CHAPTER XII
LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED
But having ended the sentence Commines broke off at the end as La Mothehad done in the middle, and with much the same embarrassment. Hisface, harsh and stern of feature both by nature and schooling, grewalmost tender as he turned aside troubled. To speak plainly to any manof honour and generous spirit, answering his own question in directwords, would have been difficult, but how much greater the difficultywhen the man was brother to that dear dead woman who had sunk to hersleep comforted by his promise of care and protection? "Watch overhim, Philip, for my sake." But into the memory of the tired voice hehad loved there clashed the King's harsh question so curtly asked inValmy, and torn by the conflict of the two natures warring within himCommines paced the room in silence. La Mothe was not the only man inAmboise who found his skill as a circus-rider tried to the utmost, andlike La Mothe Commines temporized.
"Who are we to judge the King?" He spoke harshly, even aggressively,and as if combating some undeveloped argument of La Mothe's. A burstof temper may not convince a man's own conscience, or quiet itsuneasiness, but it silences its voice for a time as declamation canalways silence pleading. "Who are we to question his justice or denyits right to strike? And it is as his arm of justice that you are herein Amboise."
"I?" And into La Mothe's mind, as he stood silent after the startledejaculation, there flooded significant, misunderstood hints dropped bythe King in Valmy, and by Commines himself on the road toChateau-Renaud, hints which had seemed to him meaningless in the memoryof the little coat of mail which was the secret gift of a father'slove. "I, the King's arm of justice? In God's name how can that be?"
"The days of Brutus have gone by," answered Commines, never ceasingfrom his restless pacing of the room. The motion eased the tension ofhis nervous distress and made speech less formal, less difficult."Treason is treason wherever found. You know its punishment, but thedays of Brutus are gone. The justice of the King, the justice of thefather, can no longer--no longer----" But even his restless pacingcould not give him power to clothe the grim thought in blunt words, andCommines was silent.
La Mothe's scornful indignation had no such reticence, nor had he yetlearned how to cloak the ugliness of a naked truth in the pleasanteuphemisms of diplomacy. With frank brutality he completed Commines'broken sentence.
"The father can no longer murder the son and call it justice. But,monsieur," and it was significant that the adoptive relationship wasunceremoniously swept aside, "what has the father's murder of the sonto do with me?"
"Treason is treason," repeated Commines, finding some comfort andstrength in the bald platitude: it was incontrovertible and at leastgave him firm ground under his feet. "Nor can treason go unpunished,or how would the throne be safe for a day? But what the father cannotdo, though a king, another can and must; and must," he reiterated,steeling himself with a rising emphasis for what was to follow. "Andyou have been chosen as the King's arm in Amboise."
This time there was no outburst of scorn or indignation. It was notthat the crisis was too deep for noisy declamation, though human naturediffers from organic in that it commonly meets its most grave crises inquietness. The truth was, simply, that La Mothe did not grasp the fullmeaning of the words.
"The King's arm in Amboise?" he said uncomprehendingly. "The King'sarm? What does that mean?" Then, by the very repetition of thephrase, enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his fingersclosing in upon his palms. "Not that! For God's sake, Monsieur deCommines, say it is not that! Not that the father---- Oh! it cannotbe, it cannot. Is it--is it murder?"
"Justice," replied Commines doggedly through his shut teeth. "Let uscall things by their proper names. I say justice, justice of----"
"Hell!" broke in La Mothe fiercely. "Justice is sacred, to GodAlmighty, and this--this---- Where is God's hand? Where is--? Oh,no, no, it is damnable, damnable!"
"Justice," repeated Commines, quoting Louis. "Not even the son of aking is above or beyond justice."
"Vicarious murder!" retorted La Mothe. "No smooth sophism can make itless. He would have another commit an iniquity he dare not commithimself. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? Never! God helpingme. I am to obey you, Monsieur de Commines; these were the King'sorders; but not in this, never in this, never, so help me God!"
"Listen, Stephen." Commines had fuller command of himself now andspoke more quickly, but also with more assumption of authority. "Putyourself in the King's place and consider the truth dispassionately."
"Consider dispassionately how a father can best kill his own son; yes,Uncle?"
But Commines took no umbrage at the crude sarcasm, a sarcasm aimed athimself and the King alike. He understood it as a sign that La Mothe'smind was recovering from the shock which had swung its balance awry.Five minutes earlier he would have declared that murder could never bedispassionate. That he would listen at all was something gained.
