THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE
For once in his career Phillip de Commines, ambassador and diplomatist,
was well pleased to have failed, or rather, paradoxically, he told
himself that failure was his true success. The King--he had come to
the conclusion that Louis had played one of those grim jests which were
not all a jest and at times had tragic consequences--the King, no
doubt, had been deceived, possibly by Saxe, and to have Saxe proved a
liar beyond question could not but be a relief. So all was well; the
King's fears could be set at rest, and he himself was freed from an
odious duty. Against his expectation he had quitted Amboise with clean
hands.
Nor even as regards the Dauphin, and the future the Dauphin
represented, was there much to regret. There was even, he believed,
much to hope. Ursula de Vesc controlled the boy, Stephen La Mothe
would influence the girl, and Stephen owed him everything. These were
all so many links in a chain, and the chain bound him not only to
safety but to continuance in his present offices, perhaps even to
advancement. Even though the King had died there was no need to remain
in Amboise to secure himself; La Mothe would do that for him. But the
King was living, the King would welcome his failure, would be touched
by his prompt return to Valmy, and the world was a very good world for
those who knew how to use its hazards and chances rightly.
The stern justice of the King had swept the highways clear of violence.
According to a grim jest of Villon's, thieves and thievery were alike
in suspense from Burgundy to the sea. Except the ruts of the road,
deep in places as the axles of a cart, or the turbid waters of the
Loire, treacherous in the darkness and swollen by heavy rains in the
upper reaches, travelling was as safe by night as by day, and Commines
met with no delays but those at all times inseparable from such a
journey. Tristan's forethought, as it proved, had provided no
accident. This time there was no halt at the Château-Renaud. Through
the little straggling village they rode at a hand-gallop, and except to
bait or breathe the horses on a hill-crest, no rein was drawn until the
dawn had slipped from grey to glory and a new day lay broad upon the
fields. When that hour broke, they had made such progress that they
had reached the place whence Commines had shown La Mothe the three good
reasons why his men would keep their counsel.
"Dismount and ease the saddles," he said, slipping a foot from the
stirrup as he spoke, "the gates will not be opened for two or three
hours at least. Lead the horses on slowly, I will follow you."
But he was in no haste. In the small hours of the morning the currents
of enthusiasm, like those of life, run slow. It is then that the
spirit of a man is at its weakest. Or perhaps it was the sight of
Valmy that cooled his optimism. There it lay, grey and forbidding even
with the yellow sunlight of dawn full upon it, and there, stark and
clear, an offence against the sweetness of the new day, were the three
royal gibbets. Their sinister hint was emphatic. The justice of the
King was without mercy, and sombrely he asked himself, Was he so sure
that in his failure he had no need of forgiveness? Was it not rather
true that with Louis failure had always need of forgiveness and was
never forgiven? He was not so certain, now that his blood was sluggish
in the vapoury chill of dawn, but that he had been hasty in quitting
Amboise at all; and yet, what if Tristan, playing on the jealous
suspicions of the King, had set a trap? And even as he speculated with
dull eyes whether there was a trap or no, whether the King lived at
all, and what course was the most politic to follow, a stir of life
woke at Valmy: a small troop passed out from the grey arch facing the
river and took the Tours road. The distance was too great to
distinguish who comprised it. But Valmy was awake, and with Valmy
awake the sooner he faced his doubts the better--doubts grow by
nursing, and given time enough their weight will kill.
Walking briskly forward he mounted and urged his tired horse to its
best speed. That it should reach Valmy in its last extremity,
foam-flecked and caked with sweat, would appeal to the King's sick
suspicions. It was a petty trick, mean and contemptible, but had the
King not played a still more mean and contemptible trick on him?
Commines knew with whom he had to deal; it was the vulgar cunning his
master had taught him, and any apparent absence of anxious haste would
be a point lost in the game: so their spurs were red, and their beasts
utterly blown, utterly weary from their last climb up the river's bank
when they drew rein before the outer guard-house. The Tours troop was
already out of sight.
Lessaix himself was on duty, and as he came forward with outstretched
hand Commines required no second glance to tell himself that Ursula de
Vesc had construed Tristan's letter aright. Not so frankly would he
have been greeted if Valmy's master lay dead in Valmy.
"The King expects you," he said, "and by your horses' looks you have
lost no time on the road." As he spoke he ran his finger-tips up the
hot neck, leaving tracks of roughened, sweaty hair behind the pressure.
"When did you leave Amboise?"
"The King expects me? How can that be?"
Then as Lessaix, scenting a mystery, looked up curiously Commines made
haste to cover his slip, "Or rather, how did you know I was coming?"
"Tristan told me as he rode out half an hour ago. He said you were on
the way and might arrive any moment. You are to go to the King at
once."
"So Tristan left half an hour ago?"
Try as he would Commines could not quite control his voice. He owed
more to Mademoiselle de Vesc than he had supposed. The trap had, as it
were, snapped before his face and he had escaped by a hair-breadth.
Tristan's cunning was as deep as simplicity. His forethought must have
run somewhat thus. Lessaix knows that Monsieur de Commines is expected
any moment and is to go at once to the King, who waits for him;
Monsieur de Commines does not appear, but remains paying his court to
the Dauphin at Amboise. The inference would be clear to all men, and
Monsieur de Commines would be ruined outright and utterly discredited.
Yes, Ursula de Vesc had saved him from downfall, or worse.
Lessaix, watchful as every man was who called Louis master, caught the
change of tone and again looked up, but this time with something more
than curiosity--an anxious wariness, a fear lest some current of events
he failed to discover might catch him in its flood and drag him down
with its undertow unawares.
