CHAPTER XXIII
JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT
"Say to Mademoiselle de Vesc that Monsieur d'Argenton requires to speakwith her in the Hercules room." It was the Judge who spoke. AlreadyCommines stood in Louis' place to search, sift, find, and his tone wasas cold and curt as the words were brusque. Then, as an afterthought,he added, "You can say, too, that Monsieur La Mothe is with him."
"No," said La Mothe; "omit that part of it."
For a moment Commines hesitated, annoyed by a tone curter and colderthan his own, but after a glance at La Mothe's set face he motioned tothe servant to go. That was not the moment to precipitate a conflict.
"Stephen, why not? It is the truth."
"Great heavens! do we want the truth?" answered La Mothe.
"But we are not friendly, she and I, and she may not come; you said soyourself. Remember, we must have no scandal, no publicity."
"Yes, what you have to do will be best done in the dark."
"Stephen, be just. You know I mean that Saxe's story is not one to beblazed abroad. Besides, nothing will be done to-night."
"But to-morrow, or next day?"
"It was not for the Dauphin's sake you risked your life this afternoon."
"That is quite true. It was for Mademoiselle de Vesc, and it may berisked again."
"Stephen, what do you mean?" But La Mothe, striding ahead as ifimpatient to face the issue and have done with uncertainties, returnedno answer. There could be no answer until he saw how events fell out.
The Hercules chamber was named after the tapestry which hid the dullgrey plaster of its walls. From the one door--and that there should bebut one was unusual in an age when to provide for the strategy ofretreat was common prudence--where the infant Hero strangled withchubby hands the twin serpents sent for his destruction, the story ofhis labours told itself with all the direct simplicity of medieval art.
No chronology was followed, the embroiderer having chosen her scenes atpleasure or as the exigencies of space demanded. Here, Samson-like, hetore the Numean lion jaw from jaw, his knee sunk in the shaggy chest,his shoulders ripped to the bone as the hooked claws gripped themuscles, his mighty torso a dripping crimson in the scheme of colour.There he cleansed the Augean stable in a faithfulness of detail moreadmirable in its approach to nature than its appeal to thesensibilities, the artist having left nothing to the imagination;beyond was the more human note, and Omphale bound him to her by asingle thread stronger than all the chains ever riveted in Vulcan'sforge. Next, with perhaps a significance of symbolism, the shirt ofNessus tortured him to madness with its scorching fires till the hugelimbs writhed and the broad, kindly face was all a-sweat with agony,but--and now it was the door again--the benediction of peace crownedthe end. The labours, the sorrows, the fiery trials were behind theback for ever, the faults and failures were forgiven or atoned for;after the stress of toil, the weariness of struggle, came theblessedness of rest; after humanity, divinity and the imperishableglory of high Olympus. Crude in its art, angular in its execution,there still was something of the soul of the worker stitched with thecanvas. To Stephen La Mothe, touched at times by a poet'scomprehension, it seemed not altogether a myth,--a type, perhaps; only,being very human, he hungered with a bitter hunger for the crowning ofthe peace and the divinity of love while life was life. It requires arobust faith to believe that Olympus can bring anything better than thebest of earth.
A carved oak bench, black with age, stood beneath the centre of thethree narrow windows piercing the outer wall; a four-branched copperlamp gave light from the polished table in the middle of the room; hereand there, flanking the oaken bench, at the ends of the room, and ateither side of the wide fireplace, were chairs and stools. A fewwolfskin rugs dotted the floor. Villon and Saxe had not yet arrived.
"Mademoiselle begs that she may be excused to-night; she is very tired."
"But she cannot be excused," began Commines, when La Mothe intervened.
"Say that Monsieur La Mothe very greatly regrets she should bedisturbed when so weary, but as it is of importance to Monseigneur hetrusts she will excuse Monsieur d'Argenton's importunity."
"I told you how it would be," said Commines as the servant left theroom, "you might as well have given your name first as last."
But La Mothe shook his head. "There is a difference, and she willunderstand." Then the restraint he had put upon himself with so muchdifficulty snapped for a moment: "Uncle, for God's sake, be gentle withher."
