CHAPTER IV
THE JUSTICE OF THE KING
As Commines crossed the courtyard to his lodgings his face was puckeredwith anxious thought. Many a time he had fished for his master inwaters both foul and troubled, but always he had known the prey heangled for. Now, and he shook his head like a man who argues againsthis doubts, but with little hope of compelling conviction, he was notsure. Or was it that he was afraid to be sure? Was he afraid to saybluntly out, even in the secret of his own mind, the King desires thedeath of the Dauphin and for good cause?
That there might well be cause, that there might well be a sinisterupheaval against the King with the Dauphin as its rallying centre hecould easily believe, even without the evidence of the despatch.France had never yet known such a nation-builder as Louis. Hisquarries had lain north, south, and east. In his twenty-two years uponthe throne he had added to the crown Artois, Burgundy, the northernparts of Picardy, Anjou, Franche-Comte, Provence, and Roussillon. Tosecure such a wholesale aggrandizement he had been unscrupulous inchicanery, sleepless in his aggression, ruthless to the extremest vergeof cruelty; no treaty had been too solemn to tear up, no oath toosacred for violation, no act of blood too pitiless.
With Louis the one sole question had ever been, Does it advantageFrance? If it did, then his hand struck or his cunning filched,careless of right or privileges. As he had said, and said truly,France came first. It was his one justification for the unjustifiable.No! Never such a nation-builder and never a man so feared and hatedfor valid cause. He was the King of the greatest, the most powerfulFrance Europe had ever known, but it was a miserable France, a Franceseething with wretchedness, with discontent, and each hour he went interror for his life. Only a few, such as Commines himself, couldforesee how great would one day be the power of these weak,antagonistic states he had so ruthlessly welded into one. For therest, France was so full of unhappiness and dread that the Dauphinmight well be the centre of a plot, a plot to murder the father in theson's name for the relief of the nation. But was the Dauphin himselfconcerned in the plot, or had he that knowledge which, prince though hewas, laid him open to the penalty for blood-guiltiness? These were thequestions which troubled Commines.
Clearly--and as he followed his train of thought he turned aside, hishands locked behind him, his head bowed, and walked up and down in theshadow flung by the gloomy range of buildings which cut the courtyardinto two halves--clearly the King had no doubt: clearly the despatchhad left no room for doubt. Or else--the thought was contemptible, butit refused to be thrust aside--the King wished to have no room fordoubt. The frown deepened on Commines' face as he remembered how oftenthe King's wishes had been master of the truth.
But could any father be cursed with such a terrible wish? Yes, whenthe father was that complex, unhappy man, Louis of France. Comminesknew the King as no man else knew him, and in the gloomy depths of thatknowledge he found two reasons why the father would have no sorrow forthe death of the son. It was characteristic of Louis to hate and dreadhis natural successor, nor did his distrustful fears pause to considerthat if the Dauphin was swept aside Charles of Orleans would stand inhis son's place. When that day came he would hate and dread Charles ashis suspicious soul now hated and dreaded the Dauphin.
The other reason he had himself unveiled to Commines, no doubt with aset purpose. Behind the King's most trivial act there was always a setpurpose. In a boy's feeble hands, a puppet as he had called him, aking in legal age and yet a child in years and ignorance, this greatFrance he had built up so laboriously would crumble into ruin. Louiswas a statesman first and a father afterwards. So Commines must go toAmboise, must sift, search, find--but especially find. Find what? Hisquestion had been answered--find and prove the boy's guilty knowledge.But having found, having proved that the King's fears were terriblyjustified, what then? The answer to that question touched the hopes ofhis ambition. Upon most men death steals unawares, but for Louis theedge of the grave crumbled in the sight of all who served him, nor,when the end came, would it linger in the coming. Supposing deathstruck down the King while he, Commines, was still at Amboise, finding?What then? The opportunist in Commines was vigilantly awake, that nicesense which discriminates the rising power and clings to its skirts.The Dauphin would be King of France. For the third time he askedhimself, What then?
It was a relief to his perplexity that a cheery full-noted whistlebroke across the question, a whistle which from time to time slippedinto a song whose words Commines could hear in part:
"Heigh-ho! Love's but a pain, Love's but a bitter-sweet, lasts an hour: Heigh-ho! Sunshine and rain! If it's so brief whence comes love's power? Wherefore go clearly, Sweetly and dearly--"
and the song ran again into a whistle.
