COMMINES TAKES ADVICE
Respect kept La Mothe silent. How could he say bluntly, 'You owe
everything you possess in the world to the man who is dead--position,
title, office, wealth. Are these forgotten?' In his embarrassment he
glanced at Ursula de Vesc. Owing Commines neither respect nor
gratitude, she had no such scruple.
"Death is always terrible," she said softly, "or we make it terrible by
our own terrors, but there will be a new terror added if love and the
loyalty of gratitude die with the life. Is eaten bread so soon
forgotten, Monsieur d'Argenton?"
Almost abstractedly Commines looked up from the paper in his hand. If
he heard her, he gave no sign of having heard; certainly he showed no
resentment at the implied censure. His mind was busy balancing
prospects and possibilities. If Charles were king, Ursula de Vesc
would be a power behind the throne. If, as she said, Louis--and not
for the first time--played one of his grim jests full of a sinister
possibility, to remain at Amboise would be fatal both to himself and to
the boy. The King might say the Dauphin grasped at the crown while the
father lived, and Philip de Commines abetted him. After all, Valmy was
safest. Not many days before, Louis had told him with brutal frankness
that the hand which pulled him from the gutter could fling him back
again. Yes, Valmy was safest. But what account was he to give of his
mission? The letter, whether false in its news or true, was a
sufficient reason for his return. It was most natural, human, and
loving that the faithful servant should stand by the bier of his dead
master. It would even be a point in his favour if the King lived. No
doubt Tristan had said, 'Test him and he will go over to the Dauphin.'
Well, he would give Tristan the lie and prove that Louis came first,
living or dead. Yes, Valmy was safest.
But his mission? For the time it had failed. Saxe, as Stephen had
said, had proved too much. He must make Saxe the scapegoat. The
obvious lie damned him. It was crass stupidity to put into Hugues'
mouth a lie which carried its own disproof with it. To force an
accusation based upon the remainder of the story would be unpolitic.
His best course would be to relieve the King of all his fears at
Amboise. There was no plot, the Dauphin was loyal and obedient: not
affectionate, that would be proving too much like the fool Saxe, and
Louis would never believe it. Then there was the King's letter to
Saxe. It must not be forgotten. That shrewd rascal, Villon, was right
when he said some one had sounded Saxe, only the some one was not
Hugues the valet. The letter must be ignored, or, better still, it
might even help to make his--Commines'--position more secure than ever.
It was Louis' habit to disavow his failures. He would, of course,
repudiate Saxe and disavow the mission to Amboise, and because of the
disavowal he would, openly at least, welcome the Dauphin's loyalty.
That was Louis' way. Yes, Valmy was safest.
"I must leave Amboise at once," he said at last, and speaking as if the
intention had always been in his mind. "If this misfortune has
overtaken us all, which God forbid, we must meet it with courage and
resignation. May He who alone is able comfort the bereaved son of so
good and so great a father. My hope and prayer, mademoiselle, is that
you are right and the King is making trial of our love and loyalty. In
either case my place is at Valmy. La Mothe, order a horse to be
saddled without delay."
"There is one ready in Saxe's stable," answered La Mothe. Then, lest
he should be asked the unpleasant question how he came by that
knowledge and for what purpose the horse was in readiness, he added
hastily, "What shall we do with Saxe?"
"Keep Saxe safe until you hear from Valmy; let no one but Villon or
yourself have speech with him. Such a liar would calumniate the King
himself. Now, Stephen, the horses in ten minutes."
"Horses?" said La Mothe blankly. Was he also to leave Amboise now that
a new dawn was breaking?
"Yes, tell two of my men to be ready. I do not trust Tristan, and will
take no risks. An accident might happen to a lonely man on an
all-night's ride."
"And yet," said the girl as La Mothe left the room, "you were ready to
trust Tristan ten minutes ago?"
"But you have opened my eyes. Why? That is the one thing I cannot
understand. We have always been opposed, always at enmity, and never
more bitterly than to-night. Mademoiselle de Vesc, why did you not
take your revenge and let me ruin myself?"
"I might give you a woman's reason and say, Because!" she answered,
speaking more lightly than she had yet spoken; then as she paused a
moment the pale face flushed, and the beginnings of a smile played
about the mouth, only to die away in a tender gravity. "And yet, to
tell the truth, it was a woman's reason: it was because there was once
a friendless, helpless boy, and Philip de Commines--you were neither
Argenton nor Talmont then, monsieur--opened his heart to him."
"But, mademoiselle, to be honest, that was for a woman's sake."
