Part 1 (1/2)
The Justice of the King.
by Hamilton Drummond.
CHAPTER I
THE DESPATCH
All morning the King had been restless, unappeasable, captious, with little relapses unto the immobility of deep thought, and those who knew him best were probing deeply both their conscience and their conduct.
Had he sat aloof, quiet in the suns.h.i.+ne, his dogs sleeping at his feet, his eyes half closed, his hands, waxen, almost transparent, and bird's claws for thinness, spread out to the heat, those about him would have gone their rounds with a light heart. At such times his schemes were thoughts afar off, dreams of some new, subtle stroke of policy, and none within touch had cause to fear.
But this May day he was restless, unsettled, his mind so full of an active purpose shortly to be fulfilled that he could not keep his tired body quiet for long, but every few minutes s.h.i.+fted his position or his place. If he sat in his great chair, padded with down to ease his weakness and the aching of his bones, his fingers were constantly plucking at his laces, or playing with the tags which fastened the fur-lined scarlet cloak he wore for a double purpose, to comfort the coldness of his meagre body, and that the death-like pallor of his face might be touched by its gay brightness to a reflected, fict.i.tious glow of health. But to remain seated for any length of time jarred with his mood. Pus.h.i.+ng himself to his feet he would walk the length of the gallery and back again, leaning heavily upon his stick, only to sink once more into his chair and fumble anew with shaking hands at whatever loose end or edge lay nearest.
So it had been all morning, but the restlessness had redoubled within the last half-hour. It was then that a post had reached Valmy, no man knew from whence, nor had the messenger been asked any questions. The superscription on the despatch was a warning against the vice of curiosity. It was in the King's familiar handwriting, bold and angular, and ran, ”To His Majesty the King of France, At his Chateau of Valmy, These in great haste.” A ”Louis” in large letters was sprawled across the lower corner of the cover.
But though none asked questions it was noted that the horse was fresher than the man, and that whereas the one was streaming in a lather of sweat which had neither set nor dried, the other was splashed, caked, and powdered with mud and dust to the eyebrows: therefore the wise in such matters deduced that short relays had been provided, but that the rider had only halted long enough to climb from saddle to saddle. In silence he handed his letter to the Captain of the Guard, together with the King's signet, and in silence he rode away; but whereas he came at a gallop he rode away at a slow walk: therefore the wise further deduced that his task was ended.
With the King in residence not even the Captain of the Guard could move freely through Valmy, but the signet answered all challenges. Every door, every stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these silent figures the rooms and pa.s.sages were alike empty. Loitering for gossip was not encouraged at Valmy, and least of all in the block which held the King's lodgings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King took the air with the pointed windows open to the south for warmth, was there any suggestion of a court. Here, at the entrance, and remote from the King alone at the further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were in attendance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time Lessaix unbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to Saint-Pierre, and pa.s.sed on. In Valmy suspicion never slept, never opened its heart in faith to loyalty, and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach the King armed.
While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnawing his under lip as he watched him, suddenly flung out one hand, the palm outward, the fingers spread, and Lessaix halted.
”Well?” He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man speaks whose temper is worn to breaking-point.
”A despatch, sire.”
”From whom?”
”There is nothing to show----”
”From whom?”
”I do not know, sire.”
”Have you no tongue to ask?”
”I asked nothing, sire.”
”Um; hold it up.” Leaning forward Louis bridged his dim eyes with his hand, and under the shadow Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shut convulsively; but when the hand was lowered the King's face was expressionless. ”What else?”
”Your Majesty's signet.”
”Let me see! Let me see! Um; that will do. Put them on the table and go. Where is the messenger?”
”He left at once.”
”Um; were the roads bad from Paris?”
”He did not say, sire; he never opened his lips.”
”Silent, was he? Then there is one wise man in France. Thank you, Captain Lessaix.”
With a salute Lessaix retired, but as he buckled on his sword again Saint-Pierre whispered, ”Whence?”