At the sound the gravity faded from Commines' face and the coarse setmouth grew almost tender. It was Stephen La Mothe: and whatever thewords might be, the lad surely knew little of love when he so lightlymarred his own sentiment. A lover sighing for his mistress would havesighed less blithesomely and to the very end of his plaint. Presentlythe voice rose afresh:
"Heigh-ho! where dost thou hide, Love, that I seek for thee, high and low? Heigh-ho! world, thou art wide, Heat of the summer and cold of the snow. April so smiling, June so beguiling, Let us forget, love, that winter's storms blow."
Entering the narrow hall, lit only from the courtyard and with amuch-shadowed stairway rising from the further end, Commines pushedopen a door on his right, fastening it behind him as he entered.
"Stephen, Stephen, what do you know of June and December, love'ssunshine and the cold of the snow?" he said railingly.
"Nothing at all, Uncle, and just as much as I want to know," was theanswer. "But a song must have a theme or there'd be no song."
"And you think love is a better theme than the text you hold on yourknee."
"Yes: for a song. If it was a tale, now, or an epic, it would be adifferent matter. But they are beyond me, both of them. Do you think,Uncle," and La Mothe turned over the arquebuse Commines had pointed atin jest as it lay on his lap, "this will ever be better than a curioustoy? I think it is quite useless. By the time you could prime ithere, set your tinder burning and touch it off there, I would have mysword through you six times over."
"Charles the Rash found it no toy in the hands of the Swiss at Morat,"replied Commines. "But toy or no toy, put it aside while I talk toyou. Stephen, my son, I fear I have done you an ill turn to-day."
"Then it is the first of your life," answered La Mothe cheerily, as hestood the weapon upright in the angle of the wall. "It would need agood many ill turns to set the balance even between us, Uncle Philip."
"No. One thoughtless act which cannot be recalled or undone mayoutweigh a life. And so with this. Stephen, I have commended you tothe King for service."
La Mothe leaped to his feet, laying his hands on Commines' shouldersimpulsively, one upon each. And if proof were needed of the relationsbetween these two, it would be found in the spontaneous frankness ofthe gesture: Philip de Commines was not a man with whom to takeliberties, but there stood La Mothe almost rocking the elder man in thefullness of his satisfaction.
"At last," he cried. "I have been eating my heart out for this for aweek past! And you call that an ill turn?"
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" and Commines, smiling through his gravity,followed the other's gesture so that the two stood face to face, lockedthe one to the other at arm's length.
How like the lad was to Suzanne: a man's strong likeness of a woman'ssweet face. There were the same clear expressive eyes, ready to lightwith laughter or darken with sympathy; the same sensitive firm mouthand squared chin, fuller and stronger as became a man and yet Suzanne'sin steadfastness to the life; the same broad forehead and arched brows;the same unconscious trick of flushing in moments of excitement. Eventhe colour of the hair was the same, with the curious ruddy copper tintrunning through the brown in certain lights.
br /> Yes; it was Suzanne's self, Suzanne whom he had loved as he had neverloved Helene de Chambes, his wife these nine years past! Suzanne whomhe still loved with that reverence which belongs alone to the gentledead: Suzanne for whom even now his spirit cried out in these raremoments when it broke through the cynical, selfish crust which hadhardened upon him since Suzanne died. So for Suzanne's sake he calledStephen his son, though there was no such difference in age, nor anydrop of blood relationship.
"Do you know," he went on, gravely tender in the memory of the deadwoman, "that a king's service brings with it a king's risks?"
"And did Monsieur de Perche call me coward when he wrote to you?"
"No; he said many things which it were better a boy should not knowwere said. Conceit is only too ready to take youth by the arm."
"And am I such a boy? Surely four-and-twenty----"
"Are you so old? It always comes as an astonishment when those we loveare no longer children. It is then we realize how the years havepassed."
"So old, Uncle. Four-and-twenty is no boy."
"A man in years, a boy at heart. Be a boy at heart as long as you can,Stephen, for so will you keep your conscience clean before God. Andyet what use has the King for a boy's service?"
"Teach the boy to be a man in thought that he may find a use forhimself, Uncle; and who can do that so well as you?"
Commines let his hands fall to his sides and turned away, pacing theroom with short strides. His man's thoughts were not always such as hewould care to teach Stephen La Mothe.
