FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN
Many, deep, and diverse are the springs of silence. If Commines asked
no question when La Mothe returned from his interview with Louis, and
made no comment beyond "You are late, my son," it was because he knew
that curiosity was almost as dangerous as opposition where the schemes
or secrets of his master were concerned. La Mothe, in his ignorance,
had on the other hand no such thought, no such fear, but a charge which
he held sacred had been solemnly committed to him: he shared a secret
with the King and the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines'
ultimate orders might be he understood now what his mission was, this
mission to Amboise: it was to do for the father what the father might
not do for himself, and as they rode slowly along the high road from
Valmy he thought complacently to himself that he alone recognized the
true nature of the man who watched them from the walls.
But there were obvious limits to the silence if the line of procedure
laid down by the King was to be followed. A parting and a meeting were
to be arranged, a plan of campaign to be decided upon; and it struck La
Mothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make-believe in a boy
could yet seize upon make-believe for his own purposes.
"The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise with you," began La
Mothe, and it is to his credit that he spoke with hesitation. To
Commines, as Commines himself had said, he owed everything, and yet it
seemed as if already he had come between Commines and the King's
confidence. And yet, just because he was in the King's confidence it
was not easy to keep a touch of importance out of his voice. It was as
if he said, "The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are to
stand aside." But the bubble of his complacency was soon pricked.
"At Château-Renaud you will stay behind after we have dined," answered
Commines, "nor will you leave the inn until three o'clock. You will
then go on foot to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and take
the Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then to ford the Loire
at Grand-Vouvray and enter Amboise from the south. Once in Amboise ask
for the Chien Noir and put up there for the night."
"So you know all about it," said La Mothe, crest-fallen. Nor was it
simply that Commines knew all about it, it seemed he knew much more
than La Mothe himself.
"Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some one who can open the
doors of the Château to you I know nothing, and I want to know nothing.
There you are to obey orders, but to have your time to yourself; and,
my son, my son, pray God there may be no orders to give."
"But the King told me nothing of all this last night."
"It is enough that he told me this morning," answered Commines drily.
"You need not look downcast; it is his custom to divide his
instructions."
But La Mothe had another objection, and one so obvious that he
marvelled how it had escaped Commines' notice.
"One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as a stranger will be
impossible. Riding behind us there are twelve good reasons why I
should be recognized."
"Do you take us for fools?" retorted Commines. Turning in his saddle
he pointed backwards. Valmy was still in sight, and a keen eye could
have detected the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the grey
walls. "What is that to the right of the castle?"
"Valmy gallows."
"And from it hang three good reasons why the twelve will keep silence.
The King's grip is as sure in Amboise as it is in Valmy; it is over all
France, and God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. Think
twice, Stephen, before you say the King forgets--and then don't say it."
La Mothe rode on in silence. This sudden reminder of the justice of
the King had dashed his satisfaction. Wherever he turned it confronted
him, and always with a warning which was less a warning than a threat.
It had been so with Tristan, it was so now with Commines, nor could the
memory of the coat of mail and embroidered toy in his saddle-bags
entirely quiet the uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seeking
relief, his thought cast back to Commines' curt instructions.
"Who is this fellow--for I suppose it is a man who is to meet me at the
Chien Noir?"
"Who is he? Slime of the gutter, contemptible old age unashamed, human
pitch whose very touch is a loathing, a repulsion, a defilement." It
seemed as if Commines was less afraid to speak his mind now that the
walls of Valmy were out of hearing, for he went on bitterly: "The King
chooses his tools well, a foul tool for a foul use, and neither you nor
I can come out of it with clean hands. His name? The gallows-cheat
has a dozen names and changes them as you would your coat. He is like
a Paris rag-picker, and his basket of life is full of the garbage he
has raked from the gutter."
"And the woman?"
"The woman! To hear you say the woman one would think there was but
one in the world. The King told me of no woman."
"Then I am not likely to get drunk in Amboise, unless your rag-picker
pours the wine.
'Heigh ho! Love is the sun,
Love is the moon and the stars by night.'
The scheme seems a foolish one to me. I can never play the part. But,
Uncle, what do you say? Shall I make a good troubadour?"
"Sing while you may," answered Commines, with a dry gravity behind the
softening of his stern mouth, "and remember that at Amboise you sing
for a King's pay."
"And I would sing five songs for nothing but the pleasure of singing
rather than one for a fee. What kind of a little lad is the Dauphin?"
Commines made no reply, but rode on with knit brows. The question so
lightly asked was one he had often weighed in his own mind nor found a
clear answer. Rumour said of him--but under her breath, for to speak
at all was dangerous--that he was shamefully neglected, slow-witted,
ill-taught, or, worse still, untaught, but, and here rumour whispered
yet lower, that flashes of shrewdness broke the dull level of the
undeveloped intellect when least expected. That he was small for his
age he knew, that he was weakly, ill-formed, and awkward. These things
were patent to the eye and common knowledge, but into the depths of the
lad's nature he had not ventured to probe lest Louis' suspicious
jealousy should be aroused. Now that he found himself between a
father's twilight and a son's dawn, with "The king is dead, long live
the king," an imminent proclamation, he blamed himself for his
cowardice as men always do who are wise after the event. With a little
more certain knowledge his star might rise with the dawn, instead of,
as he feared, setting with the twilight.
