The Justice of the King

by Hamilton Drummond

  CHAPTER VI

  HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON

  La Mothe sat silent. His fear had passed away utterly, but in itsplace his awe had grown, an awe full of a deep pity. Youth is the trueage of intolerance and for the simple reason that it is the age ofignorance. In its abundant strength, its sense of growth anddevelopment, its vigorous, unfailing elasticity, its blessed want ofknowledge of the ills of life, its blindness to the inevitable comingof these ills, it is impatient of a caution it calls cowardice, or afrailty it neither understands in another nor anticipates for itself.But in the rare instances when it takes thought its sympathies are moregenerous than those of age, because the sorrows it sees are so muchgreater than any it has known, ever realized in itself or evenconceived. So was it now with La Mothe. The pathetic, solitaryfigure, feeble almost to helplessness, diseased, shrunken, dying,Commines had said, yet with a heart warm in friendliness and a thoughtfor France alone, thrilled him to the very depths. And the dull eyes,watching him from under the heavy lids with an alert vigilance fromwhich no shift of mood escaped, read his emotion unerringly.

  Again Louis leaned forward. But it was a changed Louis. This time thelight fell on a worn face fixed in a grey solemnity. The graveprotesting voice, the outstretched hand driving home its indignantpoints, completed the spell.

  "No, all is not well at Amboise. They think the King grows old. Poorhumanity must needs grow old, but they are impatient andwould--anticipate age. I have a son, not yet thirteen--but of age tobe king. Silence--silence, he is the Dauphin. It is not for you toblame--or condemn the Dauphin. Nor does the King's justice condemnignorantly. Plots, plots, plots! Plots against the father, God andthe father can forgive; but plots against the King--plots againstFrance: for these there is no forgiveness and youth is no excuse."

  "But, sire," began La Mothe. Then he remembered the Valmy gibbet wherea boy of twelve still hung that the roads of France might be safe, andhis voice choked. The King was right; youth was no excuse.

  "There are no buts," said Louis, sternly emphatic, and sank back uponthe pillows. "I have knowledge, I have knowledge, Comminesknows--others--France, Europe--must know later; an honest lad like youwill be believed."

  "Three weeks ago I was in Poitou----"

  "Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without prejudice, you arenot of the Court."

  "I meant, sire, I have no experience."

  "And so the nut may be too hard for your teeth? I see no fault in yourmodesty: diffidence is not cowardice. But you will have help in yournut-cracking, you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, Fear,and Love: with these three I have made France what she is. Money--aman--a woman; what will these not do! With the first--bribe and seethat you do not hold my skin too cheap; Fear--a life forfeit, if I lifta finger he hangs; Love--a woman."

  "A friend, sire?"

  "An enemy--but a woman. Fool her: she is young and Amboise is dull. Ihave a scheme for you ready made. You sing? But I know you do,Tristan has told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing: and nothing is toosmall for the King's service. Always remember life holds nothingtrivial. Leave Valmy with Commines, but separate on the road and go toAmboise as a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will welcome anydistraction. You make verses?"

  "Sometimes, sire," stammered La Mothe, very ill at ease, and flushingas youth will in the shame of its pride. It was almost asdisconcerting as being found out in a lie.

  "Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who made verses, andAmboise is dull. Queen or waiting-maid, women are all of one fleshunder the skin, and to fool her should be easy. Remember," added Louishastily, "I do not bid you do this or that: I only suggest, nothingmore, nothing more. Monsieur de Commines--your uncle--will give youyour orders, and when--when"--he paused, catching at the throat of hisrobe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed with a gasp, thenwent on harshly--"when the end has come say nothing, but take horse andride here for your life. Find me--me, without an instant's delay andkeep silence till you have found. Here is a ring that day or nightwill open every door in Valmy."

  "What end, sire?"

  "What end? What end? Ask Commines, serve him, serve France; that end,boy, that end, and in the name of Almighty God, ride fast." The dulleyes took fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow ofthe scarlet robe to make pretence of health; so fierce a passion wakedthe blood even in the deathly cheeks. But it also had the defect ofits quality, and Louis sank back breathless in exhaustion. "No, no!"he whispered, the words whistling in his throat as he motionedimperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. "Call no one, it willpass--it is nothing, nothing at all--and I have one thing more to say."

  Fumbling amongst the cushions he drew out a little silver figure,whether of man or woman La Mothe was uncertain, so fully the tensefingers clenched it. This he held up, palsied, before his face, bowedto it thrice, his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped weaklyto his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image clattered on the floor.It had served its purpose, out of the curious act of faith a renewal ofstrength was born and Louis was again King. But even then the wordsfaltered.

  Shading his face with one hand he reached forward to the low bench. Itwas littered with the contents natural to such a surrounding in such apresence, papers, parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goosequills, a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King's hand, alumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded and twisted inwards.Amongst these the nervous hand shifted uncertainly here and there,almost like the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon thebunched folds of the napkin.

  "The Dauphin is a child," he said, his fingers closing upon thelooseness of the linen as he spoke. "A weakling--girl! And so,girl-like, he loves to play at make-believe. You know their games?There is the shell of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds itagainst all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it by assault atthe head of his army of two stable-boys. Then he cries, 'I amCharlemagne! I am Roland! I am the Cid! I am----'--anything but theDauphin of France!"

  "But, sire," ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, "that is natural ina child."