"To the King's service every man must bring his own thought."
"And did Monsieur de Perche call me fool when he wrote to you?"
"No: but the little things of Marbahan are poor training for thegreater things of Valmy, of Blois, of Plessis, of Amboise, of Paris."
"But truth and faithfulness and courage are the same everywhere, andwhether at Marbahan or Valmy a man can but serve God and the King withthe best wits God has given him, and that I'll do."
"Aye!" said Commines drily, "but what of that Heigh-ho song of yours?When love knocks on one door the service of the King may get bundledout of the other."
Stephen La Mothe laughed a hearty, wholesome laugh, pleasant to hear.There was nothing of self-consciousness in it, and no protest couldhave more clearly proved that the mental comment of Commines'shrewdness had read the broken melody aright.
"That is easily settled. All His Majesty has to do is to find me awife of seven thousand crowns a year with two or three little additionsto give salt to their spending. Item, eyes which see straight; item, amouth that's sweet for kissing; item, a temper as sweet as the mouth;item, a proper appreciation of my great merit. But, Uncle, what is theservice?"
"That the King will tell you himself. And, lad, when kings talk it isa simple man's duty to listen and obey. Stephen, whatever the servicemay be, do it."
"Gratefully and faithfully, Uncle. Anything my honour----"
"Honour? God's name, boy, the King's honour is your honour: the King'sservice, no matter what it may be, is your honour. Are you, amilk-child from Marbahan, knowing nothing of the ways of men, to talkof your honour to the King?"
"Yes, but Uncle, Monsieur de Perche taught me----"
"Monsieur de Perche? Monsieur de Perche taught you many admirabletruths, I don't doubt. That he might so teach you I placed you in hishousehold seven years ago. Monsieur de Perche has taught you the useof arms, and that courtesy which next to arms goes to the making of aman. But what can a simple gentleman in the wilds of Poitou know of aking's service? and above all, of such a King? His little householdwith its round of petty thought was his great world, and a trial ofhawks an event to be talked of for a week; but all France is thehousehold of the King, and beyond the borders the eagles of Europe arepoised to harry us. But while he lives they are afraid to swoop.While he lives, yes, while he lives."
"But after him comes the Dauphin?"
"A child! a puling, weakling, feeble child. Stephen, as king theDauphin spells disaster."
"He will have you to guide him, Uncle, and under you----"
But Commines silenced him with a gesture full of angry denial.Unconsciously La Mothe had put his finger on a rankling sore.
"With the Dauphin king my career ends!" he said harshly. "He and thosearound him hate me as they hate his father: hate me because I amfaithful to the father. And yet, Stephen, I have sometimesthought--this is for you alone--it might be that if in some crisis ofhis life I served the Dauphin as I served his father--but no! no! no!Even then it is doubtful, worse than doubtful. If Charles of Orleanswere king it would be different. He is no child and old enough to begrateful. Always remember, Stephen, that a child is never grateful; itforgets too soon."
"And I am a grown man, Uncle, and so never can forget."
"I know, my son," and Commines' stern eyes softened. "I told the Kingyou were faithful, and already he trusts you as I trust you," which wasrather an overstatement of the case, seeing that Louis trusted no man,not even Commines' self. "To-morrow you are to see him."
"Then I hope his service, no matter what it is, will take me out ofValmy."
"Why?"
For a moment La Mothe hesitated. The thought in his mind seemed atvariance with his assertions of maturity and manhood, but he spoke itwith characteristic frankness.
"Valmy frightens me."
"Why?" repeated Commines.
"Because of its silences, its coldness, its inhumanity--no, notinhumanity, its inhumanness. In Valmy no man sings; in Valmy few menlaugh. When they speak they say little and their eyes are alwaysafraid. And they are afraid; I see it, and I am growing afraid too."
"But half an hour ago you were singing?"
"But I am only nine days in Valmy. And sometimes when I sing Iremember where I am and stop suddenly. It is as indecent as if onesang in the house of the dead. Soon I shall always remember and notsing at all. And I do not wonder that few men laugh."
"Why?" asked Commines for the third time. This was a new side toStephen La Mothe and one that in the King's service--not forgetting hisown--should not be ignored. Often in his career he had seen awell-laid plan miscarry because some seeming triviality was ignored.Was it not one of Louis' aphorisms that life held nothing reallytrivial?
