THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART
If proof were needed of the King's unique trust in his Grand Marshal it
was to be found in the ease with which Tristan conveyed La Mothe past
the sentries who stood guard at every door. Not Commines, not Lessaix,
not Beaujeu himself, for all that he was the King's son-in-law, could
have brought a stranger to the King's presence without special licence.
But to none Tristan gave greeting, much less vouchsafed explanation,
and by none was he challenged. Nor did La Mothe speak. Not only had
the suddenness of the unexpected summons confused him, but his thoughts
were too deeply busied trying to remember how far he had allowed his
tongue to outrun discretion.
To say he was afraid would be too much, to say he had no fear would be
too little, but his fear was less a dread than an awe. The gaiety of
his laughter had clean gone from him, and his heart of song was hushed:
even the crude, ironical satire of his uncomprehending youth was
stayed. He had made grim jest of the justice of the King, and now the
King's justice, in its sternest, most sinister incarnation, rubbed
shoulders with him. It was little wonder that his mood was sobered as
his mind, instinctively swayed by Commines' almost frenzied insistence,
groped its way step by step from Poitou to Valmy in a troubled
endeavour to recall just what had passed between them when Tristan's
interruption pricked the bubble of his irony.
And he succeeded in part. First there had been the coiner of Thouars,
then the brawling drunkard of Tours, the thief of Valmy, the
nettle-gatherer, and lastly Molembrais who held the King's
safe-conduct. Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small when
not even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in his cups, or the
holder of the King's safe-conduct could slip through. Perhaps it was
as he spoke of this last the door had opened. It was then he had hoped
he might be far from Valmy the day his passion of soul was stirred. It
expressed his mood of the moment, but now he knew he had said more,
much more, than he had meant, as youth so often does in its gay
self-sufficiency, and the words as they stood--if Tristan had caught
them--were no commendation to either favour or confidence. How could
the King trust him when his foolish satire had so plainly hinted that
he did not trust the King? It would be unreasonable: faith begets
faith. For an instant it flashed across his mind that he might explain
away the words, but in the same instant he dismissed the thought.
Explanation would never win belief from such a man as Tristan, nor
could he bend his repugnance to such a familiarity.
So in silence they crossed the courtyard where Leslie's Scottish
archers lurked in every shadow, in silence passed the many guards
grouped at the gateway to the King's lodgings, in silence traversed the
great square hall, gaunt and comfortless, but brighter than daylight
from its many lamps--the King was afraid of gloom--and in silence
mounted the stone stairway. At its head they turned along the
right-hand corridor, entering a silent ante-room with sentinels at its
door; at a further door, masked by drawn curtains, the guard was
doubled. Force, vigilance, suspicion, were the dominant notes of
Valmy--in a sense they were Valmy itself. Midway across this ante-room
Tristan paused and struck La Mothe lightly on the arm with a gesture
that seemed part contempt.
"A word of advice, young man, from one who knows. Be frank, say
little, answer promptly: do what the King bids you and be thankful."
"Is that a threat?" La Mothe answered the tone of half-truculent
command rather than the words.
"A threat? No! The King and I do not threaten, we fulfil."
"The King and you?"
"I have said so, do you want it proved?" Drawing back the curtains
very quietly Tristan stood a moment blocking the doorway before
motioning to La Mothe to follow him. He knew his master, and wished to
make certain that the stage picture was set before the audience was
admitted.
The room was even more brilliantly lit than any they had passed
through, and yet with such a skilful distribution of the light that the
further end was completely shadowed. It was the effect of an
artificial alcove. There, where the grey thickened, sat the King, or
rather there he lay propped high upon a couch, pillows behind him and
pillows at either side to support and comfort his weakness. A peaked,
close-fitting cap of crimson silk, laced with gold embroidery, covered
his head down to the very roots of the ears, while a long, wide-sleeved
robe of the same colour, furred at the neck, and draped to give an
appearance of breadth of chest, swathed him to the feet. So shadowed,
and with a reflected glow flushing the thin face, it would have needed
a shrewder suspicion than that of country-bred Stephen La Mothe to
detect how low the flame of life burned in the frail vessel of clay.
