CHAPTER XI
THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS
Two or three adroit questions addressed to the servant who showed himto his sleeping-quarters gave La Mothe a sufficient clue to thewhereabouts of Commines' lodgings. That they were in the same block ofbuildings as his own, and on the same level, made it comparatively easyto find them. But the Chateau must first settle into sleep, and he hadan hour or two to wait before he could safely go in search of themunobserved. In the angry mood which swayed him the delay wasfortunate. For the first time in his life his temper was exasperatedagainst the man to whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of hisknapsack and lute, sent from the Chien Noir, lessen the irritation.Few things feed the flame of a man's anger as do his own faults, and inevery string of the unlucky toy--for it was little more--he saw a sharpreminder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness left byCommines.
What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle de Vesc as this deVesc girl, as if she was some lumpish wench of the kitchen instead of asweet and gracious woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, andyet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe strode up and downthe room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles;that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in hertenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in herlove. From which it will be seen that the Cupid's bow had sent itsshaft very deep indeed, and Commines by his contemptuous phrase had butdriven it more surely home.
There be those who say love dethrones reason, but observe with whatadmirable logic, what cogency of deduction Stephen La Mothe could argueupon Commines' incapacity for judgment--thus. He had misjudged Ursulade Vesc, why not also Villon? If there had been this undeservedprejudice against an innocent and helpless girl, was not his contemptfor Villon equally unjustified? How, in fact, could such a man asPhilip de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world and of theworld's affairs, understand or appreciate Villon the poet, Villon whohad lifted the whole literature and poetry of France to the highestlevel it had yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous,unthinkable, the one as great a blunder as the other. So Stephen LaMothe gilded his gold, painting his lily lover-fashion time out ofmind, and whitewashed into a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchingswith which Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself.
With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found the outer passageintensely dark. Its only illumination came from the narrow lancetwindows through which the moonlight streamed so whitely that the restof the gallery was yet blacker and more hidden by the contrast.Beyond, at the end, was a deeper pool of darkness which he knew was thearched entrance to the main body of the Chateau, his own lodgings beingin a projecting wing bounded on the one side by a wide court. A fewsteps beyond this archway a narrow corridor cut the passageway, openingup three lanes of shadow. These were lit to a bare visibility by asmany tiny lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings, mere specks of pointsof light too small to flicker, and such as all night long hang beforethe high altar of a church, symbols of changeless faith burningunquenched even in the deepest darkness of the night of the world.
Turning to the left, his hand upon the wall for guidance, La Mothecrept softly on until a further passage opened to his right. Down thishe stole, breathing uneasily as men do who walk warily in the dark,intent to keep their presence secret. From the roof depended the sameinadequate light, but at the farther end was a hazy blur which markedthe head of the stairs, and across the floor luminous shadows driftedhere and there from under doorways where the lamp still burned withinthe chamber. One of these chambers La Mothe knew was allotted toCommines, and as he scanned the flagged floor of the passage, searchingfor the sign Commines had given him, a shadow amongst the shadowsstirred his curiosity, and he stole nearer on tiptoe: it was a mattresslaid before a closed door, and stretched upon it lay a man wrapped in ablanket.
Holding his breath, La Mothe paused, listening intently. Though he hadresented Commines' brusque reference to Mademoiselle de Vesc, thewisdom of caution was obvious, and he knew the value of secrecy toowell to venture an unnecessary risk. But the figure neither moved norchanged its regular deep breathing, and La Mothe slipped pastnoiselessly, seeking anew for the promised signal. And midway to thewell of the stairs, where faint murmurings told of sleepless life evenin ill-lit, ill-guarded Amboise, he found it--a nebulous dusky cross,broader than long, stretching its shadowy arms upon the flags, and athis first low tap on the panel the door was softly opened and as softlyclosed behind him.
"Are you sure no one saw you?"
"No one. But, Uncle, this playing at thief in the night isintolerable. It will be very much better to say quite plainly toMademoiselle de Vesc----"
"Stephen, Stephen!" and as he spoke Commines, who had been stoopingover his signal, a tiny paper cross pinned against the foot of the doorso that it blocked the flow of light from the lamp laid on the floorbehind, lifted himself and laid his hand strongly on La Mothe'sshoulder. "Do you know why you are in Amboise at all? Do you know itis to convict this very Ursula de Vesc of complicity in a plot tomurder the King and place the Dauphin on the throne, and that the Kingbelieves the Dauphin is privy to the scheme? And do you know what partyou are to play?"
