MONSIEUR DE COMMINES EXPLAINS
At what length, and in what terms, Monsieur de Commines berated me I
need say little. Those who know his command of vigorous language may
judge, but had his tongue been a birch rod, and I a little thievish
boy, caught red-handed, I could not have been more sorely lashed.
Epithets flew as thick as snow-flakes in winter, but were neither as
cold nor as soft. I was a blundering dolt, a thick-headed fool, a
self-seeking, ungrateful pick-thank.
But there I stopped him.
"No, Monseigneur, never ungrateful."
"Ungrateful," he persisted. "Here do I bring you to Plessis, vouch for
you, sow a thought in the King's mind for you, and when it buds you
trample it under foot, never caring that you may trample me down with
it. Is that gratitude?"
"A man has his honour, Monseigneur; yes, and something greater than his
honour; for when it comes to steeping his soul in a child's blood----"
"A child's blood? What do you mean, de Helville?"
"What thought you sowed I do not know," I answered bluntly and perhaps
without much respect, for at the moment my blood was hot, "but the crop
was murder, and I was bid go reap it."
The heavy wrinkles on his forehead, wrinkles in which you might have
sunk a bow-string out of sight, deepened yet further, and he stood
gnawing his lip in silence.
"Yes, I remember now," he said at last. "There is a child, but his
name never passed between us, the King and myself, I mean. Mon Dieu!
Monsieur de Helville, you surely cannot think His Majesty meant any
harm to the boy?"
"You told me, Monseigneur, that my time to think had not yet come, and
so, if it pleases you, I shall think nothing," I answered. "I am a
plain man, a stranger to Plessis and new to its admirable court ways.
It may be when the King says this is black, he means it is white or red
or blue, and that to kill a child is to stuff it with sweetmeats. What
passed was this," and I told him everything in as few words as I could.
By the time I had ended, he was reasonable. That is where a man
frequently differs from a woman; he can see two sides to a question,
she only that which reflects her mood of the moment.
"Thank God he seeks peace," said he when I had finished. "Gaspard, my
friend, my tongue was too rough just now, and yet I think you were
wrong. You should have played him, and so learned his true mind. What
he said was to try you, or, at worst, a jest."
"A grim jest, Monseigneur, so grim that the King nearly died of its
failure."
Monsieur de Commines shook an open palm in the air as if to push a
thought from him.
"You see how we stand, always on the brink of the grave. Some day,
to-morrow, next month, next year, the grave-edge will crumble under our
feet and yet we dare not say, Sire! take care! All we can do is to
hold him back at all costs and in spite of himself. For when that
grave shuts----"
Though my knowledge of Plessis could be measured by days, my ears had
been open as well as my eyes, and so the snap of the fingers that
rounded off the sentence was more informatory than words. It meant, as
far as Monseigneur was concerned, a friend's deep sorrow, a crown
minister's despair, a courtier's ruin; bereavement instant and
irremediable to heart, brain, and ambition; it meant that the present
fortunes and future prospects of the living Commines would certainly be
buried with the dead King, and perhaps also the glory and greatness of
France. Nor do I think the certainty of the one fretted him as sorely
as the perhaps of the others. For eleven years Philip de Commines had
been the greatest man in the kingdom, serving Louis, France, and
himself, and loving all three. Let the grave close over his master,
and at the groan of the sepulchral stone rasping to its socket Love and
Service perished. But I think that with him, as with every truly great
man, his life's work was dearer than himself, and his heart, as he
leaned against the little diamond window panes looking out into the
narrow court, was bitter for the loss to France rather than at the
crumbling of his own fortunes.
"At any cost," he said, repeating the words over and over, "at any
cost, at any--any cost."
"Even of a child's murder?"
"What?" he answered looking back across his shoulder, "are you still
harping on that blunder? Oh! you Flemish calves! with but one idea in
your head!"
"And is Commines not also in Flanders?"
He laughed, and quitting the window came towards me.
"True, friend Gaspard, and a fair hit; but there are great ideas as
well as small ones, and it would be a mercy if you and that Martin of
yours could think of more than one thing at a time."
"Martin?" said I, in despair at this fresh blow. "My own folly you
have made clear, but what has Martin done?"
Monsieur de Commines shook his head gravely, but it was a relief to see
a twinkle of humour shining through the gravity in his eyes.
