The Justice of the King Part 39

But Saint-Pierre had already heard the altercation, and at the rasp of his spurs on the flags Molembrais turned sharply. Quick to note the richer dress he drew his own conclusion. Waiting for neither question nor explanation he again held out the signet.

"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, we must see the King at once--at once, you understand. Here is my authority."

"But I do not know you? No stranger can----"

"But you know this!" Molembrais cut him short. "Do you think I have risked my neck galloping these accursed roads all night to be delayed now just because you do not know me? Is it the King's signet or is it not?"

"Pa.s.s, then," said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. "Does Monsieur La Mothe go with you?"

For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say no? He would have given much to have shaken off La Mothe now that the gates were pa.s.sed, and have forced his way to the King alone; but the attempt might waken that suspicion which slept so lightly in Valmy. While he paused, La Mothe answered, deciding the question.

"Unfortunately, yes, Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. Will you please tell Monsieur de Commines that I have arrived?"

"Is it arrest? My dear lad----" he began as La Mothe nodded, but Molembrais again interrupted him.

"We have no time now. Where is the King?"

"In his usual lodgings."

"Mort-dieu! monsieur, how should I know his usual lodgings? Am I of Valmy?"

"Monsieur, a little civility would do you no harm."

"Monsieur, once I have seen the King I will be as civil or as uncivil as you please."

Turning on his heel Saint-Pierre beckoned to an under officer. "Pa.s.s these gentlemen to Captain Leslie: he is on duty in the King's ante-room. Don't fear, La Mothe, I will send word to Monsieur de Commines without delay. He is anxious about you, for he has been enquiring at the gates once this morning already."

"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, there is a lady behind us; she has ridden all night----"

"A lady?" Saint-Pierre's hand fell on his shoulder in a kindly touch.

"Not old enough to be your mother, I'll wager! Don't fret, mon gars, I have been young myself," and with that La Mothe had to be content.

Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais took up his position last of the three. Now that he was within its walls the indefinable terror of Valmy possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was not that he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly determined, not that he had grown coward or would have turned back had return been possible, but the chill of the shadows through which the path lay crept deeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, in part the inexpressible revolt of nature against an inevitable sacrifice, in part the sinister suggestions inseparable from Valmy itself.

And how could he escape from that suggestiveness? There, where the denser gloom sloped from the roof across a paved courtyard, Guy's scaffold might have stood; through that doorway, dimly outlined against the greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light for the last time; these obscure, uncertain windows, blind eyes in the slowly waning night, might have seen the axe fall; down these cellar stairs might have been carried--but they had swung to the left into a narrow court, and before them were the King's lodgings. No! it was not that he repented, not that he had turned coward, but would fate and circ.u.mstances trick him of his revenge at the last?

There are some men whom the dread of failure chills to the heart when the crisis calls them, and Marc de Molembrais was one of them. He had no definite plan of either attack or escape. How could he have, when every angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room through which they pa.s.sed was strange to him? But if he had no plan, he had a purpose firmly set in his determination, which neither gloom nor chill could check; from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice of revenge, he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow he would get Louis of France into his grip, and somehow he would break to liberty. At the door of the King's ante-room Leslie met them, and their guide stepped aside: his work was done.

In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinctively he felt that neither bl.u.s.ter nor importunity would serve him now. Then he glanced aside at La Mothe. "We must see the King and at once," he almost whispered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his dread of failure he feared the excitement in his voice would betray him at the last.

"Where from?"

"Amboise."

Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy should go and a stranger return was quite in keeping with the King's devious methods.

"Give me your sword and then I will waken him. I think he expects you."

"My sword?" The request staggered him. He had relied upon his sword for the one thrust necessary, then to aid him in his escape, or at least that he might die fighting.

"Don't you know that no one approaches the King armed? not even I, not even Lessaix. There is nothing personal in it."

"No, I never heard that." He stood a minute, gnawing his lip, then wrenched the buckle open. What matter, he had his dagger hidden!

Laying the weapon aside, Leslie softly lifted the portiere, holding it looped with one hand while with the other he opened the door very gently.

"Sire!"

"Is that Leslie? I am awake."

"There are messengers from Amboise. Your Majesty's signet----"

"Thank G.o.d! Oh, thank G.o.d! Lord G.o.d! Mother of G.o.d! Christ of G.o.d!

grant he was in time." The voice was thin and tremulous, the end almost a sob. "Turn up the lamp, Leslie, and leave them with me alone.

Mercy of G.o.d! strengthen me for what is to come."

Dropping the portiere behind him, Leslie crossed the room with a quietness rare in one so roughly natured and so strongly built. But Louis had the power of winning men's affections when it so pleased him, and it was politic to win the man who held his life in care. Loosening the wick in its socket with the silver pin hanging from the lamp for that purpose, Leslie returned to the door.

"Are you ready, Sire?"

An affirmative wave of the hand was the answer, as, high upon his pillows and pushed to the very outer edge of the bed, the King leaned forward. Was he ready? He dared not say so. Words do not come easily when life or death waits uncertain behind the door.

"Have you slept, Sire?"

"No." The voice was firmer as the hard will regained the upper hand, but it was harsh, dry, curt. "Perhaps I'll sleep--later. Please G.o.d I'll sleep later. Send them in."

But in the ante-room Leslie paused a moment.

"Take off those riding gloves," he said sharply. "You must know little of kings' courts. Leave them on the table. You can pick them up as you go out."

"I know my duty," answered Molembrais, "and that is enough for me." To speak sharply steadied his nerve. But at the door he stood aside and motioned to La Mothe. "Do you go in first." Again it was not that his courage failed him, but La Mothe would be so much covert, La Mothe would draw the King's attention. It would ruin everything if, while he was on the very threshold, the King should cry out, Where is Beaufoy?

But Louis never gave him a glance. As the light fell upon La Mothe's face he drew a s.h.i.+vering sigh and clenched his teeth with a snap. Life or death had pa.s.sed the door--which was it?

"Come nearer," he said, beckoning. "Nearer yet. You, Beaufoy, stay there by the door. The Dauphin?--Charles?"

"Well, Sire."

"Well!" The beckoning hand dropped, then he leaned forward, covering his face. "Oh, G.o.d--G.o.d--G.o.d--G.o.d be thanked!" he sobbed, his shoulders shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. "G.o.d be thanked!" La Mothe heard him whisper a second time, and in the silence Molembrais crept forward and aside, edging by the wall where the shadows were thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench the lamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he stole towards the table.

Suddenly Louis reared himself upright, again shaking a hand before him, but this time in a threat.

"I cancelled my orders: where--where----"

"The mask is destroyed, Sire."

"Destroyed? Safely?"

"Safely, Sire."