  "I played no such games at twelve years old," answered Louis bitterly."At twelve I learned king's-craft and foresaw realities; at twelve Istruggled to be a man in thought, never was I a girl-child inmake-believe, but Charles--Charles sucks sugar and hugs his toys. Butbeing a child we must treat him as a child, yes, yes, and so--andso----" The voice trailed into silence and the hand upon the linenshook as with a palsy. "You see," the King went on hoarsely, "what itis to be a father. The child is a child and must be treated as achild, and yet not encouraged in childish plays by the father, notoutwardly--not outwardly. Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these otherswould say I fostered with my hand what I condemned with my head. No,the father's hand must be hidden out of sight, and that will be yourpart."

  With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the floor, and, droppingthe hand which had shaded his face, turned to La Mothe with what seemeda challenge in his eyes, almost a defiance: it was as if he said, Scoffif you dare! And yet in the little heap of interwoven, fine steelrings there was nothing to move either laughter or contempt, and if thequaint velvet mask which lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate inthe tinsel of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child's toy toraise a sneer or gibe a moral.

  Laughter? There was no thought of laughter. The warm heart of youngblood is emotional once its crust of unthinking carelessness ispierced, and La Mothe was never nearer tears. More than that, thepathetic humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the King,overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness of the father, crushedby no logic of kingcraft, was that touch of nature which made him kineven to this stern and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsionwakened by the justice of the King. With these secret gifts offatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and the loyaltywhich had been a loyalty of cold duty took fire in that enthusiasmwhich is the devotion of the heart and counts
life itself no sacrifice.Nor could he hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines ofchallenge were smoothed from the King's face.

  "A little slender coat such as the French Maid might have worn," hesaid, lifting the woven links gently as if he loved them, and droppingthem again in a little heap that caught the light on every separatering and split it up into a hundred glittering points. "It may have amessage for him when he plays Roland or Charlemagne, and through it thespirit of the child may grow."

  "But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire,let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from thefather to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be----"

  "God's name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with your Kingwho shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think--does hethink--that--that--Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingerscaught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the leanneck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick,quick, is it Commines--Commines--Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "Itook him from the gutter--from the very gutter; he was traitor to aCharles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve aCharles again?" Pushing himself up, half kneeling on the couch, halfleaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening handtowards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak andtell the truth, you dumb dog?"

  But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shiveredas if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, one hand feeblybeckoning to La Mothe to come nearer.

  "Whisper," he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smiletwitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone,we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Comenow?"

  "No one, sire, on my honour, no one."

  "Honour? I know too much of the ways of men to trust men's honour.Swear, boy," he burst out again, passionately roused. "Swear on this.It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swearsfalsely dies, dies within the year--dies damned. Honour? Honour is anet with too wide a mesh to hold men's oaths. Dare you swear?"

  Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it reverently, whileLouis, his lungs still fighting for breath, witched him narrowly.

  "Sire, I meant nothing, nothing but----"

  "But that you were a fool. Only a fool sells--the lion's skin--whilethe lion--is alive." His voice strengthened as if the thoughtstimulated him like a cordial. "And the lion is alive--alive! I mustfinish, I must finish," he went on more querulously. "Yes, a fool, butfools are commonly honest. You may be a faithful servant, but you area bad courtier, Monsieur La Mothe."

  "But, sire, have you not more need of the one than of the other?"

  "Of the servant than the courtier? Aye, aye, that is well said, verywell said. You are less a fool than I thought. But I must finish orCoictier, my doctor--he thinks me less strong than I am--will bescolding me. Take these," and he pushed the coat of mail away from himimpatiently, as if vexed that he had been betrayed into such a displayof feeling. "Remember that I have never seen them, never, never. Youpromise me that? You swear that?"

  "I swear it, sire, solemnly."

  "And you will return to Valmy--to me, in silence?"

  "I promise, sire."

  "Swear, boy, swear."

  "I swear it, solemnly."

  "There!" And again he pushed the mail from him, his delicate fingerstouching the mask delicately. "Give them from yourself. All thingshave their price, and the price of a child's confidence is to serve itspleasures. But, young sir, remember this too, remember it, I say, myson is the Dauphin of France and that which is for a prince's use, evenin play, is for his use only. Let no one else have commerce withthese."

  "Be sure, sire, I reverence the prince too deeply----"

  "Aye, aye: you can go. Words cost even less than honour. Give meproofs, Stephen La Mothe, proofs, and trust to the justice of theKing," which shows how right Commines was when he said that the justiceof the King had many sides.

  And so, with his deepest bow and his heart full of many emotions, LaMothe left his master's presence, and the cross-bow in the shadowsbeyond the door on the right was lowered for the first time in morethan half an hour. For what he was to trust the justice of the King hewas no more clear in the confusion of the moment than what his missionto Amboise was. But of one thing he was certain, the King was a manmuch maligned and little understood: harsh of word and stern of act,perhaps, but with a great, undreamed wealth of tenderness behind theapparent austerity. Of that the little coat of mail and tinselled maskbore witness. It was wonderful, he told himself, how the yearnings ofthe human heart found excuse for what the sterner brain condemned;surely that was where the human drew nearest to the divine! This wasnot alone a master to serve, but a man to love!

  And Louis, a huddled, shapeless mass on his tossed cushions, satgnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. Allpassion had died from him and suddenly he had grown very old, thoughthe indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age.

  "My son," he said, shivering, "my son, my son." Then the bentshoulders straightened, the bowed head was raised, and into the tiredeyes there shot a gleam of fire. "I have no son but France!" Was he ahypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who never deceived himselfto another's hurt cast the first stone at him.

  When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from Valmy the nextmorning on their way to Amboise he was there upon the walls, a solitarygrey figure pathetic in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as theywere in sight, did his eyes wander from them.