XVI

TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST