Part 6 (2/2)
”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
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