THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS
Two or three adroit questions addressed to the servant who showed him
to his sleeping-quarters gave La Mothe a sufficient clue to the
whereabouts of Commines' lodgings. That they were in the same block of
buildings as his own, and on the same level, made it comparatively easy
to find them. But the Château must first settle into sleep, and he had
an hour or two to wait before he could safely go in search of them
unobserved. In the angry mood which swayed him the delay was
fortunate. For the first time in his life his temper was exasperated
against the man to whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of his
knapsack and lute, sent from the Chien Noir, lessen the irritation.
Few things feed the flame of a man's anger as do his own faults, and in
every string of the unlucky toy--for it was little more--he saw a sharp
reminder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness left by
Commines.
What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle de Vesc as this de
Vesc girl, as if she was some lumpish wench of the kitchen instead of a
sweet and gracious woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, and
yet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe strode up and down
the room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles;
that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in her
tenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in her
love. From which it will be seen that the Cupid's bow had sent its
shaft very deep indeed, and Commines by his contemptuous phrase had but
driven it more surely home.
There be those who say love dethrones reason, but observe with what
admirable logic, what cogency of deduction Stephen La Mothe could argue
upon Commines' incapacity for judgment--thus. He had misjudged Ursula
de Vesc, why not also Villon? If there had been this undeserved
prejudice against an innocent and helpless girl, was not his contempt
for Villon equally unjustified? How, in fact, could such a man as
Philip de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world and of the
world's affairs, understand or appreciate Villon the poet, Villon who
had lifted the whole literature and poetry of France to the highest
level it had yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous,
unthinkable, the one as great a blunder as the other. So Stephen La
Mothe gilded his gold, painting his lily lover-fashion time out of
mind, and whitewashed into a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchings
with which Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself.
With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found the outer passage
intensely dark. Its only illumination came from the narrow lancet
windows through which the moonlight streamed so whitely that the rest
of the gallery was yet blacker and more hidden by the contrast.
Beyond, at the end, was a deeper pool of darkness which he knew was the
arched entrance to the main body of the Château, his own lodgings being
in a projecting wing bounded on the one side by a wide court. A few
steps beyond this archway a narrow corridor cut the passageway, opening
up three lanes of shadow. These were lit to a bare visibility by as
many tiny lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings, mere specks of points
of light too small to flicker, and such as all night long hang before
the high altar of a church, symbols of changeless faith burning
unquenched even in the deepest darkness of the night of the world.
Turning to the left, his hand upon the wall for guidance, La Mothe
crept softly on until a further passage opened to his right. Down this
he stole, breathing uneasily as men do who walk warily in the dark,
intent to keep their presence secret. From the roof depended the same
inadequate light, but at the farther end was a hazy blur which marked
the head of the stairs, and across the floor luminous shadows drifted
here and there from under doorways where the lamp still burned within
the chamber. One of these chambers La Mothe knew was allotted to
Commines, and as he scanned the flagged floor of the passage, searching
for the sign Commines had given him, a shadow amongst the shadows
stirred his curiosity, and he stole nearer on tiptoe: it was a mattress
laid before a closed door, and stretched upon it lay a man wrapped in a
blanket.
Holding his breath, La Mothe paused, listening intently. Though he had
resented Commines' brusque reference to Mademoiselle de Vesc, the
wisdom of caution was obvious, and he knew the value of secrecy too
well to venture an unnecessary risk. But the figure neither moved nor
changed its regular deep breathing, and La Mothe slipped past
noiselessly, seeking anew for the promised signal. And midway to the
well of the stairs, where faint murmurings told of sleepless life even
in ill-lit, ill-guarded Amboise, he found it--a nebulous dusky cross,
broader than long, stretching its shadowy arms upon the flags, and at
his first low tap on the panel the door was softly opened and as softly
closed behind him.
"Are you sure no one saw you?"
"No one. But, Uncle, this playing at thief in the night is
intolerable. It will be very much better to say quite plainly to
Mademoiselle de Vesc----"
"Stephen, Stephen!" and as he spoke Commines, who had been stooping
over his signal, a tiny paper cross pinned against the foot of the door
so that it blocked the flow of light from the lamp laid on the floor
behind, lifted himself and laid his hand strongly on La Mothe's
shoulder. "Do you know why you are in Amboise at all? Do you know it
is to convict this very Ursula de Vesc of complicity in a plot to
murder the King and place the Dauphin on the throne, and that the King
believes the Dauphin is privy to the scheme? And do you know what part
you are to play?"
