CHAPTER XVI
TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST
"I told you at the first you were not going the right way about it."
"And you were wrong," answered La Mothe. "I am only ten days inAmboise, ten days which seem like so many hours, and already Charlestrusts me as he trusts Mademoiselle de Vesc."
Pushing out his loose-hung under lip Villon eyed his companionquizzically, but with a little pity through the banter. They werealone in the common room of the Chien Noir, and on the table by whichthey sat were two bottles of the famous '63 wine, one empty, the otherwith its tide at a low ebb, but La Mothe's horn mug was still unemptiedafter its first filling. With some men this would have been anoffence, but not with Francois Villon. "Good-fellowship is not in winebut in words, or surer still, in silence," he would say, "and anotherman's drinking neither warms my heart nor cools my thirst. Besides,there is the more left for the wiser man."
"Ten days of opportunity, and you are content that a boy trusts you!Lovers were not so coldly contented in the good old days of the Parispavements. Soul of the world! but there is no talk like Paris talk.La Mothe, you will never be a man till you hear it. Cling-clang go thefeet, and cling-clang sing the flags under them, cling-clang,cling-clang, and I'll never hear it again--never. Content, d'you say?I'll not believe it. I'll not think so little of you. The Good Godnever meant man to be content. How would the world move?"
"I'm winning what I came to Amboise to win."
"A snap of the finger," and Villon filliped his own noisily, "for whatyou came to Amboise to win. The garden grows more flowers thanfleurs-de-lis, and better worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? Ithink there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily----"
"No Paris jests, Villon."
"Trust Francois Villon! Jest?" His eyes twinkled humorously over theedge of his tilted horn cup as he finished the second bottle. "In alldivine creation there is nothing so solemn as the heart of youth in itsfirst love. It is the first, is it not, La Mothe? Gods of Olympus!was I ever as young as you? I think Paris aged me before I wasbreeched. But to go back to my garden. Do you dislike the simile--aMadonna lily?"
"The subject is distasteful."
"Mademoiselle de Vesc distasteful? Monsieur La Mothe, I apologize. Inall my Paris days I was never such a hypocrite as to make love to awoman who was distasteful. But then, is any woman distasteful if a manbe only in the right mood?"
"Villon, that is untrue------"
"My friend, I know my past better than you do. Distasteful? Pah! itis an ugly word."
"What you say of me is untrue. I honour Madedoiselle de Vesc----"
"Much she cares for that! 'No, thank you!' said the cat, when theygave her frozen milk. Honouring is cold love-making. And now you haveproved that you don't go the right way about it. 'Mademoiselle,'"; andVillon minced a melancholy falsetto, "'I respect you deeply;mademoiselle, I honour you humbly from a distance; you are the higheststar in the heavens, and I a worm of the earth! Permit me to kiss yourvenerated finger-tips.' Honour! Bah! get nearer to them, man; nearerto them; the closer the better; honour is too far off. Listen, now,while I teach you a better way."
"Thank you for nothing," said La Mothe drily, but unoffended. In theseten days he had learned which of Villon's jests were innocent ofintention to hurt, and which carried a poisoned barb. "Love may bebought in Paris, but not in Amboise."
"But it costs more," retorted Villon. "In Amboise it costs a man'swhole life, whereas in Paris," he paused, shrugged his shoulders,turned the drinking mug upside down and shook it whimsically,"emptiness ended all: emptiness of pocket, emptiness of--but there areseven separate emptinesses and any one was enough. Now listen and donot interrupt again. There be many ways of gathering peaches, but yourway of kneeling at the foot of the tree with your hands folded like asaint in stained glass is the worst of all. It is only in theory thatwomen, even lily Madonnas, love men to be saints; when it comes topractice----"
He broke off, chuckling the soft complacent chuckle La Mothe so greatlydisliked, and putting the empty mug to his nose drew in the perfume ofthe wine with a deep breath. The lids drooped slowly over his shiningeyes, and in the backward groping along the crooked byways which hadled from Paris pavements to the mercy of Louis by way of an escapedgallows he forgot both La Mothe and Amboise. The voice of Paris thebeloved, Paris the ever mourned for, was in his ears; the jargon of theRue Maubert, the tinkle of the glasses through the doubtful but merrysongs of the Pet du Deable, whispers of gay voices which had longpassed beyond these voices, and the leering face, part satyr and partpoet, grew wholly poet in its remembrance. It is the blessing ofnature, and one of its most divine gifts, that memory brings back thebest from the past and leaves the worst covered. Even our snows ofyester year are roseate with the glow of imagination.
