IN WHAT WAY THE KING SOUGHT THE PEACE OF NAVARRE
Of the many thoughts that danced across the darkness of my mind,
thoughts as impotent of light as fireflies flashing through a summer's
gloom, one alone brought any satisfaction--Brother Paulus could make
clear the King's instructions. Nor was I afraid that through seeking
his aid would come any premature disclosure of our scheme for securing
the peace of Navarre. The choice of Latin was now finally clear to me.
It was not simply that it concealed the writer's identity, but it
readily lent itself to translation. Thanks be to God! the
ministrations of the Church are always to be found in this Christian
country of ours, and where the Church is, there is learning. Louis
could be trusted not to betray his purposes. Through fear of death he
was the Church's humble son and servant in all things spiritual, but
woe to the priest who, presuming on his office, meddled in things
temporal to the detriment of France. At the door Brother Paul met me,
his finger on his lip.
"He is asleep," he whispered, beckoning me to be quiet. "The early
rising and the ride have tired him. A noble-hearted boy,
Monsieur--loving, brave, unselfish. I think he will grow to be a good
man, a hard thing for one born great. Some day Navarre will bless
Gaston de Foix. Speak softly, though indeed a thunderclap would hardly
waken him now, he sleeps so sound."
"So much the better, he has still far to ride. All the better, too,
for now we can talk more freely. Father Paul, what does this say?"
It was wonderful how his eyes lightened. At Morsigny he had made no
parade of learning, but, hiding it out of sight, had lowered his talk
to the level of our ignorance. But the scrawl of Latin was to him as
the face of his mistress to a devout lover, and it was with a kind of
quaint reverence that he took the crumpled paper, smoothing out the
creases tenderly.
"This, my son? Where did this come from?"
"I found it a while back. It is Basque, is it not?"
"Basque! No, no, Latin, and, I think, better in the letter than in the
spirit."
"Latin! and that I should have taken it for Basque! I shall have to go
to school again. What does it say, Father? Curiosity always has an
itch for the unknown."
"That, too, is the gift of God, or how would learning grow? But
this--this is foolish, or worse. _Numquid vivet_? _Non vivet_.
_Morte morietur, sed statim interficies_. Oh, my son, that is not
good! Either it is part of some horoscope, a sinful wresting of their
secrets from the stars, or else an unhappy soul has sold himself to
Satan for a necromantic prophesy, and such a prophesy!"
"But, Father," I cried, almost forgetting both love and reverence in
impatience, "what, is it?--what is it?"
"Hush!" he whispered, shaking a warning finger at me. "Remember the
child; we must not disturb his sleep. This is the meaning: '_Shall he
live? He shall not live! Let him die the death, thou shalt surely
kill him._' Either a foolish jest," he went on, stooping over the
paper, "or a spark from Hell, and at times the one is not far from
being the other. The Latin is sound enough as Latin goes in these
degenerate days; that is what I meant by saying the letter was better
than the spirit. It is the reverse of the text. The letter killeth,
but the Spirit giveth life. Here it is the letter that is sound and
wholesome, but the spirit killeth. Note the terseness of it. Either
the necromantic or the devil, his master, was--oh! my son, my son, what
is the matter? Art thou ill? Faint? The sun this morning? Jesu!
What is it?"
How could I answer? How could I do more than stand aghast? What a
plot it was! What a damnable, cunning plot! What a playing on the
passions--love, greed, vengeance, and what passed with the King for
piety! What an interweaving of life and death and the powers of Hell!
Oh, what cunning, what damnable cunning! If a bribe will buy this
houseless, ragged wretch, this friendless outcast from his class, then
there is Solignac and the old lands of his house waiting for him in
Flanders. If love will hold him obedient, here is his mistress hostage
to my mercy, the mercy of Louis of France! the mercy of the rack in
Plessis and Tristan's House of the Great Nails, that all may know this
is the King's vengeance for a duty unfulfilled! Or perhaps hate will
move him! Then take Jan Meert, take my own ancient tool, who has never
known a scruple to trip him in my service--take him, and do as you list
by him. Or if these fail, if Navarre outbribes me, if a new love
quenches the old, if revenge grows cold, there still remains the Cross
of Saint Lo whereon who swears falsely perishes both in this world and
the next. Remember the child! said Brother Paul, his finger on his
lips. Remember him? Would God I could forget him!
Something of this was in my face, but not to be read aright by the
gentle heart beside me, for Brother Paul took me in his arms, fearing I
would fall, and how could a priest of God knowingly so hold one sworn
to shed innocent blood? But I put him aside.
"The paper, quick!" and snatching it from his hand, I tore it into
fragments too small to be pieced together again. I do not pretend I
had any clear plan in my head; a blind instinct often moves us, and it
is only later we understand why we did thus and thus.
But what Brother Paul failed to read in my face he gathered from the
sudden violence of the act, though dimly. What mind as innocent as his
could, on the instant, plumb to such an infamy? Again, being his
Master's servant, he took me in his arms, laying his hands upon my
shoulders, his grey face all lined with sorrow.