"Martin has broken that high law of courts which says, Thou shalt run
no risks to thyself for the sake of another! Love and faithfulness are
dead in Plessis, and who is Martin to dare pretend they are alive?
Twice every day he has come out from Tours to glower at the walls that
hold his Master Gaspard, and it is not safe for a man to do that for a
week at a stretch. Tristan has a keen nose and scented treason, love
and faithfulness being perfumes strange to his nostrils, and had I not
said No! haling Martin into Plessis almost by the neck, the misguided
fool would have tapped his heels against that wall in the Rue Trois
Pucelles before this."
"What, Monseigneur! You had this thought for us even when you were
scolding me? How can I thank you?"
"Chut, chut," he answered, taking my hand in his, and holding it fast.
"You gave the reason yourself a minute back; is not Commines also in
Flanders?"
That was Philip de Commines all over. Policy and the mean cunning of
court life might crust him round, but underneath were the tender heart,
the broad deep mind, the generous sentiment ever ready to break a way
to the surface. But when I would have pressed to see Martin at once he
refused me.
"Not yet; the King has a claim before even a brother of Flanders, and
the King is waiting for you."
"Now?"
"Yes, by this time he should be ready. Rochfort is with him but will
be turned out that Monsieur Gaspard de Helville may be received in
private audience. How important we are! But for both our sakes do not
fall into the same trap a second time. Once was pardonable, but twice
savours of suspicion, or what is worse in a man seeking the King's
service, a witless foolishness. The one is natural at Plessis, and to
be forgiven, but never the other! Take this from me; the man who
cannot quickly understand a jest and laugh at it, even when it is
against himself, is not fit for nice negotiations."
Leaving Monsieur de Commines' lodgings we turned to the left to the
block set apart for the King's use. It lay east and west, with its
windows, none of the widest, facing south, for the sun was the only
living force on earth that Louis was willing should enter freely.
Round the door were archers of the Scottish guard, on every landing of
the stone stairway they lounged in threes and fours, and half a company
were quartered in the outer room we first entered.
By all three we were challenged in turn, and for every group there was
a different password. But even that security could not satisfy the
King's jealous suspicion. Beyond the great chamber was an anteroom,
where three of the officers of the archers were always in attendance,
and well as the Prince de Talmont was known at court the captain of
these would have turned him back, had it not been for the famous signet
which had already saved our necks in Paris.
But even then the Scot had a scruple of what no doubt he called his
conscience.
"It franks you, Monsieur," he said, pushing his scabbard in front of me
when, Monsieur de Commines having entered, I would have followed, "but
our orders are strict. 'Understand, Lesellè,' His Majesty said to me
only to-day, 'you are to admit no one who does not carry the King's
token.'"
For a foreigner, he spoke good French, but there was a harsh guttural
in the voice that grated in my ears. As to his name, I do not know how
it was spelt, but I give it as I caught the pronunciation.
For a moment Monseigneur looked perplexed as he stood with the curtain
drawn back and one foot already across the threshold. To argue with
the wooden-witted northerner was impossible, and he dared not risk the
sound of an altercation at the King's door. Louis might have scented
treason and called out to Lesellè to strike, not knowing nor caring who
was struck. Nor would Lesellè have been slow to obey. I think I have
said there was not much love between Monsieur de Commines and these
mercenaries of the guard. But the embarrassment was only for an
instant; Monseigneur was not the Prince de Talmont for nothing.
"The King is well served," he said courteously. Slipping the ring from
his finger he dropped it into my palm across the outstretched steel and
at the same moment withdrew himself into the King's chamber. "Show
your token, Monsieur de Helville, and lose no time; already His Majesty
has been made to wait."
"The King's signet, Monsieur," said I, catching my cue and shaking the
collet within an inch or two of Lesellè's surprised eyes. "Will you
withdraw your sword, or must I push it aside?"
It seemed at first as if he would have protested against the trick
played upon him; then a saving sense of humour came to his rescue, and
with a laugh he lowered his sword. Only, as I let the curtain fall
behind me, I heard him say:
"Next time your hand comes so close to my face, Monsieur
Whoever-you-are, I hope it will have no King's ring on its finger."
There was no time to reply. Taking me by the arm, Monsieur drew me on,
and again I found myself in the King's presence.