In front of the couch a low table, hardly higher than the couch itself,
was placed within reach of the King's hand: behind all--the draping, as
it were, of the alcove--hung arras of blue cloth interwoven with golden
fleurs-de-lis, a fitting and picturesque background to the tableau. To
the left were windows, fast shuttered, to the right a closed door.
Drawing La Mothe to the front Tristan turned on his heel and re-entered
the ante-room in silence, dropping the curtains behind him. There had
been no formal announcement, no word spoken, but as the curtain fell
the King stirred upon his pillows and La Mothe was conscious of a
scrutiny which slowly swept him from head to foot. But the protection
of the peaked cap was insufficient. Lifting his hand Louis shaded his
eyes yet further, and leaning forward repeated the scrutiny; then he
beckoned very gently and lay back upon the pillows. He was a judge of
men, a crafty reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or the
faint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far he was
satisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, but at least this La
Mothe was no assassin. Nevertheless the door upon the right opened
quietly so soon as La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, opened
wide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the darkness of the
passage without. Louis was not a man to run a needless risk, and the
bolt which brought home the King's justice to the nettle-gatherer would
not miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet.
"Nearer," said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, uncertain how far that
beckoning hand had called him, "nearer yet; there! that will do for the
present. You are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and trusted
friend, therefore my friend also, and the King has need of friends.
No, no, say nothing, Philip said I could trust you as himself. That is
a great deal for one man to say of another."
"Prove me, sire." La Mothe spoke with an effort. The weary, caressing
voice with its subtle note of pathos, the affectionate, frank admission
of Commines' worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of a
personal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as music has the
power to stir, so that to command words was difficult. "My uncle told
me----"
"Uncle?" Louis' suspicions sprang to life newborn. Goaded by their
sting he leaned forward, one arm thrust out, and for the first time La
Mothe saw the deathly pallor of his face. "Uncle, do you say?
Commines never called you nephew?"
"Not in blood, sire: in love--service--gratitude."
"Then it is better to have a nephew by name than a son by nature. Do
you hear? If you love your uncle pray with all your soul that he may
never have a son to grudge him his life." The thrust-out fingers,
little more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless bones, were
shaken in a convulsion of passion, from the sunken, dull eyes a sudden
fire glared, and the thin lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in an
instant the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows,
breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord fastening his
robe at the breast. "See what it is to have a son," he said, but in so
low a tone that La Mothe barely caught the words, nor were they spoken
as if addressed to him, then with an effort which racked his strength
the King roused himself. "Love! Service and gratitude! Words! empty
words! Kings hear them daily and find them lies. Because of these in
his mouth Guy de Molembrais was trusted as it may be Stephen La Mothe
will be trusted, and Molembrais is dead--dead in a traitor's grave.
Words? It is deeds France has need of, deeds--deeds. And you, young
sir, for whom my friend Philip vouched as for himself, are you more
faithful than Molembrais?"
"God helping me, sire."
"Um, um; have you need of God's help to be faithful?"
"I only meant----"
"There! there! obey orders and you will have help enough. You owe much
to Monsieur de Commines?"
"Everything, sire."
"Everything? Sit there," and Louis pointed to a low stool placed just
beyond the transverse angle of the bench-like table which fronted the
couch. "Everything! Love! Service! Gratitude! You are right! Take
these from life and there is not much left. And how will you repay the
everything you owe?"
"Love for love----"
"Um! A woman may have a word to say as to that! Well?"
"Service for service----"
"You are not your own. France claims you; never forget a man's first
service is to his country. The nation is the mother of us all. Well,
what next? Shall I tell you? Win his gratitude in return! Eh, Master
Stephen, how would that please you? Prove your love, show your
service, earn his gratitude, and these you will do to the uttermost by
serving the King and France."
