LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION
Partly to divert the boy from his grief at Hugues' death, but partly
also as an outlet for her new-found lightness of heart, Ursula de Vesc
would have turned what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into a
playful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand Turk, seated on a
divan of shawls and cushions, would receive the envoy of the Sultan of
Africa bringing presents from his master. It would be just such a play
of make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe proposed to
present the offering in the name of the King of the Genie her zest
waned, and a little alloy seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day.
That would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, she
declared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the night's amusement.
So only she, Father John, and the dogs were present in the Dauphin's
private apartment, study and playroom in one, when La Mothe and Villon
entered. As is almost always the case, the room reflected many of the
characteristics of its owner, and in its ordered disorder, its hints of
studies, its litter of wooden swords and broken dog-whips, might be
seen the boy who was almost man in gravity and yet still a child in a
child's love of toys. Rising as the two were announced, his effort at
dignity was sorely marred by the eager curiosity with which he eyed the
linen bundle carried by La Mothe.
"So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, and we will have no
more games together."
"When I return, Monseigneur."
"And I hope that will be soon, though I don't know why you are going.
But, then, I never quite knew why you came at all."
"Nor I until to-day, but the reason is the very best in the world,"
answered La Mothe, and the boy, following his glance, caught the
significance of the colour warming Ursula de Vesc's cheeks.
"So you have made up your quarrel, you two?"
"Never to quarrel again, Monseigneur."
"I hope so, but I don't believe it. Two people can't live together
without quarrelling. Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur La
Mothe, will you please call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish."
"Monseigneur, you are very good."
"Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don't forget. It's all I have to
give. Father John, who never saved my life or did anything for me,
calls me Charles, so why not you who saved my life twice? Down,
Charlot, down! leave Monsieur La Mothe's parcel alone. You are always
pushing your nose where it is not wanted. What have you in that
napkin, Monsieur La Mothe?"
"For your acceptance, Monseigneur----"
"Charles, not Monseigneur," said Ursula softly. "You will be calling
me mademoiselle next!"
"Hush, Ursula! I cannot hear what Monsieur La Mothe says if you keep
chattering. For my acceptance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give me
presents; but then, I don't think there is much love in the world."
"There is more love in the world than you think," said La Mothe, "and
some day you will very reverently thank God for it, as I do. Some day,
too, you will know that these are from the very heart of love itself."
"Yes, yes," said the boy, shifting impatiently in his chair as La
Mothe, laying the package on the table, busied himself untying the
knotted corners, "I know very well all you have done for me; but what
have you there?"
"Wait, my son, wait; you will know all in good time." But when the
Franciscan would have laid a restraining hand on the Dauphin's
shoulder, Villon twitched him by the sleeve of his robe.
"Hush, man, hush! Had you never young blood in you? Why, I am like
Charlot the puppy, just itching to know what is inside."
"But it is not good for youth----"
"It is good for youth to be young," said Villon testily. "Ah,
Monseigneur, I like that better than a frock with a cord that goes all
round, and no offence to you, Father John."
Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points, La Mothe shook it out
and held it hanging with such a careful carelessness that the
lamplight, picking out each separate link, fired its length and breadth
into a dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through by the
colder blue of hammered steel. With every cunning, unseen movement of
the fingers a ripple from the throat rolled downward and out at the
edges in a white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he caught
it in his open hands, shaking them till it settled so compactly down
that it lay entirely hidden in their cup.
"Monsieur La Mothe! Oh, Monsieur La Mothe!"
To La Mothe the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, and, above all, the
exclamation, were so pathetically eloquent of a stinted, starved,
neglected childhood that a rush of passionate resentment swept across
him in arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those common
joys which are childhood's natural food and rightful heritage. To be a
man in responsibilities, a man bearing the burden and sorrows of his
years, without having first been a boy at heart is more than an
irreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy which has
killed the purest sweetener of the sours of life. Rob the twig of its
sunshine and you rob the tree of its strength. But even while the
flame of his anger scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had come
the gifts which brightened the boy's eyes, and was ashamed. Had he not
said there was a wealth of unimagined love in the world?
"For me, Monsieur La Mothe?"
"If you will accept them."
"See, Ursula! See, Father John! Now I can really be a knight like
Roland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. Oh, thank you, Monsieur La
Mothe, thank you. And what is this?"
