The Justice of the King

by Hamilton Drummond

  CHAPTER XXI

  DENOUNCED

  "It was an epic," said Villon, "a veritable epic, and if you were trulythe Homer I called you half the towns in France would claim you for acitizen. As it is you have only been born twice, once in--where wasit? No matter, it is of very little importance; it is the second thatreally counts, and that second birthplace is--Amboise. A man's soul isborn of a woman just as his body is. And a man's soul is love. Untillove comes he is a lumpish mass of so much flesh without even a sparkof the divine."

  "Then you," said La Mothe gravely, "have seen many incarnations?"

  "Many!"--and Villon's eyes twinkled--"but with each one the pangs ofbirth grew less violent. You will find it so yourself. But our epic.Though I cannot write it I will sketch it in outline for you. Book theFirst: Hugues!" He broke off, shaking his head soberly, every trace ofhis humorous mood gone. "Poor devil of a Hugues! Francois Villon, whomade verses, will be remembered, and Hugues, who made history,forgotten. Why cannot I write epics that we might both be rememberedtogether? But no! a tinkle of rhyme leavened with human nature andsalted by much bitter experience--that is Francois Villon! I know mylimitations. A man can give out nothing better than is put into him.Well, so long as we give our best I don't believe the good God will behard upon us. Now, then. Book the Second: Martlets andMullets--there's alliteration for you."

  "Martlets and Mullets? Villon, what do you mean?"

  "Have you forgotten our friend of the spiked thorn?"

  "But the Dauphin swears these were Tristan's men."

  "Tristan? Impossible! Tristan is too sure, too careful an artist tospoil his work. Heaven knows I do not love Tristan, but I will givehim this credit: when he sets out on a piece of scoundrelly work hecarries it through. No, no, I'll wager my Grand Testament to theepic--which will never be written--that it was Molembrais' second castof the net, and when he drags Amboise a third time there will be fishcaught. What's more, La Mothe, there is a traitor in Amboise--atraitor to the boy. First there was Bertrand, then the Burnt Mill:these don't come by accident. But Tristan? Tristan botches no jobs.But to come back to our epic. Book the Third: Blaise! How many deadwere there?"

  "Four."

  "And Blaise, the stableman, has two at the least, if not three, to hiscredit. When Charles is king--pray heaven Louis does not hear me atValmy--he should make Blaise, the stableman, a Marshal of France, orperhaps Master of the Horse would suit him better," and Villon chuckledgleefully. He had always a huge appreciation of his own wit, howeverslender. "There's a lucky dog for you, to grip death round the neck,hugging him to the breast with both arms, and yet get nothing worsethan a scratched wrist, a slashed palm, and a dent in a thick skull.Book the Fourth: but here is Monsieur d'Argenton and I had better----No! I'll stand my ground. The rose garden of Amboise is free to allking's jackals."

  "Villon, Villon, why are you so bitter-tongued?"

  "Listen to Monsieur de Commines for five minutes and you will know why.And it is not I who am bitter, but the truth. Jackals both, I say."

  They were, as Villon had said, in the rose garden. Dusk, the dusk ofthe day on which Hugues had made history to be forgotten, wasthickening fast, but the air was still warm with all the sultriness ofnoon. To that confined space, with the grey walls towering on threesides, coolness came slowly. The solid masonry held the heat like theliving rock itself, and no current of the night wind blowing overheadeddied downward in refreshment.

  But solid as was the masonry, and mighty the walls in their frowningstrength, there is but little of them left, and of the rose garden nota trace. Time, the great iconoclast, has touched them with his fingerand they have passed away like the humble maker of history, whileFrancois Villon's tinkle of rhyme, leavened with human nature, stillleaves its imprint on a whole nation. Perhaps the reason is that themakers of history could have been done without. In these generationsthe world would be little the worse, little changed had they never beenborn, and have lost nothing of the joy or brightness of life. In hisown generation the patriot is more necessary than the poet, but letfour centuries pass and the poet will wield a larger influence than thepatriot.

  But thick as was the dusk, a dusk thicker than the actual degree ofnight because of the prevailing shadow, La Mothe saw that Commines wasdisturbed by an unwonted excitement. Not from his face. It was deeplylined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, the mouthharsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man breathes who has outrun hislung power, and his uneasy fingers clenched and unclenched incessantly.Those who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs and grewwatchful. But it was upon Villon that the storm fell.

  "For an hour I have been searching for you--in the Chateau, in theChien Noir, in every tavern in Amboise----"

  "And you find me amongst the roses! How little you know my nature,Monsieur d'Argenton!"

  "I know it better than I like it," answered Commines grimly. "Youlodge at the Chien Noir?"

  "It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and I can commend to youits wine of '63. Monsieur La Mothe drinks nothing else."

  "As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make many. But I am nothere to talk of Monsieur La Mothe's drinking bouts, though they explainmuch. You are in the King's service?"

  "As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes."

  "No quibble; you are paid to be faithful?"

  "As we all are; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. Yes."

  "Villon, curb your impertinences. I'll not endure them."

  "Monsieur d'Argenton, there is a proverb which says, 'Physician, curethyself.' What did I tell you, Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutesare not up yet." But Stephen La Mothe discreetly answered nothing.One of the first lessons a man learns in the ways of the world is tokeep his fingers from between other men's millstones.

  "You lodge at the Chien Noir," went on Commines, ignoring the retort;"you are in the King's service and have been paid with your life. Whyare you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme ishatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grownbesotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free handin Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child'splay--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand acrossLa Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, andthe cold severity passed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don'tthink I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank Godyou are safe, I thank God he has given me back my son Stephen; but whatam I to say to the King?"