"Sire, sire," cried La Mothe, shaken out of himself by the gust of
healthy emotion which seized him as the King's quiet voice grew in
strength and fullness till it seemed to vibrate with as generous a
passion as that which stirred the depths of the listener; "I am yours
to use body and soul."
"Body and soul," repeated Louis, his eyes fixed searchingly on La
Mothe's face. The lad's prompt response promised well, all that was
needed was to keep this enthusiasm of devotion keyed to the pitch of
action. "Body and soul! Be sure I shall not forget. But what you
promise in hot blood you will forget when your mood cools. No? Well,
Molembrais' mood cooled and he has been colder than his mood these
three days past. But you are different, you are of stronger, finer,
truer stuff, your love and service are for Commines as well as for
France, and so you will not forget. You understand? Monsieur de
Commines vouches for you. Monsieur de Commines." The King paused, and
the nervous fretful fingers plucked at the breast of his robe afresh.
He was utterly wearied and must have time to regain strength.
"Monsieur de Commines stands surety for you; never forget that. Your
faithfulness is his faithfulness, your failure his failure: keep that
always before you. To-morrow you will----, but first tell me something
of yourself." With a moan of weakness he settled back into the pillows
and his eyes closed. "I must know Philip's friend as Philip knows
him," said the soft voice.
And again La Mothe was touched to the heart, touched in his pride for
Commines, the King's trusted friend, touched in his grateful sympathies
that the King, weary and burdened by many anxieties, should find time
and thought for so kind an interest in one so insignificant as himself,
though that, too, was for Commines' sake; touched above all with a
generous self-reproach when he remembered his bitter satire on the
King's justice. He now saw that the severities which had horrified and
repelled him were exigencies of State, repugnant to the gentle, kindly
nature of the man in whose name the law took its course.
And out of that grateful heart of youth he spoke frankly as Tristan had
bidden him speak. Briefly, succinctly, he told of his childhood's
poverty, of the change which came later under Commines' unfailing,
affectionate liberality, of his placing him as a lad in the household
of Monsieur de Perche, of the life in Poitou with its training in arms
and simple teaching of Keep faith, Live clean, Follow the right and
trust God unafraid. It was a very simple story, but he told it well.
No tale grows cold in the interest or halts for words when the heart is
behind the telling.
And through it all Louis lay among his cushions like one dead. Not an
eyelid flickered, not a finger moved, his breath came so softly, so
quietly that the red robe scarcely stirred beneath his sunken chin.
Every muscle was relaxed in that restfulness which next to sleep is the
surest restorer of exhausted vitality. But the brain, the most acute
and cunning brain in France, was awake. With that dual consciousness
which, even more than dissimulation, is the diplomatist's prime
necessity for success in the worsting of an adversary, he gathered and
stored for use in his memory the salient points from La Mothe's story,
while all the while, co-energetically, his mind was busy searching out
how best to use this new tool for the cementing closer that fabric of
France which was his pride and glory. France was at once the mother
who gave his genius form and the son of his jealous love. And as he
listened, planning, sufficient strength crept back to the worn body.
He could play out his part to the end, and La Mothe would carry with
him no sense of his master's frailty to paralyze action. In loyalty
for loyalty's sake Louis had no faith.
"You need say no more," he said, nodding his head with sympathetic
interest. "A debt--a debt indeed. And to-morrow you begin your
repayment. To-morrow you go to Amboise with Monsieur de Commines.
Amboise," he repeated slowly, "Amboise," and paused. "Where His
Highness, the Dauphin----"
"Where my son waits--and watches." The thin hand crept up to the sunk
lips, lingered there an instant, crept up to the dull eyes, passed
across them once or twice with a motion eloquent of weary hopelessness,
and fell drearily to the lap. "God keep us in His mercy," said the
King, and as his finger-tips made the four points of the cross upon his
breast La Mothe felt he was upon holy ground. "God keep us in His
comfort. All is not well at Amboise, but my friend Philip knows--knows
and feels for me. I have no orders to give. All is left to him. Only
I say this, and never forget it, never--France comes first and
obedience is the payment of your debt."