The Justice of the King Part 6

"But, sire," began La Mothe. Then he remembered the Valmy gibbet where a boy of twelve still hung that the roads of France might be safe, and his voice choked. The King was right; youth was no excuse.

"There are no buts," said Louis, sternly emphatic, and sank back upon the pillows. "I have knowledge, I have knowledge, Commines knows--others--France, Europe--must know later; an honest lad like you will be believed."

"Three weeks ago I was in Poitou----"

"Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without prejudice, you are not of the Court."

"I meant, sire, I have no experience."

"And so the nut may be too hard for your teeth? I see no fault in your modesty: diffidence is not cowardice. But you will have help in your nut-cracking, you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, Fear, and Love: with these three I have made France what she is. Money--a man--a woman; what will these not do! With the first--bribe and see that you do not hold my skin too cheap; Fear--a life forfeit, if I lift a finger he hangs; Love--a woman."

"A friend, sire?"

"An enemy--but a woman. Fool her: she is young and Amboise is dull. I have a scheme for you ready made. You sing? But I know you do, Tristan has told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing: and nothing is too small for the King's service. Always remember life holds nothing trivial. Leave Valmy with Commines, but separate on the road and go to Amboise as a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will welcome any distraction. You make verses?"

"Sometimes, sire," stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flus.h.i.+ng as youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost as disconcerting as being found out in a lie.

"Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, and Amboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one flesh under the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember," added Louis hastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothing more, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give you your orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of his robe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, then went on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse and ride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay and keep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or night will open every door in Valmy."

"What end, sire?"

"What end? What end? Ask Commines, serve him, serve France; that end, boy, that end, and in the name of Almighty G.o.d, ride fast." The dull eyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow of the scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a pa.s.sion waked the blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect of its quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!"

he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motioned imperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it will pa.s.s--it is nothing, nothing at all--and I have one thing more to say."

Fumbling amongst the cus.h.i.+ons he drew out a little silver figure, whether of man or woman La Mothe was uncertain, so fully the tense fingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowed to it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weakly to his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image clattered on the floor.

It had served its purpose, out of the curious act of faith a renewal of strength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the words faltered.

Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. It was littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such a presence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goose quills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, a lumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded and twisted inwards.

Amongst these the nervous hand s.h.i.+fted uncertainly here and there, almost like the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon the bunched folds of the napkin.

"The Dauphin is a child," he said, his fingers closing upon the looseness of the linen as he spoke. "A weakling--girl! And so, girl-like, he loves to play at make-believe. You know their games?

There is the sh.e.l.l of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds it against all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by a.s.sault at the head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I am Charlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but the Dauphin of France!"

"But, sire," ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural in a child."

"I played no such games at twelve years old," answered Louis bitterly.

"At twelve I learned king's-craft and foresaw realities; at twelve I struggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child in make-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. But being a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--and so----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linen shook as with a palsy. "You see," the King went on hoa.r.s.ely, "what it is to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as a child, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, not outwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these others would say I fostered with my hand what I condemned with my head. No, the father's hand must be hidden out of sight, and that will be your part."

With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, dropping the hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemed a challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoff if you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steel rings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if the quaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate in the tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy to raise a sneer or gibe a moral.

Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of young blood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness is pierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, the pathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King, overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushed by no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kin even to this stern and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsion wakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts of fatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyalty which had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasm which is the devotion of the heart and counts life itself no sacrifice.

Nor could he hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines of challenge were smoothed from the King's face.

"A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn," he said, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and dropping them again in a little heap that caught the light on every separate ring and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have a message for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it the spirit of the child may grow."

"But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire, let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from the father to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be----"

"G.o.d's name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with your King who shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think--does he think--that--that--Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingers caught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the lean neck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick, quick, is it Commines--Commines--Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "I took him from the gutter--from the very gutter; he was traitor to a Charles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve a Charles again?" Pus.h.i.+ng himself up, half kneeling on the couch, half leaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening hand towards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak and tell the truth, you dumb dog?"

But the pa.s.sion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he s.h.i.+vered as if with cold, and fell back upon the cus.h.i.+ons, one hand feebly beckoning to La Mothe to come nearer.

"Whisper," he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smile twitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone, we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Come now?"

"No one, sire, on my honour, no one."

"Honour? I know too much of the ways of men to trust men's honour.

Swear, boy," he burst out again, pa.s.sionately roused. "Swear on this.

It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears falsely dies, dies within the year--dies d.a.m.ned. Honour? Honour is a net with too wide a mesh to hold men's oaths. Dare you swear?"

Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it reverently, while Louis, his lungs still fighting for breath, witched him narrowly.

"Sire, I meant nothing, nothing but----"

"But that you were a fool. Only a fool sells--the lion's skin--while the lion--is alive." His voice strengthened as if the thought stimulated him like a cordial. "And the lion is alive--alive! I must finish, I must finish," he went on more querulously. "Yes, a fool, but fools are commonly honest. You may be a faithful servant, but you are a bad courtier, Monsieur La Mothe."

"But, sire, have you not more need of the one than of the other?"

"Of the servant than the courtier? Aye, aye, that is well said, very well said. You are less a fool than I thought. But I must finish or Coictier, my doctor--he thinks me less strong than I am--will be scolding me. Take these," and he pushed the coat of mail away from him impatiently, as if vexed that he had been betrayed into such a display of feeling. "Remember that I have never seen them, never, never. You promise me that? You swear that?"

"I swear it, sire, solemnly."

"And you will return to Valmy--to me, in silence?"

"I promise, sire."

"Swear, boy, swear."

"I swear it, solemnly."

"There!" And again he pushed the mail from him, his delicate fingers touching the mask delicately. "Give them from yourself. All things have their price, and the price of a child's confidence is to serve its pleasures. But, young sir, remember this too, remember it, I say, my son is the Dauphin of France and that which is for a prince's use, even in play, is for his use only. Let no one else have commerce with these."

"Be sure, sire, I reverence the prince too deeply----"

"Aye, aye: you can go. Words cost even less than honour. Give me proofs, Stephen La Mothe, proofs, and trust to the justice of the King," which shows how right Commines was when he said that the justice of the King had many sides.

And so, with his deepest bow and his heart full of many emotions, La Mothe left his master's presence, and the cross-bow in the shadows beyond the door on the right was lowered for the first time in more than half an hour. For what he was to trust the justice of the King he was no more clear in the confusion of the moment than what his mission to Amboise was. But of one thing he was certain, the King was a man much maligned and little understood: harsh of word and stern of act, perhaps, but with a great, undreamed wealth of tenderness behind the apparent austerity. Of that the little coat of mail and tinselled mask bore witness. It was wonderful, he told himself, how the yearnings of the human heart found excuse for what the sterner brain condemned; surely that was where the human drew nearest to the divine! This was not alone a master to serve, but a man to love!

And Louis, a huddled, shapeless ma.s.s on his tossed cus.h.i.+ons, sat gnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. All pa.s.sion had died from him and suddenly he had grown very old, though the indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age.

"My son," he said, s.h.i.+vering, "my son, my son." Then the bent shoulders straightened, the bowed head was raised, and into the tired eyes there shot a gleam of fire. "I have no son but France!" Was he a hypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who never deceived himself to another's hurt cast the first stone at him.

When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from Valmy the next morning on their way to Amboise he was there upon the walls, a solitary grey figure pathetic in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as they were in sight, did his eyes wander from them.

CHAPTER VII

FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN