"IT IS A TRAP"
This time no one broke the silence, and for a little space the quiet
was like the reverent stillness of a death-chamber. The awe
inseparable from sudden death possessed them. And yet, after the first
shock of natural horror, La Mothe was conscious of a great relief. Not
till then did he realize how tense the strain had been, how acute the
fear. But at the slow dropping of Commines' bitter-hearted words there
came a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to find a gladness in
such a cause of grief. For the loss to France he cared little. To him
Louis had been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not Louis, then
another, and France would still be France. But as Commines turned away
and, following that other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal,
hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he leaned against
the wall, the lad's heart went out in sympathy to the man who had lost
his friend. And surely over and above his greatness of mind there must
have been some deep heart of goodness in the dead man when he moved
affection to such a grief. But at last the silence came to an end, and
again it was Ursula de Vesc who spoke.
"Monsieur d'Argenton, you will, of course, go to Valmy at once?"
"To Valmy?" Commines brushed his hand across his forehead with a
characteristic gesture and paused, hesitating. "Why--I--Monseigneur,
have you nothing to say?"
"What is there to say?" answered the boy. "Do you think he loves me
any better than he did? Why are you in Amboise at all?"
It was only a bow at a venture, the ill-tempered fling of a petulant
boy, but the shaft struck home. Why was he in Amboise? His hope was
that the full purpose of his lengthened stay at the castle would never
be known, the truth would ruin him with the new King, ruin him utterly.
Hastily he searched his memory how far he had committed himself. Not
too deeply, he thought, so far as Charles was concerned. Ursula de
Vesc was of less consequence, and Saxe could always be made a
scapegoat. Saxe had lied, Saxe had deceived him, and, except Stephen
La Mothe, no one knew how ready he had been to be deceived. Perhaps
Saxe had also deceived the father? Yes, he would take that line, if
necessary; Saxe was the evil genius of them all, but the first
essential was to placate the boy with a generality. Liars and
successful diplomatists are rapid thinkers, and no too obvious a
silence followed Charles' blunt question.
"Monseigneur, for ten years I have been your father's trusted and
faithful servant----"
"Ursula, I am tired and shall go to bed. Thank you, Monsieur La Mothe,
but I do not think you need sleep at my door. To-night I shall be
safe. All the same, I would be Dauphin again if it could bring Hugues
back. I don't understand what it means to be King; perhaps in time I
shall see the difference. Good night, Ursula. I do not know what they
were saying to you, but they had better leave you in peace. Good
night, Monsieur La Mothe."
"The King is dead; long live the King! and service to the dead is soon
forgotten," said Commines bitterly as the door closed. The significant
ignoring of his presence had stung him to the quick. It might be said
it was only the rudeness of an ill-taught boy, but the boy was King of
France, and the suggestive omission was an evil augury to the hopes of
his unsatisfied ambition.
"Can you blame him? He is a very loyal boy, and was quite honest when
he said he would be the Dauphin again if that would bring Hugues back,
and as Dauphin he has been miserably unhappy."
"He is very fortunate in your love, mademoiselle." Commines had never
heard Villon's opinion, but it was his own, and he acted upon it
promptly. Win the girl and the boy will follow.
"I loved him for himself and for his unhappiness," she answered simply.
"But will you not return to Valmy at once? Surely death does not end
all service!"
"My duty and service are to the living," replied Commines shortly. "I
shall remain in Amboise. The dead take no offence."
"You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Monsieur d'Argenton, but
the King was so jealous and, may I add, so generous, it would vex his
ghost to think he was so soon forgotten."
"Mademoiselle, I serve France, and to-night France is in Amboise."
"Is the letter from Coictier, his doctor, Uncle?" Hitherto La Mothe
had kept silence. He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found
himself in a difficulty. In spite of his gratitude and reverence for
Commines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounder
judgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned a
dead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of a
moment. Surely the grave should first shut out all that was mortal of
the old obedience? And yet, because of that unfailing gratitude and
profound faith, he could not join with the girl in her open
condemnation. But crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his head
as if the question was distasteful.
"No."
"From the King's son-in-law, Monsieur de Beaujeu, then? He would, of
course, send you word immediately. Or Leslie? or Saint-Pierre?"
But after each name Commines made a gesture of dissent, pushing the
paper into his pocket at the last to end the questioning.
"Not from any of these?" said mademoiselle. "Who, then, has written?
Surely the Dauphin has a right to know?"
"Tristan," answered Commines, and, turning, he looked her full in the
face.
"Tristan?" she said icily, drawing herself back with a movement which
La Mothe recognized by an unhappy experience. "You choose your friends
strangely."
"But he is no friend," protested La Mothe, full of scorn and
indignation for Commines' sake at the shame of the suggestion. "It
would be impossible with such a man. And Monsieur de Commines has told
me more than once that Tristan is jealous of his influence with the
King, and is his bitterest enemy."
"And yet out of all Valmy it is Tristan--and Tristan only--who is
friend enough to send the terrible news to Monsieur d'Argenton? Is
that not strange? Monsieur d'Argenton, you are a learned man; is there
not some proverb about distrusting the Greeks when they bring presents?"
"Tristan would never dare to spread such a report never, never."