"You, Son Gaspard? Ah! I see, I see! Satan hath desired to sift thee
as wheat, but I have prayed to the Father for thee. There, on the Grey
Leap, I prayed; He has ventured his life to repair my fault, give me
his life, O Father, spare him and give me his Greater Life. And so it
shall be. I know it by faith, and if we could not know by faith, how
could we live at all? Tell me your trouble, my son. Am I not Father
Paul, God's Priest, and your friend? Confess yourself, and remember
you speak not to me, but in the secret ear of God."
And I spoke. Kneeling between his knees as he sat upon a settle, I
told him all from the beginning. What passed between us at the first
is for no man's curiosity. Then, that being done with, and we back in
the world again, the world in which men must use their lame wits and
feeble understandings as best they can, I, tramping up and down the
room, cried,
"But what next? I cannot see what next; it is all dark."
"No, no," said Paul, "not all dark, never all dark. No, my son, no;
the Lord God never leaves a soul in the All Dark. Somewhere,
somewhere, there is a gleam, and that gleam is an inspiration. Is it
love? Follow it, my son, follow it. Duty? Then follow duty. A clean
conscience? In God's name, follow it wherever it leads. Who am I to
say more? The gleam is the one divine thing in us, therefore follow
the gleam, follow it, follow it."
"It is easy for you, sitting there, to say so," and pausing in my walk,
I stood over him; "but the arm of that cunning devil in Plessis can
reach, as he told me, from Arragon to England, and from the verge of
the Empire to the sea in the west. Gleam? There is no gleam."
"There is your oath, my son."
"My oath? An oath taken in blindness is no oath."
But Brother Paul shook his head.
"A Christian man's oath is the honour of his soul. When you swore your
oath at Plessis there was always an alternative you could follow."
"To return?"
"To return," he repeated.
"But--that is death?"
"I said it was the honour of the soul. The ancient tongue has a motto,
_Prius mori quam fidem fallere_. Sooner die than break faith--faith
with God and all that is best in ourselves, faith with that unhappy
woman who for no fault of hers, for no cause but that she loved you,
stands to-day in your place. Were you Paulus and I Son Gaspard, I
would go back to Plessis--and die. Not that I dare to judge for you."
"I cannot see it," I cried, the love of life and the love of Suzanne
both strong within me. Was her rose not buckled to my bonnet?
"Father! Father! Is there a God at all that we men are put to such
straits?"
Priest though he was, he did not so much as utter a rebuke, but,
rising, he laid his hands upon my shoulders as he had done almost at
the first.
"I am not afraid of your doubt, for listen to this, my son: the man who
has never greatly doubted will never greatly believe, never greatly
love, never, even, greatly live. Every doubt a man puts under him is a
step nearer to perfect faith, perfect love, and perfect life. Again I
say, I cannot judge for you. But because doubt is a devil who must be
fought alone and in the desert of solitude, I will go outside the
door--outside the door, but never outside your life. The Lord bless
thee, and keep thee! the Lord----" and then he slipped off into his
beloved Latin, ending in _det tibi pacem_.
Softly lifting the latch and softly closing it, he was gone.
_Pacem_! That was peace. But where was I to find peace? Unless such
a peace as lay so coldly at the foot of the Grey Leap that it had
chilled 'Tuco's courage. From Arragon to England, from the Empire to
the sea, Louis would find me out. Return to Plessis? I knew what that
meant. Peace! It was easy for a priest to say Peace, peace! easy for
the man who ran no risks to say Follow the gleam! but for me not so
easy.
Just then Gaston turned on the bed, drawing a deep sigh of placid rest
and contentment; Gaston, the child of whom Louis had written, Thou
shalt surely kill him! Gaston, helpless and asleep. He shall die and
not live, said Louis of France; his life for yours! Yet Paul had left
him in my charge without a plea, without a pledge, without even the
tremor of a troubled doubt. That moved me to my very depths.
To be thought capable of a great action, of a great sacrifice, makes
both possible. I do not mean the sparing of the child. Thank God,
that was never in doubt! But the fulness of Brother Paul's faith meant
this to me: I trust you to do that which is highest, let come what may.
That meant, return to Morsigny, put the child in safety, and humble
yourself in the eyes of the woman you love; ride then to Plessis, and
say: Here am I, let the woman I have ceased to love--no! the woman I
have never loved--let her go her way. That meant--God knows what next,
but nothing that a man could think upon without a shiver. If the woman
who had done no wrong would writhe and scream and curse for what the
King would call my treachery, what might not the traitor expect? And
yet, that way shone the gleam, and another's faith in me gave me faith
in myself.
But it was a relief to have the excuses of voices outside the door to
put thought aside and find refuge in activity. It was Martin, come for
orders as I had bidden him. Back to Morsigny, and with as little delay
as possible, seemed the best plan. Once the boy was again safe behind
its walls my responsibility ended. Yes, Morsigny first, and for that
day it was my wisdom to look no further, lest I should see too much and
be afraid.