"The Madonna lily! Blessed is the man who gathers one and finds warmblood in its pure veins. The gift of a good woman who loves and isloved. Aye, aye, God send us all heaven while we're young. TheMadonna lily! Once there was such a one in the garden of life, pure,sweet, and beloved. But the perfume was not for Francois Villon, andthe swine in him turned to the husks of the trough. Catherine deVaucelles; Catherine, dead these many years, dead but never forgotten,a saint with the saints of God, and the rest--damned." He spoke tohimself rather than to La Mothe, but after a little spell of silence helooked up, gravely in earnest. "You go too slowly. Any day the Kingmay crook his finger. What if he calls you to Valmy, then sends youGod knows where, God knows for how long, and you return to Amboise tofind some one else has gathered your lily while you lagged? That wouldbe a chilly winter in the garden of life where you left young spring."
La Mothe sat silent. What reply was possible? That the advice waswell meant he knew, but he had never before realized that a peremptoryrecall might come any moment from Valmy. And it was not impossible.Louis, aged and ailing, spurred, too, by the desire for the comfort ofhis son's love while life was still good to the taste, would beimpatient of delay. These ten days which had passed with the swiftnessof a summer's morning would be long as a wintry month to the lonelyfather. But to the devout lover, in him haste savoured of presumption.Ursula de Vesc was his good friend and comrade; could he hope for morethan that in so short a time? In making haste might he not lose all hehad gained? Besides, in the service and worship of the one dear womanin the world, a man is his own High Priest, and none save himself mayenter into the Holy of Holies. And what could this peach-picker ofParis pavements know of such a Holy of Holies? Nothing, absolutelynothing. So he sat silent, doubly tongue-tied by doubt and reverence.
But for these, Villon, who read his face with disconcerting ease, hadno great respect.
"Eh!" he said briskly, "is the advice good?"
"Is good advice easy to follow?"
"Yes, when it is palatable, which is not often: commonly it has abitter taste in the swallowing. Or do you think it will be all thesame fifty years hence? By all the Muses, there's an idea! I mustwrite the 'Ballad of Fifty Years to Come.' Let me see--let me see--'myes, the first verse might run like this:
"Where is La Mothe, that lover gay, Or Francois Villon, poet splendid! Madonna of the eyes of grey, Or Charles whom Bertrand nearly ended? D'Argenton, are his manners mended? Or wisest Louis, swift to pardon Though so grievously offended? Ask of the Scents of Amboise garden!
"There!" and he drummed the empty mug on the flat of the table in mockapplause which was not all unreal, "what do you think of that for thefirst draft? It does justice to me and to you, chronicles littleCharles' escape, kicks your Monsieur d'Argenton in passing, and takesoff its hat to the King all in a breath."
"Tear it up," answered La Mothe. "Will the King thank you for hintinghe will be dead and forgotten fifty years hence? When you speak ofLouis, you should always say, 'O King, live for ever!'"
The drumming ceased, the gay laugh died out of Villon's eyes, and hesat ruefully silent. To hint at death to Louis, even
remotely, was anunpardonable sin.
"You are right," he said at last, and said it with a sigh. "All thesame, the idea is a good one, and ideas are scarcer than poetry andalways will be. I have heard your verses, my young friend. Here isSaxe. Saxe, have you brought that third bottle? To drink less thanhis average is a crime against a man's thirst."
But Saxe was empty-handed.
"Monsieur de Commines desires speech with Monsieur La Mothe in theChateau garden."
"Monsieur de Commines? Bah! Go and be birched," said Villonpeevishly. The failure of his ballad had vexed him, and he was readyto vent his spleen on what lay nearest. "You deserve it for yourmilk-and-water love-me-a-little-to-morrow. Had it been the old Parisdays the Madonna lily would have said 'Come!' to Francois Villon inless than a week."
"Paris flowers do not grow in Amboise garden," answered La Mothe, andadded "Thank God!" in his heart.
Commines was standing at the entrance to an arch of roses which,pergola fashion, covered a sunny walk. On three sides rose theChateau, grey and sullen, on the fourth was an enclosing wall. Inshaded corners a few belated gillyflowers, straggling and overgrown,filled the air with perfume, but La Mothe's gaze was caught by a groupof Madonna lilies, slim and graceful, rising from a bed of purplefleurs-de-lis, their ivory buds new opened, and the recollection ofVillon's comparison thrilled his imagination with its aptness. Gracefor grace, beauty for beauty, in fulfilment and promise, they wereUrsula de Vesc herself.
But almost with his first sentence Commines proved that Villon hadshrewd forethought as well as a poet's eye for a fitting simile.