"Because it is a house of the living dead."
"For God's sake, Stephen, hush. If the King heard you speak of hisfeebleness in such a way there would be a sudden end to both you andyour service."
"The King? But I don't mean the King. I mean----" He paused as ifsearching for a comprehensive word or phrase, and presently he foundit. "I mean the justice of the King."
"Well?" Commines' throat seemed suddenly to have gone dry, so that theword came harshly. Within the hour the King had used the same phrase,and the coincidence startled him unpleasantly.
But La Mothe made no immediate reply. To answer the little jerked-cutdry interrogatory in concise words was not easy. He knew his ownmeaning clearly enough, but how was he to make it equally clear toCommines, who was plainly unsympathetic? When at last he spoke it waswith a hesitation which was almost an apology.
"As I passed through Thouars on my way from Poitou--you know Thouars,Uncle?"
"Yes; go on."
"Then you know its market-place with the little shops all round and thechurch of St. Laon to the side: a cobble-paved space where the childrenplay? At the one end there was a ring of black and white ashes withthe heat still in them, and in the middle a Thing which hung by chainsfrom an iron stake. It had been a man that morning, but there it hungby the spine with the chains through its ribs; a man no more, onlyblackened bones and little crisped horrors here or there. Round it twoor three score, white-faced women and children mostly, stood and gaped,or talked in whispers, pointing. Presently the little children willplay there, and shout and sing and laugh, and the women gossip or buyand sell."
"A coiner," said Commines. "The King must see that the silver is fullweigh
t."
"Yes, Uncle: but I have heard that sometimes the King himself hascoined----"
"Hush, boy: the King is King."
"Then at Tours, as I rode through the Rue des Trois Pucelles, there wasa house with a fine bold front. One would say that a man with the soulof an artist lived in it. There were brave carvings on the stout oakdoor, carvings on the stone divisions of its five windows, strong ironbars of very choice smith-work, twisted and hammered, to keep thecommon folk from tumbling into the cellars, and in the peaked roof offair white plaster were driven great nails from which hung fags ofrope, and from one something which was no rope, but a poor wisp ofhumanity staring horribly aslant above a broken neck."
"Yes," said Commines, "Tristan's house. He is the King'sProvost-Marshal and--and----"
"Yes, I know, Uncle. He carries out the justice of the King. But tohang a fellow-Christian over one's own hall-door is a strange taste."
"Stephen, take my advice and have naught to do with Tristan by word ordeed. And no doubt the fellow deserved his hanging."
"That he may have naught to do with me is my hope," answered La Mothe,with a little laugh which had no humour in it. "And as to deserts, hedrank overmuch and beat the watch. Truly a vicious rascal! God sendus all sober to bed, Uncle, and may a sudden end find nothing worse onour conscience than a dizzy brain. But that's not all. Midway betweenthe castle and the Loire stands the Valmy gibbet, fair set in thesunshine and for all to see: and as I rode past there were two hungfrom it; two hang from it still, but they are not the same two."
"Thieves," said Commines. "Would you have the roads unsafe?"
"One of to-day's couple is a boy of twelve--unripe fruit for such atree, Uncle, and a fearsome danger to the peace of France. Tristandoes well to keep the roads safe from such swaggerers. Twelve years oflife, twelve years of a pinched stomach, and--the justice of the Kingto end it all! And what of the woman who gathered nettles for the potfrom the river-bank? The archers shouted to her, but she was hungry,poor starved soul, and gathered on, bent to all-fours like a beast.Then they shot her--like a beast. Down she went with an arrow throughthe bent back; a woman, Uncle."
"She should have hearkened and kept away," said Commines. "Neither mannor woman may come near Valmy without permission when the King is here."
"She should have hearkened," echoed La Mothe. "But the Good God hadsealed her ears; she was deaf as a stone and so for the justice of theKing she died. Then three days ago it was Guy de Molembrais, who cameto Valmy--so 'tis said--with the King's safe-conduct."
"Molembrais lost his head as a traitor," answered Commines roughly.
"And the safe-conduct?"
"The safe-conduct was given before Molembrais' treason was fullyproved."
"Then it is the King's justice to lure suspects----"
"There can be no faith with traitors. Did the safe-conduct make histreason less? Do you not see," he went on, as La Mothe made no reply,"that Molembrais got no more than his deserts?"
"Like the brawler in Tours," said the lad whimsically. "PerhapsTristan gave him a safe-conduct too, and the fool got drunk. And if wehave good, warm blood in us we all get drunk sooner or later. Yes, andplease God my time will come, but may the Saints send me far fromValmy! You think I'm talking nonsense, Uncle; but Monsieur de Perchealways let me talk. He said it was better to let blow at the bung thanburst the cask."
"You drunk!" answered Commines jestingly. La Mothe had been on verydangerous ground and a change of subject was an unspeakable relief."Why, except the King, no man in Valmy drinks less wine."
"Wine-drunk? Am I a beast, Uncle, that you should say such a thing?No, not wine-drunk. Love-drunk, war-drunk, fighting-drunk. To feelthe nerves tingle, the blood run hot, the heart go throbbing mad! tofeel a glorious exultation quiver through you like--yes, Uncle, I knowI'm a fool, but it's not so long since you were young yourself."
"Nor am I so old yet, Stephen boy. When that day of your drunkennesscomes there will either be a very happy woman or a sorrowful man."
"Yes, Uncle, if only the King gives me a safe-conduct----"
"The King requires the attendance of Monsieur Stephen La Mothe withoutdelay."
With a start like the cringe of a nervous woman suddenly frightened,Commines, the man of iron nerves, turned to the door, the colourrushing in a flood to his face. Neither had heard its latch click norseen it open, but the broad figure of a burly man was massed in thegloom against the greater light from the outer entrance. A passingtorch, flaring up the hall-way from behind, showed him draped fromthroat to ankle in some self-coloured, russet-red, woollen stuff whichcaught the glare, and outlined him for the moment as with sweepingcurves of blood. To La Mothe he was a stranger, but from the little hecould see of the shaven face, at once harsh and fleshly sensual, hejudged him to be nearly twenty years older than Commines.
"You--Tristan----" The surprise had shaken even Commines from hisself-control and he spoke brokenly. "How long have you been here?"
"Since the King sent me for Monsieur La Mothe. At once, if you please,Monsieur."
"But it was to-morrow----"
"He has changed his mind. What is to be done is best done quickly.You, Monsieur d'Argenton, will understand what the King means byquickly. I know nothing but that you are to leave Valmy to-morrowmorning instead of the day after, and so he must see Monsieur La Motheto-night. As Monsieur d'Argenton's friend, Monsieur La Mothe, I wouldadvise humble acquiescence."
"In what?" It was the first time La Mothe had spoken, and in hisrepugnance he could not bring himself to add the courtesy "Monsieur" tothe curt question.
"Our Master's will, whatever it may be. It is a privilege, young sir,to further the justice of the King."
"The justice of the King!" replied La Mothe, carried hotly away by thatrepugnance. "God's name, Provost-Marshal, I am not--not--not theKing's arm, like you," he added lamely. But though Tristan mightneither forgive nor forget the suggestion of the broken sentence he wasnot the man to resent it at the moment. The King's arm must endurepin-pricks as well as deal justice. It was Commines, rather, whoreplied.
"Hush, Stephen, our friend is entirely right. It is you whomisunderstand. The King's justice is in all his acts. Yes! and notonly his justice, but his mercy and his greatness, and these three havemade France what she is."
"And all these three are waiting for Monsieur La Mothe. Come, youngsir, the King is very weary and it is time he was in his bed--though Iwould not advise you to tell him so," and leaving the door open behindhim Tristan went out into the night: that he did so they were sure, forthey heard the rasp of his feet on the flags of the court.
"How long was he there?" Commines spoke under his breath as hisfingers closed on La Mothe's arm with a grip which left its mark. "Howlong was he listening? What did he hear? You fool, you fool, you mayhave ruined yourself--and me, and me. And why has he left us together?He has some reason for it--some end to serve: his own or the King's.Try and think what you said: no, not now, there is no time, but whenyou are with the King, and unsay it, unsay it. And Stephen, remember,he is the King, he is the Master of France, the maker of France, and heis dying. Promise him----"
"Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, is the King to wait all night,or shall I say Monsieur d'Argenton detains you?"
"Go, boy, go. Promise everything, everything--he is the King," and asCommines pushed him through the doorway La Mothe could hear his breathcoming in heavy gasps.