Commines spoke in the anxious remonstrance of affection rather than in
anger. There was no censure in the tone, no reproof, a pleading
rather: but when the irritation of offence is raw it resents
expostulation and rebuke alike: they are just so much salt to the
wound. So was it now with La Mothe.
"It is we who conspire," he answered angrily, "we who call ourselves
men and yet creep about a sleeping house to meet by stealth in the
dark. And against whom? Against a weak girl, a weak, defenceless girl
whose one offence is that her love is loyal to a boy as helpless as
herself. A brave conspiracy truly, brave, worthy, and honourable! You
saw her to-night, how she faced us for his sake, unafraid and yet very
sorely afraid because she is so womanly through her courage. A girl
and a half-grown boy! And we call ourselves men."
"Why do you say 'we'? Me she knows and Villon she knows, but not you."
"Some day she will, my hope is some day she will: pray God I be not
ashamed to look her in the face when that day comes."
"Stephen, Stephen, what has changed you? Have you grown mad or is this
that drunkenness?"
"I don't know, I only know it is something new. And if it is that
drunkenness as you call it, then may I never be sober again my life
long."
"Listen," and this time Commines' voice was stern to harshness. The
time for pleading, or even remonstrance, had gone by. A more vigorous
schooling was needed if Stephen La Mothe was to be saved from folly.
"If you must go girl-drunken as every sentimental boy does sooner or
later, do not go blind-drunk or sense-drunk, but keep your eyes open
and your mind clear. Mademoiselle de Vesc may be blameless or she may
not: that is what we are here to prove. You call her weak, but the
greatest folly of a foolish man is to despise weakness. Contempt of
weakness has lost more battles than strength of arms has won. Charles
the Bold despised the weakness of the Swiss, and the devotion of the
weak Swiss crushed him. Weak, you say? Love is never weak. Fifty
years ago a weak girl saved France because of her great love for
France, and to-day another just as weak might ruin France through
another great love. Never despise the power of love nor call it weak
even in the weakest. If faith can remove mountains, love is greater
than faith, and of mademoiselle's devotion to the Dauphin I have no
doubt."
"Who has the better claim upon it?" answered La Mothe sullenly.
"Granted, but that is not the point. And what if the devotion is
misdirected? It is a quality of love that it only sees the lights in
the jewels and not the flaws. If love saw all the flaws in us it would
hardly be love. What if Mademoiselle de Vesc, seeing the boy
neglected--and I grant the neglect,--seeing him unhappy--and I grant
the unhappiness,--seeing him denied his high position--and I grant the
denial while I assert that the King, who is a wise king, must have wise
reasons I do not understand; what if Mademoiselle de Vesc, I say,
seeing all these things and understanding the reasons for them as
little as I do, seeing no deeper than her devotion and knowing nothing
of the King's wise reasons, were moved by this same devotion to some
desperate effort which would right this wrong at any cost? Supposing
that were so, what would hold her back? Fear? She is no coward, and
there is no such courage on God's earth as the courage of a loving
woman. Weakness? Love is strong as death and stronger, for love
builds up where death can only destroy. The crime? In her eyes the
crime lies in the unhappiness and neglect of Amboise, and to right the
wrong by any means, however desperate, would be no offence before God
or man. What would hold her back? I ask you. Nothing, nothing at
all."
"Granted," said La Mothe, impressed in spite of himself and falling
back upon the last resort of baffled argument. "It is all very
plausible, but I do not believe it all the same."
"Because you are drunken," retorted Commines, "and because, too, there
are none so blind as those who will not see. But supposing I am right,
is not the King justified, and are not we, the King's servants,
justified too? And is the Dauphin such a fool as to be blind to this
devotion, he who has known so little love in his life? Stephen, if the
King is right and Mademoiselle de Vesc's love has overcome both fear
and weakness, he is right, too, when he links Charles with her in her
abominable plot."
"But why has he sent----" La Mothe broke off lamely, remembering in
time that he had no right to say to Commines, Why has he sent such a
message of a father's love as lies in those saddle-bags I see in the
corner? Very naturally Commines misunderstood the interrupted sentence.
"Why has he sent you to Amboise?"