DENOUNCED
"It was an epic," said Villon, "a veritable epic, and if you were truly
the Homer I called you half the towns in France would claim you for a
citizen. As it is you have only been born twice, once in--where was
it? No matter, it is of very little importance; it is the second that
really counts, and that second birthplace is--Amboise. A man's soul is
born of a woman just as his body is. And a man's soul is love. Until
love comes he is a lumpish mass of so much flesh without even a spark
of the divine."
"Then you," said La Mothe gravely, "have seen many incarnations?"
"Many!"--and Villon's eyes twinkled--"but with each one the pangs of
birth grew less violent. You will find it so yourself. But our epic.
Though I cannot write it I will sketch it in outline for you. Book the
First: Hugues!" He broke off, shaking his head soberly, every trace of
his humorous mood gone. "Poor devil of a Hugues! Francois Villon, who
made verses, will be remembered, and Hugues, who made history,
forgotten. Why cannot I write epics that we might both be remembered
together? But no! a tinkle of rhyme leavened with human nature and
salted by much bitter experience--that is Francois Villon! I know my
limitations. A man can give out nothing better than is put into him.
Well, so long as we give our best I don't believe the good God will be
hard upon us. Now, then. Book the Second: Martlets and
Mullets--there's alliteration for you."
"Martlets and Mullets? Villon, what do you mean?"
"Have you forgotten our friend of the spiked thorn?"
"But the Dauphin swears these were Tristan's men."
"Tristan? Impossible! Tristan is too sure, too careful an artist to
spoil his work. Heaven knows I do not love Tristan, but I will give
him this credit: when he sets out on a piece of scoundrelly work he
carries it through. No, no, I'll wager my Grand Testament to the
epic--which will never be written--that it was Molembrais' second cast
of the net, and when he drags Amboise a third time there will be fish
caught. What's more, La Mothe, there is a traitor in Amboise--a
traitor to the boy. First there was Bertrand, then the Burnt Mill:
these don't come by accident. But Tristan? Tristan botches no jobs.
But to come back to our epic. Book the Third: Blaise! How many dead
were there?"
"Four."
"And Blaise, the stableman, has two at the least, if not three, to his
credit. When Charles is king--pray heaven Louis does not hear me at
Valmy--he should make Blaise, the stableman, a Marshal of France, or
perhaps Master of the Horse would suit him better," and Villon chuckled
gleefully. He had always a huge appreciation of his own wit, however
slender. "There's a lucky dog for you, to grip death round the neck,
hugging him to the breast with both arms, and yet get nothing worse
than a scratched wrist, a slashed palm, and a dent in a thick skull.
Book the Fourth: but here is Monsieur d'Argenton and I had better----
No! I'll stand my ground. The rose garden of Amboise is free to all
king's jackals."
"Villon, Villon, why are you so bitter-tongued?"
"Listen to Monsieur de Commines for five minutes and you will know why.
And it is not I who am bitter, but the truth. Jackals both, I say."
They were, as Villon had said, in the rose garden. Dusk, the dusk of
the day on which Hugues had made history to be forgotten, was
thickening fast, but the air was still warm with all the sultriness of
noon. To that confined space, with the grey walls towering on three
sides, coolness came slowly. The solid masonry held the heat like the
living rock itself, and no current of the night wind blowing overhead
eddied downward in refreshment.
But solid as was the masonry, and mighty the walls in their frowning
strength, there is but little of them left, and of the rose garden not
a trace. Time, the great iconoclast, has touched them with his finger
and they have passed away like the humble maker of history, while
Francois Villon's tinkle of rhyme, leavened with human nature, still
leaves its imprint on a whole nation. Perhaps the reason is that the
makers of history could have been done without. In these generations
the world would be little the worse, little changed had they never been
born, and have lost nothing of the joy or brightness of life. In his
own generation the patriot is more necessary than the poet, but let
four centuries pass and the poet will wield a larger influence than the
patriot.
But thick as was the dusk, a dusk thicker than the actual degree of
night because of the prevailing shadow, La Mothe saw that Commines was
disturbed by an unwonted excitement. Not from his face. It was deeply
lined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, the mouth
harsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man breathes who has outrun his
lung power, and his uneasy fingers clenched and unclenched incessantly.
Those who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs and grew
watchful. But it was upon Villon that the storm fell.
"For an hour I have been searching for you--in the Château, in the
Chien Noir, in every tavern in Amboise----"
"And you find me amongst the roses! How little you know my nature,
Monsieur d'Argenton!"
"I know it better than I like it," answered Commines grimly. "You
lodge at the Chien Noir?"
"It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and I can commend to you
its wine of '63. Monsieur La Mothe drinks nothing else."
"As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make many. But I am not
here to talk of Monsieur La Mothe's drinking bouts, though they explain
much. You are in the King's service?"
"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes."
"No quibble; you are paid to be faithful?"
"As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes."
"Villon, curb your impertinences. I'll not endure them."
"Monsieur d'Argenton, there is a proverb which says, 'Physician, cure
thyself.' What did I tell you, Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutes
are not up yet." But Stephen La Mothe discreetly answered nothing.
One of the first lessons a man learns in the ways of the world is to
keep his fingers from between other men's millstones.
"You lodge at the Chien Noir," went on Commines, ignoring the retort;
"you are in the King's service and have been paid with your life. Why
are you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme is
hatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grown
besotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free hand
in Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child's
play--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand across
La Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, and
the cold severity passed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don't
think I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank God
you are safe, I thank God he has given me back my son Stephen; but what
am I to say to the King?"