"The King is both more and less than father," Commines went on: "thatis to say, his responsibilities are greater than those of a simplecitizen, and his private rights in his son are less. He and theDauphin do not belong to themselves. France comes first. Do you admitthat France comes first?"
"God knows!" replied La Mothe moodily. The dying out of his first hotpassionate protest had left him fretful and desperate. He remembered,too, something the King had said about France being the mother of themall, and at the time he had agreed; nor could he quite see whereCommines' argument might lead. "There was a time when I thought rightwas eternally right, but now it seems a father may wipe out hisfatherhood in blood and be justified."
"France comes first," went on Commines, emphasizing the point which hesaw had weight. "The millions of lives in France come first. Could ason who plots against his father's life reign in France?"
"He is a child."
"In a year he will be old enough to reign: answer me, could such a sonreign?"
"Are there not prisons?"
"You do not answer my question. I ask again, could such a son reign?"
"I am answering it in my own way, and, I repeat, there are prisons."
"And would there not be conspiracies? Would France not be torn asunderin civil war? Would the blood of France not flow like water? Besensible, Stephen: am I not right?"
"I will never be the King's arm in Amboise, never, never. I wouldsooner ride back to Valmy and face the justice of the King. Thejustice of the King!" scoffed La Mothe, to ease his troubled soul."And in any case I shall return to Valmy; my word is passed."
Again Commines let the sarcasm levelled at the King's justice passunchallenged: it is never wise to block a safety-valve when a highpressure, whether of steam or of passion, is blowing itself off.
"These things being granted," he went on, "what course is the King tofollow? Is he to pardon the crime against the nation? for that is whatit is; is he to pass it over in silence and leave the criminal free toweave a second and perhaps successful conspiracy? The King dare not:for the nation's sake he dare not. What then? Is he to arrest and trythe prince by solemn course of law? I doubt if the Dauphin of Franceis not above the common law of France, but apart from that again theKing dare not. France would be rent from end to end, and her enemies,England, Spain, Burgundy, would swoop upon her and lay her waste, as inthe days before the coming of The Maid. I say again, the King darenot. What course is left? Nothing but the arm of justice, thatjustice which is Almighty God's, striking in secret, and so France issaved."
He ended, but La Mothe returned no answer. Not that he was convinced,no, not by a hairbreadth. But the sophism, and he knew it to be asophism, was too subtle for him, and his safest refuge was silence.And yet his inability to tear the sophism to tatters was not the solecause of the silence. Commines' last question, What is left? though amere flourish of rhetoric, had stirred another possible reply.Reconcilement was left, the union of father and son in love was left.Inexorable logic as voiced
by Commines, if it was logic at all and nota sophism, might coerce the King to a terrible justice, but would thefather's love not welcome the reconcilement of a son's penitence as away of escape from the ultimate horror of the logic? And surely thatlove must be a very tender, very yearning, very forgiving love wheneven in the midst of just anger it could bend to such gentle thoughtsas lay hidden in those gifts through the hand of a stranger. Surely,surely, surely. And so La Mothe kept silence.
"There may be no plot: there is no plot," he said at last, though inthe face of Commines' assertion he had little hope he was right; thenhe added, "and what of Mademoiselle de Vesc?"
"The greater includes the less," replied Commines shortly.
"What do you mean by that?"
"If the King may not spare his son can he spare the girl?"
"There is no plot," repeated La Mothe, more emphatically than before,"and I shall remain in Amboise." Crossing the room he knelt beside hissaddle-bags, opening and taking from them the package wrapped in alinen napkin which contained the King's gifts to the Dauphin. "Isuppose I must live upon my knapsack for the present, but this I shalltake with me. Is there anything more to be said?"
"Not for the present."
"Then good night."
The passage was plunged in the same quiet and as deep a gloom as whenhe had traversed it an hour before, and La Mothe plumed himself onregaining his room unseen. But had he paused and turned at the firstangle he would have seen the shadow which lay stretched in the deepershadows of the doorway stir itself, and Hugues' white face, a blur uponthe darkness, watching him. Beyond that door slept the Dauphin, andVillon was right when he said that the guards of Amboise were not pikesor cross-bows, but eyes that saw and hearts that loved.