  "Ho! ho!" said Villon; "so it is son Stephen nowadays? Then the playis almost played out?"

  "Most of all I blame you," and Commines, his arm still round La Mothe'sshoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of passion. "How is ityou are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure theKing shall hear the truth."

  But Villon was unabashed. "What is the truth, Monsieur d'Argenton?Even your friend Tristan would not hang a man without first telling himwhat for. What is this truth of yours?"

  "There is a plot against the King's life."

  "In Amboise?"

  "In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de Vesc, Hugues----"

  "It's a lie," cried La Mothe, shaking himself free from Commines' arm."A lie, a lie. I have Mademoiselle de Vesc's own word for it that itis a lie."

  "And I have proof that it is true."

  "Proof? Whose proof?"

  Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had overstepped his purpose.Before making his disclosure to La Mothe he had searched for Villon inthe hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mindwilling to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexedanger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error,first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen LaMothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened.

  "Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interesthave I but the King's service?"

  "U
ncle, you said proofs--whose proofs?"

  "What is that to you? Do you forget that you are to obey my orders?"

  "Proofs, Monsieur d'Argenton, whose proofs?"

  "All do not blind themselves as you do." Round he swung upon Villon,shaking a stretched-out finger at him viciously. "Drinking himselfdrunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman forher own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprangforward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs youwould cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes shehas philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songstill the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint."

  "A saint," answered La Mothe hoarsely, "a saint. I say so--I say so.A saint as good, as sweet, as pure----" He paused, looking round himin the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patchof grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good asthese lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieurd'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc."

  "Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat atthe feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could nothave said it better myself."

  But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this veryunreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation.Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, aword or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, alittle sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a damningreality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such anamplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel wouldserve no good purpose.

  "Words, Stephen," he said more gently, "mere words, and what arerhetoric and declamation against proofs?"

  "Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly.

  Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the groundslipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "Sofar it is you who have answered with rhetoric and declamation."

  "Word-of-mouth proofs."

  "Here in the Chateau?"

  "No," answered Commines reluctantly, "not just in the Chateau but atits very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeksago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It wasthe very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. TheKing is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In hissick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judgingafterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for nocause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances,and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follownext. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some onemust act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle deVesc. That was weeks ago, and you," again Commines turned upon Villonin denunciation, "you must have known."

  "Lies, all damnable lies," said La Mothe, choking. "Who is the liar?You won't tell me? But I must know; I must and shall. Not in theChateau, but at its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it JeanSaxe, Uncle, is it Jean Saxe? It is! it is! Jean Saxe the--the----Villon, you said there was a traitor to the Dauphin in Amboise, wasthat Jean Saxe? A traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who elsecould it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave Molembrais his chanceten days ago, Jean Saxe who knew of the play in the Burnt Mill to-day,Mademoiselle told him----"

  "More proof," said Commines. "She and Jean Saxe are in collusion."

  "Collusion to kidnap the Dauphin? Mademoiselle de Vesc and Jean Saxein league against the boy? Uncle, you are mad and your proof provestoo much. If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursulade Vesc's No! against him."

  "Good boy," repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, to the world atlarge. "The very first time I saw him I said he was the image ofmyself. Monsieur d'Argenton, what is Jean Saxe's story?"

  "That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalfof the Dauphin, but vaguely at first. There was great discontent, saidHugues, and greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteedthough he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking who was secureif once the King had determined on his destruction. Even loyalty wasno safeguard. In the King's sick suspicion his most faithful servantsmight be the first to suffer. Not a day passed but there was ahanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both high and low. For aman to keep his own life at all cost was no murder."

  "True," said Villon. "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! Yes, monsieur?"

  "That was the gist of it; vague as you see, but significant. Then, twodays ago, Hugues spoke a second time, urging Saxe to a decision. Ifthe Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, all Francewould say, Thank God! The generous nature of the boy was well known.There would be rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him topromise----"

  But La Mothe could control himself no longer. Through Commines'indictment, coldly, almost phlegmatically delivered, he stoodmotionless and silent, his hands clenched, every muscle tense withrestraint. It was the fighting attitude, the attitude of a man whowaits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but a blow which willsurely come. Now the restraint snapped.

  "Villon, for God's sake, do you believe this lie?"

  It was an exceeding bitter cry, and the pain of it pierced through evenCommines' armour of calmness. But Villon, though he shivered a little,only shook his head. His face, dimly seen, was full of a grave concern.

  "Some one has spoken to Saxe," he said. "Hugues or another. I knowSaxe well, he has not brains enough to imagine so great a truth."

  "A truth!" cried Commines, catching at the phrase he waited for."Stephen, Stephen, all along I warned you she was dangerous."

  "Very dangerous," said Villon, "I have felt it myself. No man is safe.In '57--or was it '58?--there was just such another. Her mother keptthe little wine shop at the corner of----"

  "Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxehad told the truth."

  "That the King and France are both sick; yes, Monsieur d'Argenton."

  "No, no, but that Saxe had been approached."

  "By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that."

  "You hear, Stephen? Does that satisfy you?"

  "But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added a little on hisown account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken.

  "Then what is the truth?"

  "You ask that of a poet? As well ask it of a courtier--or a king'sminister," he added, and turned to La Mothe. "Were I you I would setthem face to face this very night."

  "But she has already denied it."

  "All the more reason. A truth will wait till morning, but a lie shouldbe killed overnight. Lies breed fast and die hard."

  "But she may refuse."

  "If I know women," said Villon, "Mademoiselle de Vesc will refuse younothing."