"Ho! ho!" said Villon; "so it is son Stephen nowadays? Then the play
is almost played out?"
"Most of all I blame you," and Commines, his arm still round La Mothe's
shoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of passion. "How is it
you are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure the
King shall hear the truth."
But Villon was unabashed. "What is the truth, Monsieur d'Argenton?
Even your friend Tristan would not hang a man without first telling him
what for. What is this truth of yours?"
"There is a plot against the King's life."
"In Amboise?"
"In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de Vesc, Hugues----"
"It's a lie," cried La Mothe, shaking himself free from Commines' arm.
"A lie, a lie. I have Mademoiselle de Vesc's own word for it that it
is a lie."
"And I have proof that it is true."
"Proof? Whose proof?"
Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had overstepped his purpose.
Before making his disclosure to La Mothe he had searched for Villon in
the hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mind
willing to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexed
anger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error,
first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen La
Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened.
"Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interest
have I but the King's service?"
"Uncle, you said proofs--whose proofs?"
"What is that to you? Do you forget that you are to obey my orders?"
"Proofs, Monsieur d'Argenton, whose proofs?"
"All do not blind themselves as you do." Round he swung upon Villon,
shaking a stretched-out finger at him viciously. "Drinking himself
drunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for
her own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprang
forward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs you
would cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she
has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songs
till the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint."
"A saint," answered La Mothe hoarsely, "a saint. I say so--I say so.
A saint as good, as sweet, as pure----" He paused, looking round him
in the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch
of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good as
these lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieur
d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc."
"Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat at
the feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could not
have said it better myself."
But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this very
unreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation.
Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, a
word or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, a
little sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a damning
reality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such an
amplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel would
serve no good purpose.
"Words, Stephen," he said more gently, "mere words, and what are
rhetoric and declamation against proofs?"
"Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly.
Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the ground
slipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "So
far it is you who have answered with rhetoric and declamation."
"Word-of-mouth proofs."
"Here in the Château?"
"No," answered Commines reluctantly, "not just in the Château but at
its very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeks
ago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It was
the very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. The
King is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In his
sick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judging
afterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for no
cause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances,
and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follow
next. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some one
must act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle de
Vesc. That was weeks ago, and you," again Commines turned upon Villon
in denunciation, "you must have known."
"Lies, all damnable lies," said La Mothe, choking. "Who is the liar?
You won't tell me? But I must know; I must and shall. Not in the
Château, but at its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it Jean
Saxe, Uncle, is it Jean Saxe? It is! it is! Jean Saxe the--the----
Villon, you said there was a traitor to the Dauphin in Amboise, was
that Jean Saxe? A traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who else
could it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave Molembrais his chance
ten days ago, Jean Saxe who knew of the play in the Burnt Mill to-day,
Mademoiselle told him----"
"More proof," said Commines. "She and Jean Saxe are in collusion."
"Collusion to kidnap the Dauphin? Mademoiselle de Vesc and Jean Saxe
in league against the boy? Uncle, you are mad and your proof proves
too much. If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursula
de Vesc's No! against him."
"Good boy," repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, to the world at
large. "The very first time I saw him I said he was the image of
myself. Monsieur d'Argenton, what is Jean Saxe's story?"
"That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalf
of the Dauphin, but vaguely at first. There was great discontent, said
Hugues, and greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteed
though he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking who was secure
if once the King had determined on his destruction. Even loyalty was
no safeguard. In the King's sick suspicion his most faithful servants
might be the first to suffer. Not a day passed but there was a
hanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both high and low. For a
man to keep his own life at all cost was no murder."
"True," said Villon. "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! Yes, monsieur?"
"That was the gist of it; vague as you see, but significant. Then, two
days ago, Hugues spoke a second time, urging Saxe to a decision. If
the Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, all France
would say, Thank God! The generous nature of the boy was well known.
There would be rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him to
promise----"
But La Mothe could control himself no longer. Through Commines'
indictment, coldly, almost phlegmatically delivered, he stood
motionless and silent, his hands clenched, every muscle tense with
restraint. It was the fighting attitude, the attitude of a man who
waits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but a blow which will
surely come. Now the restraint snapped.
"Villon, for God's sake, do you believe this lie?"
It was an exceeding bitter cry, and the pain of it pierced through even
Commines' armour of calmness. But Villon, though he shivered a little,
only shook his head. His face, dimly seen, was full of a grave concern.
"Some one has spoken to Saxe," he said. "Hugues or another. I know
Saxe well, he has not brains enough to imagine so great a truth."
"A truth!" cried Commines, catching at the phrase he waited for.
"Stephen, Stephen, all along I warned you she was dangerous."
"Very dangerous," said Villon, "I have felt it myself. No man is safe.
In '57--or was it '58?--there was just such another. Her mother kept
the little wine shop at the corner of----"
"Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxe
had told the truth."
"That the King and France are both sick; yes, Monsieur d'Argenton."
"No, no, but that Saxe had been approached."
"By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that."
"You hear, Stephen? Does that satisfy you?"
"But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added a little on his
own account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken.
"Then what is the truth?"
"You ask that of a poet? As well ask it of a courtier--or a king's
minister," he added, and turned to La Mothe. "Were I you I would set
them face to face this very night."
"But she has already denied it."
"All the more reason. A truth will wait till morning, but a lie should
be killed overnight. Lies breed fast and die hard."
"But she may refuse."
"If I know women," said Villon, "Mademoiselle de Vesc will refuse you
nothing."