A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY
Never was the cynical philosophy of the proverb, Virtue is its own
reward, made more clear than in the indifference with which Amboise
greeted the rescue of the Dauphin. Of course, there are those who
contend that virtue is in itself a sufficient reward, but there is
certainly a second possible reading, and this reading La Mothe found
true. No one said what a fine fellow he was, no one stared in
admiration of his promptitude or in awe of his courage. Amboise was
cold, chillingly cold.
Hugues, perhaps, was an exception, and if Villon was right Ursula de
Vesc had also been deeply moved. But that, La Mothe told himself as he
wandered disconsolately through the dull and gloomy corridors of the
Château, might have been nothing more than the transitory emotion of an
excited girl moved to an expression repented of when the mood cooled.
So, as lovers have done ever since this hoar world was young, he gave
himself up to melancholy and found, as more than lovers have found, a
satisfaction in a grievance. Then, while he fumed, three half-grown
spaniel puppies, followed more sedately by a full-grown brother, came
scampering around a corner, and the lover remembered he was a sportsman
who loved dogs as well as little Charles himself. It was almost the
sole hereditary trait in the lad, and the passion for animals was as
strong in the Dauphin as it was in the King.
Round the corner, full cry, they raced, slipped upon the smooth flags,
tumbled, rolled over, and with a common impulse fell upon one another
as puppies will in the sheer joy of living. But the elder dog, if he
still had the heart of eighteen or younger, did not forget he was
twenty-four with responsibilities and a dignity to maintain. Passing
gravely by the riot of paws and flapping ears he halted a yard away
from La Mothe, pushed out a sensitive, twitching nose, sniffed the hand
held out in greeting and as gravely licked it. Love at first sight is
not confined to humanity, and thanks to the unfailing miracle of
instinct the dog makes fewer mistakes than man. Inside of two minutes
he had adopted La Mothe into the very select circle of his friends.
"I have heard of you," said La Mothe, pulling the soft ears gently.
"You sleep in the Dauphin's room o' nights as Hugues does at the door,
and now and then you lay your head on her knee, while she strokes and
pets you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not born a dog, tell me
that?"
At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their play, sat up panting
a moment, and then in a tumultuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe.
Charlemagne vouched for him, Charlemagne who was their oracle as
grown-up brothers so often are, and they could let loose the exuberance
of their puppydom without a fear that a sudden cuff would teach their
youth that wild delights find an end in sorrow. Over each other they
sprawled in their heedless eagerness to get near to this new
playfellow, one, a little weaker than the rest, lagging a half-tail's
length behind, and La Mothe was so busy trying to find a hand for each
to mumble that he never knew how long Ursula de Vesc stood watching him.
Nor was she in any haste to break the silence. A puzzling factor had
come into her life, and she was impatient of the enigma. The solution
was not a question of curiosity but of safety, and a safety not her
own. On one side was Commines, Louis' devoted adherent, devoted not
alone in service, but in blindness, the blindness which questions
neither means nor purpose; on the other side was Villon, Louis' jackal
and open ears in Amboise. Between these two so profoundly distrusted
stood Stephen La Mothe. Between them, but was he of them? That was
the problem.
That morning, from Hugues' report of the visit in the darkened quiet of
the Château, and remembering how familiarly Villon had introduced La
Mothe overnight, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy of the
rendezvous with Commines argued some sinister threat. But now she
doubted, and as she watched La Mothe's careless play with the dogs the
doubt grew. Hugues had kept his eyes open: the gapped bank and the
narrow strip of grass between the bay and the river into which the grey
horse had been thrust, without a hesitating thought of the inevitable
result which must follow a slip or a swerve, spoke not alone of
personal courage, but said plainly that La Mothe was ready to risk his
life for the Dauphin. Neither Commines nor Villon would have done
that, they would have let him perish and raised no hand to save him.