"Eh?" he said, rousing himself as La Mothe repeated the question. "The
Dauphin? I know little of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy or
Plessis with the King: it is long since the two have met. An ailing,
obstinate, dull boy, they say, with no more wit than can be put in him
with a spoon. If it were not that weak natures often turn vicious that
they may be thought strong I would say the King's fear of a plot was
baseless."
"But surely there is no plot--a son against a father: a father who
loves him," added La Mothe, remembering the contents of his saddle-bags.
"I wish the plot was as doubtful as the love; we might then have stayed
comfortably in Valmy," answered Commines cynically, and La Mothe's eyes
twinkled as he thought how much better he had read the King in his
single hour than Commines had in all his ten years of intimacy. "The
woman," he went on, "must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spend
your hour or two's walk from Château-Renaud to Amboise adding a verse
to your love song."
"Why not a new song all for herself!" replied La Mothe, the twinkle
broadening to a laugh, "or had I better wait till I see her? She would
never forgive me if the adored dimple was in the right cheek instead of
the left, or the sweet eyes of my song grey instead of blue. Which are
they, Uncle?"
"I never knew the colour of any woman's eyes but one," answered
Commines; and La Mothe knew by the softened voice that he spoke of
Suzanne. "And when a woman has taught you the colour of her eyes may
you see that in them which will make black or blue or grey the one
colour in the world for you. As to Ursula de Vesc, she detests me much
as I detest that offscouring from the dregs of brazen Paris who will
meet you at the Chien Noir. But there is Château-Renaud, where you
will find something better for your age and more to your liking than
women's eyes."
"Dinner! and I twenty-four!"
"Eighteen, Stephen, eighteen, not a day older, and be thankful for the
heart of a boy."
"Why not be thankful for the heart of a girl!" retorted La Mothe.
"Pray the Saints, as the King would say, that Ursula de Vesc is as
pretty as her name."
Partly that his men might be free from the restraint of his presence,
and partly because he did not wish to advertise his visit to Amboise
more broadly than necessary, Commines ordered their meal to be served
in a private room. It was to the front, with two small windows
overlooking the roadway. These were open, and as the stamping of hoofs
and jingling of bridle-chains came through them Commines bade La Mothe
see who were without.
"But do not show yourself. Between Valmy and Amboise every man is a
friend or an enemy, with fewer friends the further Valmy is left
behind."
"A priest, with three of an escort," said La Mothe, "King's men, I am
sure. Some of your own have gone out to meet them. Shall I go down to
make sure?"
"No; go into that inner room, rather, for I hear feet upon the stairs.
If you are to be a stranger in Amboise the fewer who see you at
Château-Renaud the better. We cannot give a priest the Valmy gallows
as a reason for silence."
As the inner door closed the outer opened, and a Franciscan entered,
his robe strewn thickly with the dust from the highway. Commines
recognized him at once; he was from Valmy, one of the many clerics the
King's strange religiosity gathered round him, and justly held by Louis
in deep respect for the simplicity and saintliness of his life. In an
age when the fires of scandal scorched the Church with such a flaming
vehemence that the heat kindled round the throne of the Chief Bishop
himself, Father John escaped without so much as the smell of burning on
his garments. None could lay self-seeking to his charge, nor even the
smallest of the many vices which in every order raised their heads,
rampant and unashamed. It was characteristic of Louis that he should
attach to himself men of such unselfish humility and austere pureness
of life. God and the Saints would surely forgive a little chicanery to
one who lived in an atmosphere of other men's holy lives.
"Father John!" and Commines caught the Franciscan by the arm almost
roughly, a sudden fear setting his pulses throbbing. "Has Saint-Pierre
sent you? Is the King ill--is he--is he?--you of all men know what we
fear for him."
"No, my son, no; the King is as you left him, well, praise God! and
strong: it is he himself who has sent me after you. He said that such
a mission as yours had great need of the blessing of God upon it."
"And was that all his message?"
"That he committed France to your care. He spoke, no doubt, of the
Dauphin, who is the hope of France."
"Yes," answered Commines drily, "I do not doubt he spoke of the
Dauphin. Now, Father, I fear you must dine in haste, for it is time we
were on the road."
"A crust in my hand to eat as we go is enough. It makes me so happy,
Monsieur d'Argenton, to see the King at last taking thought for his
son."
"Yes," repeated Commines, with the same dryness. "The Dauphin is
indeed much in his thought. But though we are in haste there is no
need you should die of starvation. France has need of you, Father
John. There are plenty to play the devil's game by living, do not you
play it by dying before your time."
Twenty minutes later they were again on the road, La Mothe's
saddle-bags fastened on his led horse. He himself followed at the hour
named by the King, but on foot, a knapsack strapped across his
shoulders and on it a lute in open advertisement of his new trade. His
sword was with his saddle-bags, but was no loss, so free from danger
were the roads under the iron persuasion of the justice of the King.
Nor were travellers numerous. Only twice was he passed, once by a
courier riding post to Valmy, and once by a lad, little more than a
child in age, who thundered up from behind on a great raw-boned roan
horse and disappeared ahead in a cloud of dust.