HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON
La Mothe sat silent. His fear had passed away utterly, but in its
place his awe had grown, an awe full of a deep pity. Youth is the true
age of intolerance and for the simple reason that it is the age of
ignorance. In its abundant strength, its sense of growth and
development, its vigorous, unfailing elasticity, its blessed want of
knowledge of the ills of life, its blindness to the inevitable coming
of these ills, it is impatient of a caution it calls cowardice, or a
frailty it neither understands in another nor anticipates for itself.
But in the rare instances when it takes thought its sympathies are more
generous than those of age, because the sorrows it sees are so much
greater than any it has known, ever realized in itself or even
conceived. So was it now with La Mothe. The pathetic, solitary
figure, feeble almost to helplessness, diseased, shrunken, dying,
Commines had said, yet with a heart warm in friendliness and a thought
for France alone, thrilled him to the very depths. And the dull eyes,
watching him from under the heavy lids with an alert vigilance from
which no shift of mood escaped, read his emotion unerringly.
Again Louis leaned forward. But it was a changed Louis. This time the
light fell on a worn face fixed in a grey solemnity. The grave
protesting voice, the outstretched hand driving home its indignant
points, completed the spell.
"No, all is not well at Amboise. They think the King grows old. Poor
humanity must needs grow old, but they are impatient and
would--anticipate age. I have a son, not yet thirteen--but of age to
be king. Silence--silence, he is the Dauphin. It is not for you to
blame--or condemn the Dauphin. Nor does the King's justice condemn
ignorantly. Plots, plots, plots! Plots against the father, God and
the father can forgive; but plots against the King--plots against
France: for these there is no forgiveness and youth is no excuse."
"But, sire," began La Mothe. Then he remembered the Valmy gibbet where
a boy of twelve still hung that the roads of France might be safe, and
his voice choked. The King was right; youth was no excuse.
"There are no buts," said Louis, sternly emphatic, and sank back upon
the pillows. "I have knowledge, I have knowledge, Commines
knows--others--France, Europe--must know later; an honest lad like you
will be believed."
"Three weeks ago I was in Poitou----"
"Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without prejudice, you are
not of the Court."
"I meant, sire, I have no experience."
"And so the nut may be too hard for your teeth? I see no fault in your
modesty: diffidence is not cowardice. But you will have help in your
nut-cracking, you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, Fear,
and Love: with these three I have made France what she is. Money--a
man--a woman; what will these not do! With the first--bribe and see
that you do not hold my skin too cheap; Fear--a life forfeit, if I lift
a finger he hangs; Love--a woman."
"A friend, sire?"
"An enemy--but a woman. Fool her: she is young and Amboise is dull. I
have a scheme for you ready made. You sing? But I know you do,
Tristan has told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing: and nothing is too
small for the King's service. Always remember life holds nothing
trivial. Leave Valmy with Commines, but separate on the road and go to
Amboise as a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will welcome any
distraction. You make verses?"
"Sometimes, sire," stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flushing
as youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost as
disconcerting as being found out in a lie.
"Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, and
Amboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one flesh
under the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember," added Louis
hastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothing
more, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give you
your orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of his
robe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, then
went on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse and
ride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay and
keep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or night
will open every door in Valmy."
"What end, sire?"
"What end? What end? Ask Commines, serve him, serve France; that end,
boy, that end, and in the name of Almighty God, ride fast." The dull
eyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow of
the scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a passion waked
the blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect of
its quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!"
he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motioned
imperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it will
pass--it is nothing, nothing at all--and I have one thing more to say."
Fumbling amongst the cushions he drew out a little silver figure,
whether of man or woman La Mothe was uncertain, so fully the tense
fingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowed
to it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weakly
to his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image clattered on the floor.
It had served its purpose, out of the curious act of faith a renewal of
strength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the words
faltered.
Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. It
was littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such a
presence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goose
quills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, a
lumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded and twisted inwards.
Amongst these the nervous hand shifted uncertainly here and there,
almost like the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon the
bunched folds of the napkin.
"The Dauphin is a child," he said, his fingers closing upon the
looseness of the linen as he spoke. "A weakling--girl! And so,
girl-like, he loves to play at make-believe. You know their games?
There is the shell of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds it
against all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by assault at
the head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I am
Charlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but the
Dauphin of France!"
"But, sire," ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural in
a child."
"I played no such games at twelve years old," answered Louis bitterly.
"At twelve I learned king's-craft and foresaw realities; at twelve I
struggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child in
make-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. But
being a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--and
so----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linen
shook as with a palsy. "You see," the King went on hoarsely, "what it
is to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as a
child, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, not
outwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these others
would say I fostered with my hand what I condemned with my head. No,
the father's hand must be hidden out of sight, and that will be your
part."
With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, dropping
the hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemed
a challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoff
if you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steel
rings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if the
quaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate in
the tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy to
raise a sneer or gibe a moral.
Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of young
blood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness is
pierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, the
pathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King,
overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushed
by no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kin
even to this stern and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsion
wakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts of
fatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyalty
which had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasm
which is the devotion of the heart and counts life itself no sacrifice.
Nor could he hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines of
challenge were smoothed from the King's face.
"A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn," he
said, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and dropping
them again in a little heap that caught the light on every separate
ring and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have a
message for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it the
spirit of the child may grow."
"But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire,
let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from the
father to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be----"
"God'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?" Pushing 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 passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shivered
as if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, 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, passionately roused. "Swear on this.
It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears
falsely dies, dies within the year--dies damned. 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 mass on his tossed cushions, sat
gnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. All
passion 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, shivering, "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.