"But Tristan's master might. You don't think so? Forgive me if I am
suspicious, but can you wonder, you of all men? In Amboise we have
learned to doubt everything, even the friends who are ready to die for
us," and, with a sudden impulse, as natural and gracious as it was
touching, she held out her hand to La Mothe, a wistful, kindly
tenderness, deeper than the emotion of gratitude, moistening her eyes.
Very gravely he stooped and kissed it with a "Thank God, mademoiselle!"
To say more was unnecessary, for in the three words he said everything.
It was the formal wiping out of the day's misunderstanding, the
knitting together of life-threads torn apart, and where there is such a
knitting the union is firmer, closer, stronger, more indissoluble than
before the rent. "Monsieur d'Argenton," she went on, the voice a
little tremulous and yet with a clearer ring, "once before, when the
King doubted the loyalty of Paris, did he not spread abroad such a
rumour that he might test the spirit of the people?"
"Yes, but there was a deep policy in that."
"And is there no deep policy now! Is it for a shallow reason you have
spent two weeks in Amboise, or that Jean Saxe has coined his lies with
such carefulness of detail? May we hear Tristan's letter?"
For a moment Commines hesitated. He had regained his full
self-control, and it was with a growing surprise that La Mothe heard
him debate the situation with Ursula de Vesc as with an equal. But not
only was he impressed in spite of his prejudice against her, but he was
too shrewd a politician to put aside any suggestion which commended
itself to his reason just because he despised its source. And the girl
was right. If there had been a deep policy in setting afloat the Paris
rumour, there was a yet deeper policy now, a policy more subtle,
darker, and pregnant with tragedy. Belief in the King's death might
well loosen the tongues of those who had plotted against him, and their
unguarded triumph furnish the very confirmation which had been vainly
sought in Amboise these ten days. While he hesitated Ursula de Vesc
urged her point afresh.
"Monsieur d'Argenton, in the Dauphin's name I might claim to see the
letter, I might even demand and compel it as a right; but there will be
no need for that?"
"No need at all," he answered. "This is the letter. As you see, it is
very short:
"'MONSIEUR,--A great misfortune has overtaken us, the greatest
possible. The King is dead. It is being kept secret, but I send you
the warning that you may make yourself secure in Amboise. Note
carefully how the Dauphin takes it. I commend you to the keeping of
God.--TRISTAN.'
You see it is explicit."
"And Saxe was explicit, but he lied." She was too much of a woman to
spare him the thrust, but it was the only revenge she took, and having
taken it, she sat silent, her brows knit, her fingers playing
unconsciously with Charlemagne's soft ears. The dog's head was on her
lap, motionless, the gentle brown eyes fixed upon her face. Charlot
lay asleep at her feet, breathing little heavy breaths of contentment,
as if enough of his brain was awake to enjoy the sleep of the remainder.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I agree that the King's Provost-Marshal is
explicit, but I do not read his letter as you do. Perhaps it is
because Amboise has made me so suspicious. It is a sorrowful thing to
say, but we have been taught that safety lies in distrust of Valmy. It
is horrible, but it is not our fault, and I distrust now. Tristan is
your enemy and ours. The King, the great King, is not above setting a
trap. I think I see a double snare; a snare to catch the Dauphin, to
catch all who are his friends in Amboise, and a snare to catch the
great King's minister himself. Perhaps it is foolish, I know it is
presumptuous, but let me read the letter my own way; you can show me
afterwards where I am wrong. It is clever, but it is the cleverness of
the man who thinks only of his own interests, who makes no allowance
for love, loyalty, or single-hearted duty, and judges others by
himself. Is that your great King, Monsieur d'Argenton?" and Commines,
answering nothing, recognized the life-likeness of the portrait.
"But no!" she went on, "your great King is dead, the letter says so,
and this is your friend Tristan who sends you the warning that you may
make yourself secure in Amboise! What does that mean? You know that
better than I, but I suppose it means that, first in the field, you may
win the Dauphin's confidence and govern France through the boy. That
is a great gift from an enemy, Monsieur d'Argenton, and what would the
King say if he were alive? But the King is dead! Then why are you to
note carefully how the Dauphin takes the news? For whose benefit are
you to note it? For your own? But you are to make yourself secure in
Amboise! For Tristan's? But how does it touch Tristan? For the King,
who is dead? That is absurd. For the King, who is alive? for the
King, who dictates the letter that he may lay hold of some chance word
and torture it into God knows what vile use against the boy? Bear
witness, gentlemen, both of you, there was no such word. And what is
the ending of the letter? He commends you to the keeping of God!
Tristan, the hangman, commends Monsieur d'Argenton to the keeping of
God. There will be much need for His keeping if you make yourself
secure in Amboise while the King lives. Do you not smell the King's
unctuous, perverted religiosity in that sentence, Monsieur d'Argenton?
It is a snare, a snare for us all, and if I were you I would ride to
Valmy this very hour, though I foundered a dozen horses on the road.
Monsieur La Mothe, am I not right?"
"Entirely right," said La Mothe heartily. He might have gone further
and, following the precedent set by Adam in Eden, have said, "Eternally
right!" for what lover ever thought his mistress in the wrong? But
this time there was more than a lover's agreement. "Uncle, surely you
see that Mademoiselle de Vesc is right, right every way? If that
scoundrel has lied, then there is a trap set, but if it is the truth,
surely your place is at Valmy?"
"Why?" asked Commines, but as he spoke he read the letter afresh,
weighing each sentence separately. "Why not at Amboise?"