E-text prepared by Al Haines
THE JUSTICE OF THE KING
by
HAMILTON DRUMMOND
Author of
"The King's Scapegoat," "Room Five,"
"The Houses," "Shoes of Gold," Etc.
International Fiction Library
Cleveland ---------- New York
Copyright, 1911
by the MacMillan Company
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE DESPATCH
II. A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE
III. FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE
IV. THE JUSTICE OF THE KING
V. THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART
VI. HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON
VII. FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN
VIII. THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE
IX. FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT
X. LOVE, THE ENEMY
XI. THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS
XII. LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED
XIII. "FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY"
XIV. FOR LIFE AND THRONE
XV. A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY
XVI. TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST
XVII. STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION
XVIII. FRENCH AND ENGLISH
XIX. GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN
XX. THE LAST STAND
XXI. DENOUNCED
XXII. "WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER"
XXIII. JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT
XXIV. A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR
XXV. "IT IS A TRAP"
XXVI. COMMINES TAKES ADVICE
XXVII. THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE
XXVIII. PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST
XXIX. THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST
XXX. "LOVE IS MY LIFE"
XXXI. SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION
XXXII. LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION
XXXIII. THE ARREST
XXXIV. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
XXXV. THE DAWN BROADENS
THE JUSTICE OF THE KING
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 sunshine, 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 shifted 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, fictitious glow
of health. But to remain seated for any length of time jarred with his
mood. Pushing 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 Château 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 passages 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 passed
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?"
"I don't know," replied Lessaix, also under his breath, "but not from
Paris!"
Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips mumbling
nervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his own handwriting: the
ring, a passport to life or death, he had at once slipped upon his
finger. Every moment he knew he was watched, every action weighed, and
he was a little uncertain how far a judicious self-betrayal would
further his purpose. His handwriting would tell them nothing but that
he knew the writer of the letter, whence it came, and that it was
important. To heighten the importance but conceal the cause seemed
wise. Of course presently he must take some one into his confidence,
and from the depth of his soul he regretted the necessity.
That was the curse of kingship--the brain which planned, reconciling
discordant elements, must rely for execution on hands it could not
always control. Yes, that was the vice of government, and the reason
why so many well-devised, smoothly-launched schemes utterly miscarried.
If the brain could only be the hands also! If the hands could only
reach out from where the brain pondered and foresaw! But they could
not, and so he must trust Commines. Trust Commines! A little gust of
anger at his impotence shook him and he shivered, dashing his hands
upon the table; it was never safe to trust any one--never! But he was
helpless, there was no escape, and in turn Commines must trust one
other: trust him with execution, that is, with blind performance, not
with knowledge. Beyond Commines he would trust no man with knowledge,
at least not as yet, nor Commines more than he must. Later it might be
policy to let it be known publicly the great danger which had
threatened him, and France through him, but not till all was over!
Till all was over! Again Louis shivered a little, but not this time
with anger. The phrase was a euphemism for death, and he hated the
word even when wrapped up in a euphemism and applied to another. Death
was death, disguise it in what phrase one might; a horror, a terror,
another vice of kings worse than the first. It said in plain words,
"You can sow, but you may never reap; you can begin, but you may never
finish. Some one else will reap: some one else will finish." Some one
else! The thought was intolerable. He hated, he loathed the some one
else as he hated and loathed death. With a sweep of his arm, as if he
thrust some bodily presence from him, Louis leaned forward and caught
up the despatch. Let him make an end to brooding, here was work to be
done.
Having closely examined the seals securing the back to make certain
they were intact, he ripped apart the threads which bound it round and
round passing through the seals, and drew out the enclosure. It was a
single sheet of stiff paper. This he unfolded, and spreading it flat
upon the table bent over it eagerly. But before he could have read
three lines he sank back in his chair with a cry, and so fierce was his
face that Saint-Pierre and Leslie, at the end of the gallery,
instinctively drew apart, each suspicious of the other. The King's
wrath was like lightning, swift to fall, and where it fell there was
the danger of sudden destruction to those near.
So he sat for a full minute, his brows drawn, his thin lips narrowed to
a line, his head sunk between his shoulders, then with a sigh audible
to the length of the gallery he again bent above the paper, resting his
weight on both arms, as if utterly weary both in body and spirit.
This time the pause was while he might have read the page slowly twice
over, weighing its sense word by word, and when at length he raised his
head all passion had gone from him; he was a sorrowful old man, weary
and worn and grey.
"Commines!" he said harshly, "send me Commines," and sat back, the
paper crumpled lengthwise in his hand.
But he did not sit for long. Rising, he paced up the gallery, his head
bent, his iron-shod stick striking the flags with a clang as he leaned
upon it at every second step, the crumpled paper still caught in his
hand. At the door he paused, looking up sideways.
"Commines? Where is Commines? Head of God! is there no one to bring
me Commines?"
"We have sent for him, sire."
"Sent for him? Why is he not here when I need him? I am the
worse-served king in Christendom. No one takes thought, no one cares,
no one---- Who is on guard? Leslie? Ah! Leslie cares, with Leslie I
am safe: yes, yes, with Leslie I am safe," and once more he turned
away, the iron ringing from the pavement as before. Suspicion breeds
suspicion, and it would never do to vex Leslie's blunt loyalty with any
seeming distrust. Besides, it was true, he could trust Leslie. It was
not the same trust as he had in Commines; Leslie would watch over him,
would guard him at all costs, but Commines would obey and ask no
questions.
Three times he had walked the length of the gallery, always with
growing impatience, and three times turned before he heard the sound of
whispering at the door, and the ring of rapid feet followed him. But
he gave no sign, and went on his way as if he had heard nothing. He
recognized the footfall, but preferred that Commines should reach him
as remotely from the door as possible.
"Sire!"
"Ah!" Louis turned with a start. "You have come at last! At last!
There was a time I was served better. But let that pass. Philip, I
have had letters."
"Yes, sire, I know: Lessaix told me."
"You know, and Lessaix told you! You watch me--spy on me, do you?"
"Sire, it is my business to know everything which touches----"
"Yes! and what more do you know? Where did the post come from, you,
whose business it is to know everything?"
"Lessaix thought from Paris."
"From Paris," and Louis raised his voice so that the affirmation in it
might be clearly heard at the further end of the gallery. Then he
turned to the silent group at the doorway, watchful to seize upon any
clue to the King's mystery which might guide their feet clear of the
pitfalls besetting Valmy.
"Let all men go from me but my friend Argenton," he said, with a wave
of the hand which still held the paper crumpled in the grasp. "Let the
guard remain beyond the door, but let no man enter till I give leave.
Paris! Let them think Paris," he went on, lowering his voice, "but
from you, Philip, I have no secrets. We are old friends, too old
friends to have secrets one from the other, eh, Philip, eh? Give me
your arm that I may lean upon it, for I grow tired. It is the heat,
not that I am ill or weaker; the heat, the heat, and I grow tired. And
yet I must walk: I cannot rest; no, not for a moment; this--this horror
has unstrung me."