"An embroidered mask for your plays, only none but you must wear it.
See, this is the way it fastens behind, and this fringe hides the
mouth."
"I don't think I like that so well. Yes, I do! For now I can be the
man who attacked the Burnt Mill yesterday--he wore a mask, you
remember. Poor Hugues! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that I
might show him my armour. But I will show it to Blaise instead. You
know Blaise is to sleep at my door now? Come, Father John, while I
show it to Blaise. I will put on the mask afterwards."
"And meanwhile, Monseigneur," said Villon, "I will try how it fits."
But La Mothe, remembering the King's instructions, intervened. "No,
no, Villon, that is for the Dauphin alone--that and the
coat-of-mail--no one else must use them."
For a moment it seemed as if Villon, vexed at what he took to be a
rebuke for presumption, would have pushed aside La Mothe's protesting
hand, but with a shrug of his shoulders he gave way.
"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning the edge of the awkwardness
with a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should see
they are nothing but common flesh and blood like the rest of us."
Slipping her hand into La Mothe's arm Ursula de Vesc drew him to the
door, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin half
dragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaise
his treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve,
his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, and
was hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm.
"More and more you are my dear," she whispered, her lips so near his
ear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It was
a beautiful thought and I love you for it, but it was just like you.
Oh, Stephen, how I wish Villon was not here!"
Now why did she wish that? And why did the white rose flame suddenly
red?
Left to promptings of his own desires, Charlot the inquisitive debated
whether the door or the table offered the better field for amusement
and improving observation. The door, with its group of three crowded
into the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage-way, promised
well, but the table was nearer and forbidden, which promised better.
Besides, some play he did not share was in progress, and he owed it to
the dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once already, when he
tried to push his nose into that linen package, he had been baulked.
Rearing himself on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of the
Dauphin's chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the chair
was blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon the seat, his ears
cocked, his head aslant.
So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with an
enquiring mind. There was something new on the table, something
strange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiosity
was piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitching
nose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, so
new and strange that he must enquire further. Again, very cautiously,
for he knew he had no business there at all, he caught the mask in his
teeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by his
success he looked about him. The humans were at the door talking
quietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-même were biting one
another's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and could
investigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the mask
face downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as he
sniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under him
rigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a little
soft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legs
relaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buried
in the hollow of the mask.
"In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of France herself!" said
Villon as they turned back from the doorway.
"And perhaps his plays may waken something of the Maid's great soul in
him." Then, before La Mothe could tell her that she herself had shown
much of Joan's strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfish
spirit, she added, "It was a sorrowful year when France lost so great a
soul."
"But France is never long bereaved," replied Villon, and from his tone
they could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soul
went, a great soul came--I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is no
respecter of the rights of princes."
"Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursula
de Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; but
at the first touch she let him slip from her hold and drew back,
startled, looking up into La Mothe's face as he bent over her. The
plump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen,
Charlot is dead!"
"Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; but
the limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on the
shoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched back
from the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be no
doubt--Charlot's days of curiosity were ended.
"Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" But
when reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villon
anticipated her, setting his foot upon it.
"Don't touch it, for God's sake, don't touch it!"
"Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin's."
"It killed Charlot!"
"Killed Charlot? How?"
"Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and should know."
Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction of the Dauphin's
toy and the tone of Villon's reply, she caught at the table-edge,
pulling herself upright.
"Stephen, what does it all mean?"
But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension had been staggered but
had recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances,
luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselves
together in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How put
in words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villon
who gave her the key.
"Poison."
"Poison?" she repeated, shrinking in a natural repulsion. "Poison on a
mask you gave the Dauphin? Stephen, how could that be? But you must
answer, you must tell us," she insisted as he shook his head for the
second time, "you must, you must!"
"I cannot." He spoke curtly, harshly, but the determination was
unmistakable. Twice he repeated it. "I cannot, I cannot."
"But, Stephen----"
"Ursula, you don't doubt me? You don't think--you can't think I knew?
You can't think I planned this--this----" He faltered as his eyes
turned upon the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had passed
his word to the King to be silent, and even if he spoke, the truth
would only add horror to horrors. "Ursula--beloved!" Laying Charlot
on the table he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught in
both hers, and he himself drawn into her arms.