"I will be all I dare, but I trust neither Saxe nor Villon," and as hespoke the two entered the room.
In spite of a strong effort at self-control the inn-keeper was visiblyill at ease, while Villon, on his part, was complacently, almostoffensively, cheerful. In a characteristic Puckish humour he hadplayed alternately on Saxe's hopes and fears, but refusing all definiteinformation beyond the bare statement that Monsieur d'Argenton had sentfor him peremptorily. Why? How could Francois Villon say why? He wasno confidant of the Lord High Jackal of all the King's jackals. Saxe,who was so friendly with couriers from Valmy, should know why.Perhaps, humble though he, Jean Saxe, was, he had rendered the Kingsome service of late? and at the hint Saxe glowed, with expectation.Who was so generous a paymaster as Louis! Perhaps, on the otherhand,--and the wrinkles of Villon's many wrinkled face deepened intopuckers,--Jean Saxe knew too much. That was dangerous. Amboise waslike Valmy, more entered than came out. Louis had many ways of payingdebts. There was Guy de Molembrais, for instance----, but Saxe wasfrankly sweating and Villon broke off. The second hint was clearereven than the first, and Saxe felt that both were true.
But when he would have spoken Commines impatiently motioned him to bequiet, flinging a "Wait!" at him as one might a command to a restlessdog, and at the evil augury the drops gathered anew round the edge ofhis close-cropped hair; gathered and swelled until they trickled downthe cunning, stupid face. Villon, he noticed, and found another evilsignificance in the act, drew away from him, leaving him solitary justwhen the warm nearness of human kind would have been a comfort.
They had not long to wait. Hearing a movement in the passage Villonthrew open the door, closing it again behind Ursula de Vesc. Then heleaned against it like one interested but indifferent in his interest.The girl was pitifully pale. Double lines of care creased thesmoothness of the forehead; the weariness she had plead had been nopretence, but was written plainly in the languid gait, the droopedlids, and the dark patches beneath the eyes. By her side walkedCharlemagne, and half a yard behind the three puppies trotted sleepily,Charlot lagging last; even in his anxious preoccupation La Mothenoticed it was Charlot, the best beloved of the three because it wasthe weakest.
Her first glance was for La Mothe, her second, and this time she bowedslightly, was towards Commines, then it fell upon Saxe, and the browswere raised in a mute interrogation, but there was neither apprehensionnor dismay. Stepping forward La Mothe placed a chair beside the table,and, crossing the room, she sat down with a murmur of thanks, then sheturned to Commines. Drawing back a step La Mothe, half behind her,rested, his hand on the chair-back, and the stage was set.
"Mademoiselle," began Commines, "Saxe, whom you know, told me a strangestory to-day, and it seemed to us it was your right to hear it as soonas possible."
"Us? Who are us, Monsieur d'Argenton?"
"Monsieur La Mothe and myself."
"I agree with Monsieur d'Argenton that it is your right to hear it,"said La Mothe, "but in everything else I disagree. For me your oneword to-day was enough."
"So that is why Monsieur d'Argenton is in Amboise?"
"The story is this," went on Commines, studiously ignoring the coldcontempt in her voice. But she interrupted him.
"Let Saxe tell his own story; why else is he here? It is always saferto get such things first-hand. Now, Saxe?"
Turning her shoulder on Commines she confronted Saxe. She knew shewas, somehow, on her defence, but not the offence alleged against her.All day La Mothe's unex
pected question had troubled her, and vaguelyshe had connected it with the attempt upon the Dauphin at the BurntMill, though how she, the Dauphin's almost one friend in Amboise, couldhave knowledge of the attempt she could not understand. With thefailure of the attack she had thought the incident closed, but now JeanSaxe had a story to tell, a story in some way linked to Stephen LaMothe's question, a question which flushed the pallor of even herweariness when she remembered how widely it had differed from what herthought had been.