"Monsieur de Commines," he said earnestly, laying a hand on Commines'
bridle-rein as they passed at a foot's pace under the archway, "we have
always been friends, always good comrades, is there--" he hesitated,
uncertain how far he dared commit himself with his good friend and
comrade, "is there anything wrong--astray--here, or at Amboise?"
"The Dauphin is well, and it is you who should have the news of Valmy.
I know nothing but that the King sent for me in haste. Some question
of new taxation, perhaps; or it may be that England threatens to break
the peace. What did Tristan say?"
"Nothing but what I tell you, but he laughed as he said it. If I were
you, I would not delay, but would go to the King booted and spurred and
dusty as you are."
Commines nodded. The advice was welcome, not only because it was meant
kindly but for what it inferred. If disgrace threatened, Lessaix at
least had no knowledge of it.
"The messenger who left two days ago, has he returned?"
"Not yet; there was another yesterday."
"I know. Who is on guard?"
"Beaufoy, and the password is Amboise."
Again Commines nodded. Beaufoy? That, too, was all in his favour.
Beaufoy was one of the younger men and not at all in the King's
confidence. If Louis had any sinister coup in his mind, Leslie, or
Saint-Pierre, or Lessaix himself would have been on duty.
With an alert, quick step, that had in it none of the stiffness or
fatigue of a long night's ride, Commines mounted the stairs, answering
friendly salutes at every turn. As at all times with the King in
residence, the halls, corridors, and ante-rooms were like those of a
barrack rather than of a royal chateau. Here and there he was
challenged and his way barred by a lowered halbert, but it was more or
less perfunctory, and at the password the way was cleared. That
Beaufoy was unfeignedly glad to see him was another satisfaction. Ever
since he had come in sight of Valmy an uncomfortable sense of
friendlessness had haunted him with the unreasoning horror of a
nightmare, and Beaufoy's welcoming smile was like the wakening into
sunshine.
"_Dieu merci_! but I am thankful you have come," he said, but speaking
softly so that no sounds passed through the curtained door at his back.
"Four times within the hour the King has sent asking for you. It is
like the cry of one of his own parrots, 'Commines! Where is Commines?'"
"Who have seen him this morning?"
"His two janitors of the eternal, if it be no sin to say so--the priest
and Tristan. Fortune keep their last ministrations far from me!"
"Then the King is awake?" said Commines, unbuckling his sword-belt and
handing it to Beaufoy.
"Awake, but in bed as a good Christian ought to be at this time of day.
Faith! Monsieur d'Argenton, you are in fortune's pocket; four times
within the hour he has asked for you--four times, as I'm a starving
sinner without a hope of breakfast."
"The better appetite later!" Letting the curtains fall behind him
Commines pushed the door open softly, closed it softly at his back, and
advanced a step. But in spite of the caution of his quiet Louis heard
him.
"What's that? Who's there? Beaufoy--Beaufoy----"
"Sire, it is I--Commines."
"Commines!" he repeated, the sharpness of his frightened voice
dwindling breathlessly. "Commines, Philip, what--what news from
Amboise?"
"The very best, Sire."
"The very best! Ah, God, my son! my son! The very best? Oh, France!
France! Philip, tell me--tell me your news. But is the door
shut--shut fast?"
Through a prolonged life Commines never forgot that scene and never
answered, never dared to answer, even in the secret of his own mind,
the question, What news from Amboise was the very best?
A single shutter had been drawn half aside, and in the semi-obscurity
the chalk-grey face of the King showed ghost-like against the vaulted
darkness of the curtained bed. The fret of spirit through these ten or
twelve days had sapped him, worn him like so many days of consuming
fever. With one hand, the elbow propped upon the coverlid, he pushed
the draperies aside, the other was fumbling with its finger-tips at his
convulsed mouth. In impatience, or that he might breathe the freer,
the ribbons which knotted his woollen nightrobe at the throat had been
unfastened, leaving the lean, parchment-coloured chest and throat,
corded with starting sinews, nakedly open. As he leant aslant, the
curtains arching overhead, his eyes roundly open in the shadows of
their sockets, he was like a corpse new risen from its tomb and full of
horror from the dreams which had dogged its sleep.
"The very best! Tell me everything, Philip. Or, no!" The shaking
hand ceased plucking at the lip, and the shrunken arm, bare to the
elbow where the gown had slipped, was thrust out, beating the air as if
to push aside some terror. "Tell me the one--the essential----God's
name, man! can you not understand?"
"The best news possible, Sire." Commines' eyes were growing accustomed
to the gloom and no detail escaped him. "The Dauphin is innocent, is
loving--loyal."
The King shrank as if he had been struck and the cadaverous face grew
yet more ghastly. Shifting uneasily on his elbow he pushed the
curtains wide apart, rasping the rings sharply on the rod, and drawing
back his hand fumbled anew at his mouth.
"Loving, loyal--living." There was a perceptible pause, and the third
word was harsher, drier than the others, and spoken with a jerk as if
forced from the throat under compulsion. "You received my letter
written two days ago?"
"Yes, Sire, and a second last night. Thank God, with all my heart,
it----"
"Let it wait. The messenger of two days ago, has he come back?"
"Not yet. I asked Lessaix."
"Why?"
"Idle curiosity, Sire."
"Only fools are curious for nothing, and you are no fool, or were not
when you left to go to Amboise." He paused, and in the silence
Commines searched his wit for some plausible reason for the question he
had put to Lessaix. But Louis probed no further. To hear the truth
would have suited his purpose no better than it would have suited
Commines to tell it.