Where, then, was the sinister threat? And had not the devotion which
she had so contemptuously scoffed at the night before already proved
itself to be no empty word? Yes, she had scoffed, and he had answered
her scoff at the risk of his life. How, then, could he be one with
Commines and Villon? The thought that she had so misjudged him flushed
her as with a sudden heat, the grey eyes grew tenderly troubled in her
self-reproach, and unconsciously she drew a deeper breath. Slight as
the sound was the dogs heard it; round they spun from their play, their
mouths open, their tongues hanging, and next moment were leaping upon
her skirts with little yelps of greeting.
"Mademoiselle!" and La Mothe sprang to his feet. "I did not hear you
coming: how could I have been so deaf?" It was on his tongue to add,
"I, who have been listening for the sound of your feet these hours
past," but he wisely checked himself in time.
"Are you going to win all Amboise in a single day?" she answered,
stooping so that the jubilant puppies almost scrambled into her lap.
"You do not ask after the Dauphin?"
"I fear I had forgotten him," he replied, and though there was no
intentional significance in his voice Ursula de Vesc was woman enough
to understand the subtle compliment. "How is he?"
"If you forget, we do not. He is as well as a nervous boy can be after
such an ordeal. He is looking forward to seeing you this afternoon to
try to say to you what we all feel. Monsieur La Mothe, let me----"
"Nervous he may be, but he is no coward," interrupted La Mothe hastily.
He foresaw what was coming and had all a shy man's horror of being
thanked. "He sat his horse like a little hero. There is no such
courage as to wait quietly for death."
"And what of the courage which goes to meet death?" Pushing the dogs
from her Ursula de Vesc looked up, her face very grave and tender in
the shadows, as the spring of tears glistened under the lashes. Life
had brought her so little to be grateful for that the happiness of
gratitude was very great.
"No, you must let me speak this once, I said hard things to you last
night, and my thoughts were still harder: to-day you have answered me,
and I am ashamed. Devotion? Gratitude? It is we who owe you these,
and we have nothing wherewith to pay. Monsieur La Mothe----"
But again La Mothe interrupted her.
"Think kindly sometimes and I am more than paid. Forgive the
presumption, for why should you think of me at all? Forget the hard
thoughts, mademoiselle, and let that pay in full."
"There can be no more hard thoughts. How could we think hard thoughts
of our friends?"
"Friends? If that might be."
With the quick instinct which belongs to well-bred puppydom, and is not
unknown even in children, the dogs had caught the graver note which
changed her voice. By common consent they ceased their restless play
and, seated on their haunches, their sleek heads aslant, watched her
with wistful eyes; here was something their love could not quite
understand.
"Friends? Amboise has more need of friends than Landless of the Duchy
of Lackeverything." The girl had risen slowly to her feet as she
repeated La Mothe's words, and now as she paused the shadow again broke
in lines of troubled care along her forehead. "Monsieur La Mothe, what
was the end of the story you began last night?"
"It has no end as yet. The end is here in Amboise, and my hope is we
may find it together. I am sure we will if you will but help me. But
the story is true."
"How can you say that?" she burst out passionately. "Where do you find
one little, little sign of love in Amboise? I can see none, none at
all. Nothing but neglect, suspicion, even hate. Oh! it is terrible
that a father should so hate his son. And yet you say there is love."
"I say what I know. Trust me, and give me time to prove it."
"We do trust you, indeed we do. Love in Amboise? Is it for that you
are here?"
"Yes," answered La Mothe soberly. "It is for that I am here?"
"And Monsieur d'Argenton? Is that why he is here too?"
For a moment La Mothe returned no reply, but stood passing his fingers
through Charlemagne's soft hair. The lie direct or the lie inferential
would parry the question and possibly serve both Commines and the King;
but how could he keep his hands clean in Amboise and lie even by
inference to Ursula de Vesc who had said so simply, "We trust you"? It
was impossible, not to be thought of for a moment, but neither was the
whole truth.
"Monsieur d'Argenton and I are not upon the same errand," he said at
last. "Some day, when you know me better, and trust me for something
better than a little brute courage which any man in my place would have
shown, I will ask you a question. When you have answered it--and I
know what the answer will be--I will tell you why Monsieur d'Argenton
is in Amboise."
