CHAPTER X
LOVE, THE ENEMY
Charles was seated on a low stool at the further end of the room, apale-faced boy with dull, peevish eyes closely set together, the longValois nose, and a thin, obstinate mouth. His dress was severely,obstinately, contemptuously plain. Again it was as if the King said,This is not the greatness or the glory of France! But love and carehad redeemed the derisive parsimony. All the lad wore was exquisitelyneat and the very severity lent the little figure a dignity of its own.
Beside him, but a little behind, stood Love, the Enemy, Ursula de Vesc,a slim figure in white. One arm was flung over his shoulder, the handholding the boy's hand as he raised it across his breast, and sheseemed to draw him back to her so that he half leaned, half lay againsther knee. Her other hand was caught up against her side below therounded breast, and pressed there so tensely that the slender,bloodless fingers lay ivory-white against the hardly purer white of thebodice. The whole attitude was one of spontaneous, natural, womanlyaffection, but as Stephen La Mothe looked a second time he seemed tofind in it both defence and defiance, or if not defiance, then thatvigilant watchfulness which is almost an antagonism. The clasping armspoke protection, but a protection which said, "Touch if you dare."
Nor did the expression of her face change his thought. The clear greyeyes were alert with something more than a girl's fresh interest, thefirm mouth, even while the lips moved, was set in an unconsciousstrain, and across the broad forehead two lines were shadowed where nolines ought to have been. If the face of age, when the sorrows andexperience of years have written anxiety for the uncertain morrowacross it, moves the heart by the story it tells, how much more theface of youth lined by cares which merciful Time should still have heldunrevealed? There are more valleys of shadows than that of death, andit seemed to La Mothe that the gloom of some one of them had gatheredthickly round Ursula de Vesc.
Of the three or four others grouped at the further end of the roomCommines was the only familiar figure, and though all turned at thenoise of the brass rings jangling on their rod as Villon drew thecurtain there was no recognition in his eyes. It was the opening ofthe lying masquerade, and La Mothe vaguely felt the white horse stumbleas it swerved from the straight course. The soiling of clean handsspoken of by Commines on the road to Chateau-Renaud had begun.
"Gain the girl and win the boy," whispered Villon as, with his handupon La Mothe's arm, they walked up the room together, then aloud,"Monseigneur and Mademoiselle----"
"Monseigneur, if you please," interrupted the girl, but though shespoke to Villon her eyes were on La Mothe. The voice was cold, thewords at once a self-effacement and a rebuke. It was as if she said,"I know my place: know--and keep--yours."
"Monseigneur," went on Villon, quite unruffled, "with the ills of lifecome their cure: Amboise was dull and I present to you Monsieur StephenLa Mothe."
The Dauphin made no immediate answer, but glanced up at Ursula de Vescwith a question in his eyes, and his clasp on her hand tightened,drawing her yet closer to him. It was the action of a child to itsmother rather than that of a boy of twelve to a girl not twice his age,and to those who understood it was curiously instructive. Looking downupon him she smiled and nodded, nor did the gracious softening of thetender face escape La Mothe. Her eyes were grey, and surely grey eyeswere the sweetest in all the world?
"Monsieur La Mothe," repeated Charles, as if the girl's look had givenhim courage to speak. "Monsieur La Mothe of--Valmy?"
"Monsieur La Mothe of everywhere," replied Villon hastily, before LaMothe had time to answer. "Singers and poets are of all the world.They say it took seven cities to give Homer birth."
"And Monsieur La Mothe is another Homer?" said the girl, and Stephenwinced at the insolent curve of her lips. He was quite sure they werenever meant for such a curve, surely a Cupid's bow would be morenatural than contempt, disdain, and a few other injurious opinions allin the one expression. In this belief he hastened to reply, allowingno time for Villon to intervene.
"No, mademoiselle, I am neither a singer nor a poet, at least not sucha one as Monsieur Villon."
"I hope not, for your credit's sake," answered the girl drily, nor didshe seek to keep the scorn from her voice. "As both singer and poetMonsieur Francois Villon is beyond his age."
"There is no such critic as the one who fails to understand," saidVillon, his wrinkled face white with anger, "and I see I was right atfirst, and should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur, notMonseigneur and Mademoiselle."
"Master Villon, you are impertinent," broke in Commines, who lovedUrsula de Vesc little, but hated Villon more.