"If it is not Mademoiselle de Vesc it is Francois Villon; if it is notphilandering it is wine-bibbing," he said harshly. "Stephen, the Kingthinks you are wasting your time in Amboise and I think so too. Whathave you discovered in your ten days?"
"All that there is to learn, Uncle."
"I see. That Ursula de Vesc has a pretty face? Stephen, Stephen, youare not in Amboise to play the fool."
La Mothe flushed and was about to answer angrily, but remembering thatCommines spoke for the King rather than for himself he restrained hisimpatience.
"Uncle, is that just?"
"Well, what have you discovered?"
"That there is no such vile scheme as the King imagines."
"Can you prove that?"
"To me there is proof. Ten days ago, when the boy thanked me forpulling him off Bertrand's back, he as much as said he had nothing topay me with. Now if this lie of a plot against the King were thetruth, would not a self-willed boy like the Dauphin, boastful as boysare, proud and galled by the debt he thought he owed me, have hintedthat the day would come when he could pay in full, and sooner than someexpected? He surely would. His pride would have run away with hisdiscretion. Besides, Uncle, what have you discovered in your ten days?"
But Commines returned no answer, and to La Mothe his gloomy face wasinscrutable. He knew his master; knew, without being told in so manywords, that it was the King's purpose to set Charles aside; knew thatthe King believed justification for such a course was to be found atAmboise; knew above all, knew with the knowledge of other men's bitterexperience, that there were no thanks for the man who failed, eventhough that failure proved a son innocent of crime against a father.It was not innocence the King desired but guilt.
And yet, now that La Mothe had brought him face to face with thequestion, what had he discovered? Little or nothing. Using all thearts and artifices which ten years' service under such a master ofsubtle craftiness as the eleventh Louis had taught him, he had cajoledand bribed, probed and sifted, even covertly threatened at times. Butall to no purpose. An indignant sarcasm from Ursula de Vesc, apolitic--and wise--regret for the estrangement from La Follette, apetulant outburst from Charles, childish and pathetically cynical byturns, the vague whispers inseparable from such a household as wasgathered together in Amboise were all his reward. But the Kingdemanded proof; the King demanded articles of conviction which would,if necessary, satisfy an incredulous world that the terrible tragedywhich followed proof was the justice of the highest law.
"Disaffection is everywhere," he said at last; "disloyalty which onlylacks the spur of opportunity to drive desire into action. If thesethings are on the surface, worse lies hidden. You know the proverb ofSmoke and Fire? I see the fire laid, I smell the smoke: it was for youto find the spark, you who have had a free hand in Amboise. But youplay nonsense games with Charles, hanging upon the skirts of theunscrupulous woman who tutors him to revolt, or drink in taverns with ascurrilous thief turned spy to save his neck from a deserved hanging.Do you think you serve the King by philandering in a rose garden, orplaying at French and English in the Burnt Mill? Francois Villon!Ursula de Vesc! Stephen, you make yourself too much one with them--anunhung footpad who prostitutes the powers of mind God gave him to thedevil's use, and a woman----"
"Uncle, if even your father had spoken evil of Suzanne would you havelistened to him?"
"Suzanne? What has Suzanne in common with Ursula de Vesc?"
"Only that I love her as you loved Suzanne," answered La Mothe.
"Ursula de Vesc? Stephen, at the least she is the King's enemy."
"Yes, he told me so himself."
"And at the worst----"
"There is no worst," said La Mothe doggedly. "There is no plot againstthe King, no plot at all."
"And your proof is that when a clever woman bade a boy control histongue he obeyed her! Will that convince Louis? Would it convinceyourself but for this calf-love of yours? Stephen, Stephen, you do notknow the gulf on which you stand. What answer am I to return to theKing?"
"Uncle, is it my fault that I am living a lie in Amboise?"
"Grey Roland changed all that for you ten days ago. There was the gamein your hands, and you threw it away! A touch of the heel, a singletwitch of the bridle--there, there, say nothing: perhaps at your age Iwould have had the same scruples. But what answer am I to return tothe King?"
"That I will do all he bade me; do it with all my heart to the veryletter," answered La Mothe. And with that Commines had to be content.
"You go too slow," said Villon. "You go too fast," said Commines.Between such cross fires what was a poor lover to do? There was once,La Mothe remembered, a man who had an only son and an ass. But theproblem is older than the imagination of any fabulist, and as new asthe newest day in the world. "Thou shalt die," said the Lord God."Thou shalt not surely die," said the devil.
"I will take my own way," he said. "It is my life I have to live, nottheirs." And that afternoon came his opportunity to prove that a manknows best how his own life should be shaped.