But while I debated how best to avoid an altercation with the man who
called himself Jean Volran, Volran's voice came from the stairhead with
Martin answering loudly, roughly, as if in altercation; then followed a
scuffle, the sound of a fall, and again Martin's voice:
"Monsieur Gaspard! Monsieur Gaspard! Quick! quick!"
He was standing at the stairhead, his back to me, his shoulders
crouched, his knees bent, the right foot advanced, and both elbows
hugging his ribs. I could not see it, but from his attitude I knew his
sword was out, hidden by the bulk of his body. Back against the wall,
where the well of the stairs made an angle, was Brother Paul, his arms
raised in astonished protest; above the line of the topmost step jean
Volran was rising to his knees where Martin had flung him.
"There is some roguery, Monsieur Gaspard," said Martin, but though he
heard the latch click he was too wary of fence to turn his head. "This
fellow, who an hour ago was a thieving inn-keeper, has now a sword at
his hip----"
"You blundering fool!" said Volran, rising and shaking himself. "You
took me unawares, but you shall pay me as fully as if you did it
aforethought. Monsieur de Helville, there are only two of you, but I
have four, and we seven can laugh at La Voulle."
"This fellow," went on Martin, as if Volran had never spoken, "this
fellow came up here three at a stride, and was told by Father Paul you
were busy. He would not take No for an answer, but tried to bustle us,
so I tipped him downstairs to teach him patience."
"Monsieur de Helville, it is the King's business, and there is no time
to waste," cut in Volran. "Bid this chattering idiot of yours be
silent. You two can never hold the boy, and you know it. But we will
help you. Come, sir, finish what brought you to La Voulle."
Putting Martin aside, I took his place on the top step.
"Have no fear, Jean Volran, or whoever you are, we two can hold the boy
safe as far as Morsigny."
"Morsigny?"
"I said Morsigny."
"Morsigny? Then for what have I wasted three months in this rat-hole
of a La Voulle? That you might march the Count de Foix into the town,
and then march him home again? Was it for that the King sent you to
Navarre?"
"That is between myself and the King, as I told you once already
to-day, but the Count de Foix goes back to Morsigny."
"Mad!" said he. "Stark mad!" In his eagerness he came up a step or
two, one hand stretched out before him as if to grip my attention and
hold it. "Do you know who it is you deride? Whose face you slap? It
is Louis'--Louis'. Why, man, he will crush you as I would a fly."
"Keep your distance," answered I; "you are five and we are two, but we
have the vantage, and in narrow stairs two are as good as twenty. Come
up but one step more, and Father Paul will shout A Rescue! from the
window behind, and then you will be the flies."
"Better do it without waiting," said Martin. "Rouse the town, Father,
or they may attack us on the road."
But I held the priest back.
"Not yet; I have a use for Monsieur Volran's life, and, liar though he
is, I will trust his word. In spite of the trade he follows, there is
enough of the gentleman in him for that. You see how it is, Monsieur
Jean Volran? Let Father Paul put his head out o' window and shout, and
there's an end to you and your four; with the townsfolk below and us
above, it's a choice of rope or steel. Swear that neither you nor any
of your four will molest us on the road, and, for aught I care, you may
all go to the devil."
"Or to Plessis," said Martin.
"I mean to Plessis; that is my use for him. Do you swear, Monsieur
Volran?"
For a moment he hesitated, glancing down the lower flight of stairs to
the hall below. That his four transformed scullions were waiting him
there, I knew, for they could not keep their clumsy feet quiet on the
flagging, and he was calculating chances.
"Be ready, Father," said I softly. "If he stirs even an inch upward,
shout Murder! Navarre to the rescue! Navarre! Navarre!"
But there was no need. With a snarl and a stamp of the foot he stepped
back to the landing.
"Do you think this ends it?" he cried, shaking both fists up at us, his
face all twisted with passion. "By God! No!"
"Do you swear, Monsieur Volran?"
"Swear?" he frothed. "What can I do but swear? Yes; Louis can pay
to-day's debt better than I can, and so I swear. Oh, what a payment
that will be! What a payment! What a payment! God send me there to
hear you curse the bribe that has bought to-day's treachery."
"No bribe," answered I a little huskily, for the venom of his
exultation shook my nerve more than any threat could have done. "But
tell the King this: Gaspard Hellewyl has failed to fulfil his mission,
and according to his oath returns to Plessis by the road of his
Majesty's choosing."
"To Plessis!" answered Volran incredulously. "Bah! Why add a lie to
treason? To Plessis!" and in his contempt he laughed.
But from behind, Brother Paul laid his hands upon my shoulders, drawing
me back into his embrace until I felt the throb of his heart.
"It is the gleam, my son; God be praised, who never leaves us in the
dark."
"It is my oath, Father; and you, Monsieur, do you carry your message to
the King."
For a moment Jean Volran stood watching me curiously; then he drew
himself up and raised his sword to the salute.
"Till we meet in Plessis, Monsieur."