FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE
With a quick gesture, the arm thrust out, the hand open, the fingers
spread, Louis shrank back, his other arm across his face. It was a
movement eloquent of pathos, despair, and suffering; then, with another
sigh, he straightened himself, his corpse-like face pinched with care.
"The son of France!" he repeated. "Yes! the son of France! but,
Philip, my friend, my one friend, must the father perish for the son?"
"Oh, sire, sire," cried Commines, deeply moved, both by the words and
the appeal in the voice. "Never that. And it is true--you are France,
France itself as no King ever has been; France in its strength, France
in its hope, and God knows what evil will befall----" He checked
himself sharply as a spasm twisted the King's sunken mouth. Carried
away by his sympathy he had forgotten that it was an almost
unforgivable offence to hint that Louis was not immortal. For him the
word death was wiped from the language. If the dread shadow took form
to strike, those near might say "Speak little," or "Confess," but
nothing more.
But for once the offence passed without rebuke; it was even seized upon
to point a moral, and nerving himself to face the thought the King
completed the sentence.
"God knows what evil will befall France in a boy's hands! And within a
year he will be of age; of age and yet a child. A puppet king of
France!" Louis paused, drawing in his breath with a shudder like a man
chilled to the marrow. "A puppet, a puppet, and in the hands of a
puppet what must the end be? Ah! France! France! France! It is
disaster, unless it can be turned aside. Philip, you must go to
Amboise. Take with you some one you can trust, if in all Valmy there
is such an one!"
"There is, sire; one I can trust as my King can trust me."
"Yes, yes, but not overmuch; do not trust him overmuch. Remember what
I said--suspect, suspect."
"I am not afraid, sire, Stephen La Mothe owes everything to me."
"Gratitude? Is that any reason for faithfulness? Piff!" And the King
blew out his thin lips in contempt. "To bind men to you, Commines, to
bind them so that you may sleep easy o' nights, you must hold them
either by the fear of to-day or the hope of to-morrow. Gratitude!
Thanks for eaten bread! How many are there who owe me everything, and
yet have turned against me. But let that pass; may God and the Saints
forgive them as I do." Louis paused, and a sardonic smile flickered
for an instant across his face. If God and the Saints had no more
forgiveness for his enemies than he had, then their prospects in the
life to come were as miserable as Louis would have made the remnant of
their days in this present world if they but fell into his power. "And
this La Mothe," he went on, "there is no need to tell him all we know.
To tell all you know is to lose your advantage. And why should he be
faithful? Why does he owe you everything?"
"I promised his sister--it was years ago----"
"A woman? Um, I do not like women. The ways of men I can follow, but
the ways of women are beyond me. Seven devils were cast out of one,
but not from the rest, and so there is no understanding them. No, I do
not like women."
"Sire, she is long dead."
"Yes? That makes it safer, but I do not see that it is any reason for
trusting the brother. Take him with you to Amboise if you think he is
safe, but remember"--and the King's lean hand was shaken suddenly
upward almost in Commines' face, a threat as well as a warning--"I hold
you responsible, you, you, you only. Let him be with you, but not of
you; let him enter Amboise apart from you, and let him work out of
sight like a mole, obeying orders without knowing why he obeys. Then
if he fails, or blunders, or is fool enough to be caught spying, you
can disown him, can wash your hands of him, and let him hang! Um! You
don't like it? I see in your face that you don't like it. Will you
never learn that a face has a tongue of its own to be used to conceal
our thoughts? But yours--I know your thought. The woman! Bah! the
woman is dead."
"Sire, a promise to the dead is like a vow to the Saints; none can give
it back."
"Um! a vow to the Saints? But we must have the Saints on our side.
Let me see--let me see. Yes! Take him with you, openly or secretly as
you will, and if he bungles I shall deal with him. That frees you from
your promise. The justice of the King! Eh, Philip! will the justice
of the King please you better?"
The justice of the King! Louis sat back in his chair as he spoke, his
blotched gums showing in a grin between his thin lips, his dull eyes
half veiled by the drooping of the leaden-hued lids. More than ever he
was a mask of death, but of a death that possessed a grim humour,
malevolent in its satirical cynicism. The justice of the King. Who
should know that justice so well as Commines, its minister for almost a
dozen years, or who so testify to its stern implacability? None
escaped the rigid iron of its wrath. Their almost royal blood saved
neither the Duke of Nemours nor the Count of Armagnac. Saint-Pol,
Constable of France, perished on the scaffold. Besides these a score
of the greater nobles of France had fallen, nor could the scarlet of
the Cardinalate shield Balue from its vengeance. If these, the great
ones of the chess-board, were beyond the pale of mercy, what hope would
there be for a simple pawn like Stephen La Mothe, if once he fell
beneath that inflexible ban? And yet to the courtier the King's
question could have but one reply.
"The justice of the King," repeated Commines; and added, without
thought of irreverence, "Let him fall into the hands of God and not of
man."