"Monsieur La Mothe, ask your question now."
"No, the time has not come. But I will ask this: Help me that the
Dauphin may trust me, and together we will make the end of the story
Love and Peace and Faith."
"Love and Peace and Faith," she repeated, her eyes filling for the
second time. "They have long been strangers to Amboise. God send our
France such a trinity."
And again La Mothe had to check himself lest he should reply, "To you
too, mademoiselle." To bring just such a trinity into her life, Love
which worketh Faith, and the Peace which is born of both, was the one
supreme good which the world could offer out of all the gifts in its
treasure-house. But, as he said of his question, the time had not yet
come, so he changed the blunt directness to the more oblique "Not to
France alone," and was rewarded by seeing the serious wistfulness shift
into a gay smile, as she curtsied mockingly with a "Merci, monsieur!"
very different from the same words of the previous night. Then she
added, as the dogs, following her lighter mood, sprung upon her anew:
"Here I have two of them already, but certainly they give one little
peace. Have they been formally introduced? This is Diane, who will be
a mighty huntress in her day. This we call Lui-même because," she
paused, flashing a mischievous glance at La Mothe, "well, just because
his temper is not very good. He is a bully and uses his teeth on poor
Charlot, who is the weakest of the three and the one we love best. But
Charlot has one bad habit, he is very inquisitive, and it will get you
into trouble some day, Charlot dear": whereat Charlot cocked his ears
and looked wise.
Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for himself, and said
them with the dignity of a Dauphin of France struggling through the shy
manners of a self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating both
dignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frankness which told
La Mothe that Ursula de Vesc's influence was already at work. The cold
distaste had already disappeared, nor was there any suggestion of a
compelled gratitude. Commines and La Follette had not returned from
their hawking, and only Father John and the girl were with the Dauphin.
He had been conversing with the priest, but broke off abruptly when La
Mothe was announced.
"Monsieur," he said, his hand stretched out as he went hastily to meet
him, "there are some services hard to repay. No, I don't mean
services, services is not the word. Services are for servants and I
don't mean that, but perhaps you understand? And perhaps, too, some
day you will teach me to ride as well as you do?"
"There is little to teach," answered La Mothe. "And as I told Hugues,
it is Grey Roland who should be thanked."
"What the heir cannot do, being as yet a child," said the priest, "the
grateful father can and surely will." Then he laid his hand on the
Dauphin's shoulder. "Were you greatly afraid, my son? At such a time,
with death so near, fear would not shame a man, much less a boy."
"When Bertrand swerved I was afraid just for a moment, for I did not
know what was going to happen, but not afterwards."
"But afterwards, in that awful moment when hope was gone and the world
slipped from you, when there was nothing real but God and your own
soul, what were your thoughts then?"
The boy made no reply, but shifted uneasily under the hand which still
rested upon him. The heavy eyes which had brightened while he spoke to
La Mothe grew dull and peevishly sullen again as, according to habit,
he glanced towards Ursula de Vesc. Following the glance La Mothe saw
the girl shake her head warningly, apprehensively even: but Charles had
not the obstinate Valois chin for nothing.
"Perhaps you have forgotten? At such times the mind is not very clear.
Or perhaps it was like a dream? Dreams, you know, are forgotten when
we wake."
"I remember very well. Yes, Ursula, I shall tell him since he asks. I
wondered whether a son who hated his father, or a father who hated his
son, would be most certainly damned."
"My son, my son," cried the priest, horrified. "How could you allow
such a terrible thought?"
"Oh!" And the boy shook off the restraining hand impatiently. "You
come from Valmy and are like all the rest of them. Monsieur La Mothe,
let us go and thank Grey Roland."
But as he followed the Dauphin out of the room La Mothe asked himself
whether, even with Ursula de Vesc's help, the end of the story could
possibly be Love, Peace, and Faith.