"Monsieur de Commines, if it were not another impertinence I would saythat like breeds like," retorted Villon, entirely unabashed. Hereturned Commines' dislike with energy, and so long as he served theKing he had little to fear from the King's minister.
"Poets are privileged," said Mademoiselle de Vesc. "And MonsieurVillon has paid me a compliment: I neither understand his poetry nordesire to." Her tone was still contemptuous and had in it no thanks toPhilip de Commines for his reproof on her behalf. She resented it,rather, since she had no desire to owe him either gratitude or thanks.
For a moment there was a pause, a moment which seemed the prelude to asarcastic outbreak from one or other of those she had wilfullyirritated in that intolerance which so often goes hand in hand with aspirit of self-sacrifice. But Stephen La Mothe interposed.
"Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of being presented to Monseigneur?"
"You?" she said, the lines deepening across her forehead. "A roadsidesinger presented to the Dauphin! Surely you forget yourself--and him?"
"Even a roadside singer may be a loyal son of France," he retorted,looking her full in the face. He keenly resented the false positioninto which the King's ill-considered scheme had thrust him, but he hadgone too far to retreat. "You know best, mademoiselle, whether theDauphin has need of a man's honest love and devotion."
"Devotion that is here to-day, was God knows where yesterday, and willbe God knows where to-morrow! Merci! the Dauphin is indeed grateful."
"Spitfire!" murmured Villon, but so cautiously that only La Mothe heardhim. "Certainly I should have said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur. Orbetter still have left the Monseigneur out altogether. You do not gothe right way. Win the girl, I tell you, and the boy will follow likea sheep."
"Let me win her my own way," answered La Mothe, which has always beenthe man's desire since Adam was in Eden with the one woman in all theworld. Then he went on aloud, "Pour your scorn on it as you will,mademoiselle, it is devotion that will wait patiently in Amboise untilit has proved itself."
"That will wait patiently in Amboise?" she repeated. Her eyeschallenged his as she spoke, and in them there was nothing of the lightthe sons of Adam have loved to see in a woman's eyes so that they mightdwell together in Paradise.
"Why not? And if a poor gentleman desires to see France in thisfashion is there any reason against it?"
"A poor gentleman, but not a poor minstrel?"
"As both I can but give my best. May I have the honour, mademoiselle?"
Her clasp upon the boy's hand must have tightened, for again he raisedhis face to hers as she stooped over him, speaking softly. This timeit was he who nodded.
"You know best," he whispered back, and the words would have given LaMothe food for thought had he heard them. "As you say, it will besafer to have him before our eyes than behind our backs. We may bequite sure that Hugues will watch him. Yes, I agree: at least he isprettier to look at than that beast of a Villon."
From her side, where she held it pressed, her left hand slipped downacross the Dauphin's shoulder until it too drew him towards her, butwhen she raised her head the lines were smoothed from the forehead, andif the grey eyes were still watchful, they watched through a smile.
"Monseigneur permits it," she said. "Monseigneur, I have the honour topresent to you Monsieur Stephen La Mothe."
"Monsieur La Mothe of where?" asked the boy gravely.
"Of Landless, in the Duchy of Lackeverything," replied La Mothe, bowingwith an equal gravity, and at the adroit parrying of a difficultquestion the smile crept down from Ursula de Vesc's eyes until itloosened the hard lines of the mouth, and bent them to that Cupid's bowLa Mothe so much desired to see. "I have many fellow-subjects,Monseigneur."
"Another name for that duchy is Amboise," said Charles, "and so,monsieur, it is my wish that you make the castle your home for as longas it pleases you."
He spoke with such a settled seriousness that it was difficult to besure whether he understood the jest and played up to it in that spiritof make-believe which had drawn down the King's anger or answered outof a dull uncomprehension. Nor did La Mothe care which it was. Hisheart leaped within him at the double promise opened up of fulfillingthe King's mission at his ease and watching the unbending of the curvedbow, but he answered with an equal gravity.
"Then Landless is not Houseless, Monseigneur, and to devotion gratitudeis added."
"Discretion and good appetite give a man a longer life than either,"said Villon.
"But remember," and Commines spoke to La Mothe for the first time, "theKing has first claim upon both."
"On discretion and good appetite?" said Villon gravely. "I fear,Monsieur d'Argenton, His Majesty in his present health has more need ofthe second than the first."