But Jean Saxe was in no haste with his tale. Jean Saxe shuffled hisfeet, licked his dry lips, and caught at his breath. His throat wasdrier than Villon's had ever been, and Villon's was the driest throatin Amboise. A modest man, though an innkeeper, Jean Saxe did not knowwhich way to look now that he was, for the moment, the centre of theworld. Either the grey eyes, their lids no longer drooping, searchedhim out, or Commines' stern gaze stared him down, or, worst of all, hemet the sardonic light with which Villon beamed his satisfaction at ascene quite to his humour, and so Jean Saxe was dumb, remembering thatLouis had many ways of paying his debts, and more went into Amboisethan came out again. For the trusted servant of so generous a KingJean Saxe was not happy.
"Come, Saxe, come. Tell me what you told me this afternoon, neithermore nor less. There is nothing in it to your discredit."
"Yes, monseigneur, certainly. I have nothing to hide. I have alwaysbeen the King's most humble, faithful, devoted----"
"Leave that aside. Come to your tale and tell the whole truth."
"Of course, monseigneur. Hugues came to me----"
"When did Hugues go to you?" It was Ursula de Vesc who spoke. Fromhis place behind her La Mothe could see the upward defiant tilt of thehead as she asked the question.
"Let him tell his story his own way," said Commines, "or you willconfuse him."
"As you will, but Hugues is dead and cannot defend himself," and thedefiance passed as, with a sigh, the girl sank wearily into her chair,felt La Mothe's hand where it rested upon the back, and leaned hastilyforward, then settled slowly into her place again. As for Stephen LaMothe, the beating of his heart quickened, but he stood unmoved. Thetouch comforted them both.
"Hugues came two days ago----"
"That was the second time. When did he come first?"
"Three weeks ago, monseigneur."
"Are you sure?"
"It was a week before your lordship came to Amboise. I remember itperfectly because----"
"Never mind why; that you remember and are sure of the day is enough.I want you to be exact. It was a week before Monsieur La Mothe and Iarrived?"
"Yes, monseigneur." Saxe had thrown off his nervousness. He no longershuffled his feet but stood breast square to the world. Commines'questions had loosened the thread of his story, and he was ready to runit off the reel without a tangle. "He said the King was very sick inValmy, so sick and full of suffering that every hour of life was anhour of misery. It would be pure happiness, said he, pure charity anda blessing if such a life were ended. He was sure the King himself hadno wish to live."
"That," said Ursula de Vesc, her eyes fixed on vacancy, "is so verylike what we all know of His Majesty."
"Yes, mademoiselle. Then he went on to say that those who helped thepoor suffering King to relief would be his best friends, and it oughtto be no surprise if there were such friends."
"Were there names mentioned?"
"No, monseigneur, not then."
"But this afternoon you told me----"
"I thought Saxe was to tell his story his own way?" broke in Ursula deVesc, tartly.
"Mademoiselle de Vesc, you cannot know the peril you stand in."
"Peril from what, Monsieur d'Argenton?"
"from the justice of the King."
"If it be only from his justice then I stand in no peril. But I, andall who love the Dauphin, know well how the King's justice deals withAmboise. Saxe, go on with your story your own way. No names werementioned that day? What then?"
"Hugues said the King's sickness made him peevish and suspicious, sothat he doubted even his own friends. No one was safe, neither highnor low, and no one could tell who would follow the same road asMonsieur de Molembrais, whose safe-conduct couldn't save him. 'Evenyou, Saxe,' he said, 'faithful as you have been and true servant to theKing, not even you are safe, and you know a man's first duty is tohimself.'"
Francois Villon could not forgo the favourite tag of philosophy wherebyhe had shaped his own career, "_Toute beste garde sa pel_! and that wasthe first time, Saxe?"
"The first time," repeated Saxe. "I think that was all he said then,monseigneur, or the gist of it, for he repeated it over and over again."
"Then come to the second. When was it?"
"Two days ago, monseigneur."
"Tell it your own way; or, stay a moment. Mademoiselle de Vesc," andCommines turned to the girl, his face both grave and troubled, "help usto be your friends, help us to save you from yourself before it is toolate. Much can be forgiven to a generous devotion however misplaced.The King, I am sure, will see it in that light. I beg, I pray you,pray you to speak before Saxe speaks. If not for your own sake, thenfor the Dauphin's, for----" he paused, and, lifting his eyes, glancedat Stephen La Mothe bolt upright within touch of her, "for thehappiness of a life help us to help you."
The Justice of the King Page 23