"Good!" The thin lips twitched, and deep in the dead eyes a sombre
fire glowed. It warmed his cold humour to read so plainly the thought
hidden behind the smooth words. But to a mind as fertile as the King's
that very thought was a suggestion. It would be well that this La
Mothe should clearly understand all he had to fear; and not to fear
only but also to hope. The justice of the King could raise up as well
as cast down, could reward without measure as well as crush without
mercy.
"Go to Amboise. Be myself in Amboise. If--I use your own word,
Philip--if justice must strike---- Ah! poor wretched King and yet more
wretched father!--be thou the King's justice, be thou the King's hand
in Amboise, and let this Monsieur La Mothe be your ears, your eyes.
And--um--yes, let me see this La Mothe before you leave; I am, as you
know, something of a judge of men. To-morrow will do, and the next day
you can go to Amboise."
"And my commission, sire? My authority to act on your behalf?"
"Commission?" The plaintive, gentle calm of the King's voice broke up
in storm. Leaning forward Louis tapped his finger-tips on the table
noisily. "Sift, search, find, find, there is your commission.
Authority? Um--um--when Absalom rebelled against David did Joab, the
king's servant, say, 'Where is my authority?' Rebellion is your
authority; the safety of your King is your authority; the plot against
France is your authority. For such crimes there is none above justice,
Monsieur d'Argenton, none--none. But justice is like truth, and
sometimes dwells in shadow. Do you understand? Justice, but no
scandal. We must be circumspect. There must be no shock to public
thought in France. It is the curse and fate of kings to be misjudged.
Justice might well come by way of accident. And--let me see! This La
Mothe! He owes you everything and you say he can be trusted?"
"Yes, sire, but I have been thinking----"
"Then, Philip, tell him something of what I have told you. The
danger----" The King again shook in the air the crumpled despatch
which had never been exposed, never left his grasp for an instant.
"The danger to me--to France--to you, above all to you who vouch for
him. He owes you everything as you owe me, perhaps he will understand
as you do?"
"But, sire," said Commines again, striving hard to keep his voice
unemotional, "while you spoke I have been thinking. I fear Stephen La
Mothe is too young, too inexperienced, for so grave a mission."
"And are there two in Valmy you can trust with your life? Too young?
No! To be young is to be generous, to be young is to dream dreams.
The generosity of his youth will repay you all he thinks he owes, and
will not count the cost: the dreams will see the glory of serving
France. Age brings caution, Philip; age brings too much of the
weighing of consequence; and at Amboise a little incaution will be
good, incaution of himself, you understand. He owes you everything;
let him get it into his head that you are the gainer by his
incaution--as you will be, Philip, as you will be, and he too. There!
That is settled. Send him to me to-morrow. Move the brazier nearer to
me, then go. Nearer yet; within reach of my hand. There! that will
do."
But filled by a fear he dared not show Commines still lingered. Across
the gulf of the past years came the voice of the dear, dead woman, the
voice of the lost love of his youth, lost while youth was generous,
while youth dreamed dreams and loved passionate. It was the sweetest
voice he had ever known; sweet in itself because of itself, caressing,
gentle, sweeter still because passionate love had throbbed through it.
"Watch over him, Philip, for my sake," it said, and she had died
comforted by his promises, died trusting him. And now---- But while
he hesitated, willing but afraid to dare, Louis bestirred himself.
Resting one arm upon the table he pushed himself half upright with the
other hand, and so, half poised, pointed forward at the door. A blotch
of crimson showed upon the cheek-bones and the dull eyes glowed.
"God's name, man! did you not hear me? Do you serve me or the Dauphin?
Which? Go! go! go!"
This time Commines obeyed, and obeyed in silence. The King's question
was not one which called for an answer; or rather he understood that
Amboise must give the answer, give it emphatically and without a
quibble. Once outside the door he paused. Between Saint-Pierre,
Leslie, and himself no love was lost, but the bond of a united
watchfulness against a common danger bound them to mutual service.
"Where was it from?" asked Saint-Pierre. But Commines shook his head,
running his fingers inside the collar of his doublet significantly.
Complacency, even when it was the complacency of self-defence, had its
limits.
"I dare not," he whispered back. "He is in the mood of the devil.
What is he doing now?"
As if playing the part of sentry Saint-Pierre turned and walked twice
or thrice up and down before the open door, glancing cautiously within.
"Tearing the despatch, and burning it piecemeal in the brazier."
"I feared as much. If you love yourselves, gentlemen, see that you do
not cross him to-day. And when I am gone from Valmy walk warily."
"Where are you going, Monsieur de Commines?"
"To Amboise, and I would have given a thousand crowns for one look at
that despatch."
But it is a question whether the look would have taught him much,
though he had studied the paper for an hour. It was blank; beyond the
superscription and the "Louis" sprawled across the corner there was not
one single word. And yet, to one trained by ten years service in his
master's ways of crooked cunning the very blank would have been
eloquent of warning.