"And," she answered, the flush deepening and the gentle tenderness of
mouth and eyes growing yet more tender, "to be honest, this is for a
man's sake."
Again there was silence, and in the quiet the two who had been enemies,
and might be again for the same cause, drew into a closer, better
comprehension upon a common ground. At heart they were akin--the
politic unscrupulous opportunist vowed to the compulsion of his
ambitions, and the girl who through all her threat of danger had given
no thought to herself. For the sake of the man; for the sake of the
woman: they are the twin cogwheels, working the one into the other,
which keep this great machine of life, this sordid material world, upon
a sure, if slow, ascent from the baser to the nobler, from the kingdoms
of this world to the glory of the Kingdom which is to come.
"A good lad," said Commines at last, speaking as a man speaks who is
moved in his depths. "Simple in his faith, simple in his reverence for
the best as he understands it, simple in his simpleness of heart: a lad
so loyal that he can see no disloyalty in others. God bless him for a
good lad. He came here a boy, but Amboise has made a man of
him--Amboise and you together." It was Francois Villon's second birth
over again, but in different words. "Mademoiselle, it will be my
charge to commend him to the King."
"For God's sake, no!" she burst out. "Leave him the man he is,
Monsieur d'Argenton, leave him his simplicity of faith. Commend him to
the King? I would rather he ploughed the fields for bread than served
your King. Here he is. Good-bye, Monsieur d'Argenton, may you find
all well at Valmy; good night, Monsieur La Mothe, we shall meet again
in the morning, or is it already the new day?" and with a smiling
curtsy to each she was gone. To Stephen La Mothe it seemed a cold good
night after all that had come and gone between them that day, the
misunderstood question in her work-room, the shadow of death in the
Burnt Mill, and, above all, their nearness as he had stood behind her
chair. But she had her purpose. She might spare Philip de Commines,
she might even forgive him, but she would not touch his hand in
friendship.
In silence Commines returned to his room, La Mothe following; in
silence made himself ready for the road; in silence they both went
together to the great gate and passed without. Perhaps it was that
each felt the need of quiet to adjust his thoughts. But once the heavy
door, bolted and studded with iron, had clanged behind them, and the
stars were clear overhead, Commines linked his arm with La Mothe's,
drawing him close with the affectionate equality and confidence of the
old days when they were father and son, brother and brother, friend and
friend in one. Let their union in blood be what it may, it is the most
perfect relationship man and man can know, and differs from the
sweeter, more tender relationship of man and woman in that nothing is
sought, nothing granted.
"Stephen, lad, we have been at odds, you and I, and it has hurt us
both, but that's over. I think we were both to blame. Perhaps I have
grown old, and so forgot that youth must have its day; perhaps you
could not understand my duty to the King, or how, when a man is ridden
by a dominant purpose, he must go straight forward and make or break a
way to the end. And yet you were doing something of the same yourself.
With you it was love in duty; with me, duty in love. For, Stephen,
make no mistake. Notwithstanding what it shames me to remember, I love
and reverence the King as the truest friend France has. May God spare
him to France until the boy has grown to be a man. Woe to thee, O
land, when thy King is a child. Henceforward I think the Dauphin has
nothing to fear; all that man can do to draw father to son and son to
father I will do. Stephen, your mission here is ended."
But in the darkness La Mothe shook his head; this was the real Philip
de Commines, the Commines he had known and loved. The crust of
selfishness which overlies the heart of every man given overmuch to one
purpose, even the most honourable, had broken up, and the generous
warmth of the kindly nature within asserted itself. To such an one La
Mothe could speak as he could not speak to the shrewd politician, or
the leader of men.
"Not ended yet, Uncle. With you I pray the King still lives, and that
is more than I could honestly have said in the Hercules room yonder
with Saxe spinning his lies. Tell him that within twelve hours I shall
have fulfilled to the very letter the orders he gave me. Watch him as
you tell him, you who are so shrewd a judge of men, and I think you
will say that to draw the father to the son will not be difficult."
"You believe that, Stephen?"
"I know it, Uncle; but here are the horses." With no more words La
Mothe assisted Commines to mount, standing by his knee as he settled
himself in the saddle. Then Commines stooped and the two men clasped
hands.
"God keep you, Stephen."
"And you, too, and may all be well at Valmy," answered La Mothe
earnestly, and added impulsively, "Uncle, have you nothing to say to
me?"
"Only this, Stephen, thank God for a good woman," and with a last
pressure of the hand Commines rode on into the darkness, his two guards
a length behind him.