Commines spoke in the anxious remonstrance of affection rather than inanger. There was no censure in the tone, no reproof, a pleadingrather: but when the irritation of offence is raw it resentsexpostulation and rebuke alike: they are just so much salt to thewound. So was it now with La Mothe.
"It is we who conspire," he answered angrily, "we who call ourselvesmen and yet creep about a sleeping house to meet by stealth in thedark. And against whom? Against a weak girl, a weak, defenceless girlwhose one offence is that her love is loyal to a boy as helpless asherself. A brave conspiracy truly, brave, worthy, and honourable! Yousaw her to-night, how she faced us for his sake, unafraid and yet verysorely afraid because she is so womanly through her courage. A girland a half-grown boy! And we call ourselves men."
"Why do you say 'we'? Me she knows and Villon she knows, but not you."
"Some day she will, my hope is some day she will: pray God I be notashamed to look her in the face when that day comes."
"Stephen, Stephen, what has changed you? Have you grown mad or is thisthat drunkenness?"
"I don't know, I only know it is something new. And if it is thatdrunkenness as you call it, then may I never be sober again my lifelong."
"Listen," and this time Commines' voice was stern to harshness. Thetime for pleading, or even remonstrance, had gone by. A more vigorousschooling was needed if Stephen La Mothe was to be saved from folly."If you must go girl-drunken as every sentimental boy does sooner orlater, do not go blind-drunk or sense-drunk, but keep your eyes openand your mind clear. Mademoiselle de Vesc may be blameless or she maynot: that is what we are here to prove. You call her weak, but thegreatest folly of a foolish man is to despise weakness. Contempt ofweakness has lost more battles than strength of arms has won. Charlesthe Bold despised the weakness of the Swiss, and the devotion of theweak Swiss crushed him. Weak, you say? Love is never weak. Fiftyyears ago a weak girl saved France because of her great love forFrance, and to-day another just as weak might ruin France throughanother great love. Never despise the power of love nor call it weakeven in the weakest. If faith can remove mountains, love is greaterthan faith, and of mademoiselle's devotion to the Dauphin I have nodoubt."
"Who has the better claim upon it?" answered La Mothe sullenly.
"Granted, but that is not the point. And what if the devotion ismisdirected? It is a quality of love that it only sees the lights inthe jewels and not the flaws. If love saw all the flaws in us it wouldhardly be love. What if Mademoiselle de Vesc, seeing the boyneglected--and I grant the neglect,--seeing him unhappy--and I grantthe unhappiness,--seeing him denied his high position--and I grant thedenial while I assert that the King, who is a wise king, must have wisereasons I do not understand; what if Mademoiselle de Vesc, I say,seeing all these t
hings and understanding the reasons for them aslittle as I do, seeing no deeper than her devotion and knowing nothingof the King's wise reasons, were moved by this same devotion to somedesperate effort which would right this wrong at any cost? Supposingthat were so, what would hold her back? Fear? She is no coward, andthere is no such courage on God's earth as the courage of a lovingwoman. Weakness? Love is strong as death and stronger, for lovebuilds up where death can only destroy. The crime? In her eyes thecrime lies in the unhappiness and neglect of Amboise, and to right thewrong by any means, however desperate, would be no offence before Godor man. What would hold her back? I ask you. Nothing, nothing atall."
"Granted," said La Mothe, impressed in spite of himself and fallingback upon the last resort of baffled argument. "It is all veryplausible, but I do not believe it all the same."
"Because you are drunken," retorted Commines, "and because, too, thereare none so blind as those who will not see. But supposing I am right,is not the King justified, and are not we, the King's servants,justified too? And is the Dauphin such a fool as to be blind to thisdevotion, he who has known so little love in his life? Stephen, if theKing is right and Mademoiselle de Vesc's love has overcome both fearand weakness, he is right, too, when he links Charles with her in herabominable plot."
"But why has he sent----" La Mothe broke off lamely, remembering intime that he had no right to say to Commines, Why has he sent such amessage of a father's love as lies in those saddle-bags I see in thecorner? Very naturally Commines misunderstood the interrupted sentence.
"Why has he sent you to Amboise?"