"Doubt you? No, Stephen, no, no; I trust you utterly--utterly. And
cannot you trust me? We have the boy to think of--the Dauphin--he must
be protected. But for Charlot he--he--oh! I cannot say it. Stephen,
don't you see? don't you understand? How can we guard him in the dark?
The mask, Stephen: whose was it? where did it come from? Tell me for
the boy's sake."
"I cannot, Ursula. Dearest heart, I cannot."
Lifting from the table the napkin in which the mask had been wrapped,
Villon shook it out, holding it up much as La Mothe had held the
coat-of-mail. Then he threw it on the table, spreading it flat.
"Fleur-de-lys," he said, his finger on the woven pattern.
"Fleur-de-lys and--Stephen, you came from Valmy? Oh! My God! My God!
I understand it all. So that is why you are in Amboise?"
Villon nodded gravely. Temperamentally he was the most emotional of
the three, and the tragedy in little, which so nearly had been a
tragedy in great, had so shaken his nerve that he controlled his tongue
with difficulty.
"Yes," he said slowly, "that is why he is in Amboise, and he never knew
it. There were two arrows on the string, Saxe and this. And it might
have been me." He turned to La Mothe. "You saved me; but for you it
would have been me."
But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the moment it seemed as if he had
forgotten Villon's existence altogether. His arms were round the girl,
one hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her fears, lover
fashion, and comfort her with his nearness. But his thoughts were in
Valmy, a thin, tired voice whispering in his ears, a white face whose
eyes smouldered fire looking into his. With a shiver he roused himself.
"Yes, I came from Valmy, and I must go back to Valmy; I must go this
very night. Saxe used to keep a horse always ready," he ended, with
the bitterness of shame in his voice.
"Stephen, was it for this?"
"I suppose so. But I must go to Valmy to-night. As to the Dauphin,
when I return----"
"When you return!" echoed Villon drearily. "Did Molembrais return?
Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is dead. You will be the next, for you
know more than Saxe ever guessed at."
"Saxe dead?" said Ursula, turning to Villon in her distress. "Monsieur
Villon, how did Saxe die?"
"Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let him
go anywhere--anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, and
Monsieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct."
"Stephen, Stephen, for my sake! Oh, that terrible King!"
"Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. Help me to be strong
to go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surely
to be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin must
know nothing of what has happened. Let him be happy while he can.
Take away poor Charlot and that horrible thing, and leave me to make up
a tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs--anything that he may not
see the pain on your dear face. He is coming back--listen how he
laughs, poor lad! Go, Villon; go, man, go, go!"
"Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy,
rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so
full of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness of
living, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphin
of France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I would
rather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask."
"Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot has
torn it."
"Charlot? Where is Charlot?"
"Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is banished for a week."
"But my mask, I want my mask!"
"It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one--a better one."
"But I don't want a new one or a better one; I want this one, and I
want it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am very
angry with you."
"Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never have
said that; and I am sure it was not Monsieur La Mothe's fault."
For a moment the boy turned upon the priest in a child's gust of
passion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance and
tears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders under
the coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done.
"You are right, Father, though you do come from Valmy. Monsieur La
Mothe, I am sorry for what I said, and do not forget you are to call me
Charles. Ursula, you have been crying; is that because Charlot spoilt
my mask?"
"No, Charles; but because Monsieur La Mothe must go to Valmy."
"Oh! Valmy?" he said dully. "I am never happy but somehow it is
Valmy, Valmy, Valmy! I think hell must be like Valmy."
"My son, you must not say such things."
"But what if I think them? Am I not to say what I think? And in hell
they hate, do they not? Monsieur Villon," he went on as the poet
re-entered the room, "they were talking of Valmy as I passed the
stair-head. Will you go and see if my father is dead a second time?
No! stay where you are, I hear some one coming."
Hastily crossing the room, Charles cowered close to Ursula de Vesc,
furtively catching at her skirts as if half ashamed of his fears and
yet drawn to the comfort of a strength greater than his own. All his
pride of possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and instead
of wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed spirit looked out of his
dull eyes. He was no longer Roland, but the son of Louis of France.
Laying her arm about him in the old attitude of protection which had so
stirred La Mothe's heart, she held him close to her, the anxiety of her
watchfulness no less evident than his own. The darkness of her dread
had deepened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, no good to
Stephen La Mothe.