"Take your ribald impertinences elsewhere, but beware how you attemptthem upon me elsewhere," answered Commines, with a stern contempt."Here Monseigneur and mademoiselle's presence protect you."
"But if I took them elsewhere, even to Paris--and, heavens! how I wishI could--Amboise would be duller than ever," protested Villon, thenadded, with a significance of tone which gave the careless words aweight, "let us hope that Monseigneur and mademoiselle can protect eachother as well as me."
Again there was a dangerous silence, and this time it was Ursula deVesc who turned aside the threatening storm.
"Monsieur La Mothe is to cure our dullness. Tell us a story, monsieur,if you will neither sing nor play. We love a story, do we not,Charles?"
"A story?" repeated La Mothe slowly. The chance suggestion, more thanhalf malicious, had given him an unexpected opening, and he was turningin his mind how best to use it. "Why, yes, I think I might. Once upona time----"
"Wait a moment," said Charles. "Here, Ursula," and he rose from hisstool as he spoke, "you sit down and I will sit at your feet and leanagainst your knee. There! That is better. Now we are bothcomfortable. What is the story about, monsieur?"
"It is an eastern tale, Monseigneur."
"I like the east better than the west, don't you, Ursula?" and helooked up in the girl's face with a laugh, then at Commines in a waywhich lent the words point and meaning. Valmy, La Mothe remembered,lay towards the west. "Now, monsieur, we are ready."
"There was once a king of the Genie who dwelt in a certain part ofArabia. He was a very great and a very wise king, the greatest andwisest his kingdom had known for many centuries. During his reign hehad added province to province----"
"At whose expense?" broke in Villon. "In love and the building ofkingdoms there is always a giving and a taking."
"Silence!" cried Charles sharply. "If you interrupt again I will haveyou removed, even though you are who you are. Now, monsieur, go on,please."
"He added province to province," continued La Mothe, "until in all thatpart of Arabia there was no such kingdom for greatness or for power,and no king so feared by the kings of the surrounding countries. Butthough his affairs were so prosperous he had one bitter grief which wasnever absent from his thoughts: he was estranged from his only son,whom he loved with all a father's love."
"Yes," said Charles gravely, "I see this is really an eastern story: akind of a fairy tale, is it not, Monsieur La Mothe? A tale one wisheswere true, but knows is all make-believe."
"All fairy tales have a heart of truth," answered La Mothe, "and thisis a very true one, Monseigneur, as I hope you will believe before Ihave ended. In all his cares of state, and with so great a kingdom hiscares were very many, there was no such care, no such sorrow, as thislonging, unsatisfied love of the father's heart. Day and night his onethought was how he might win for his old age the love which his boy----"
"Ursula, I am tired," and Charles rose with a yawn. "Monsieur LaFollette, will you please call Hugues, and I will go to bed? If we areduller to-morrow than we are to-day we will hear the rest of the story,but I don't think I like it very much. Even fairy tales should soundprobable. Good night, Monsieur d'Argenton, good night, Monsieur LaFollette, good night, Monsieur La Mothe," and with a bow whichcontrived to omit Villon from its scope the Dauphin left the room,followed by Ursula de Vesc. But at the door she paused a moment.
"A room will be made ready for you in the Chateau, Monsieur La Mothe,and perhaps to-morrow you will tell me the end of your story?"
"Dull?" said Villon, stretching himself with vigorous ostentation. "Myfaith, yes! If you are wise, friend La Mothe, you will finish thenight with me at the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulderswith genius familiarly."
But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe's arm.
"Genius?" he said, sternly contemptuous. "Yes! Genius depraved anddegraded: genius crapulous and drunken. Take advice, Monsieur LaMothe, and bide indoors: the foulest soiling of God's earth is a foulold age unashamed of its disgrace." Then lowering his voice to awhisper, he added, "Come to my room when all is quiet, son Stephen.Look out for the cross of shadow and take care that the de Vesc girldoes not see you."
The de Vesc girl! Stephen La Mothe was almost as offended by thecurtly supercilious description of Mademoiselle Ursula as Villon was atthe bitter judgment so uncompromisingly passed upon him. That may havebeen because Cupid's bow had shot its bolt, and love's new wounds arealmost as supersensitive as a poet's vanity.
The Justice of the King Page 10