CHAPTER XXIX
THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST
For men there is no such ladder to place and fame as their fellow-men.Over their crushed and trampled backs, or with a hand in their pocket,ambition or greed can climb to heights which would be hopelesslyunattainable but for the unwilling foothold of another's disadvantage.La Mothe? Who the deuce was La Mothe? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared.He had his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between hisknees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lapping him round with allthe subtle sweetness of the sweetest season of the year, and Valmy,which hipped him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He wasalmost as fully in fortune's pocket as Monsieur d'Argenton!
Nor was that all. There was even the hope that this poor devil of a LaMothe might say, "No, thank you!" to the order for arrest, and so givePaul Beaufoy opportunity to prove to the world at large, and the Kingin particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, that PaulBeaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever with his head, and fitfor something much better than arresting poor devils accused of Godknows what. But that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhilethe world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of worlds, with justone small fret to mar its perfection--he had had no breakfast! Thatmust be remedied, and the half hour's delay could be made good byharder riding afterwards.
So, midway to Chateau-Renaud, at the junction of the St. Amand road, hegave a little auberge his custom, comforting nature with an omeletwhile a fowl was being put on the spit. But because custom such asPaul Beaufoy's came that way but seldom the fowl was slow to come by,yet slower to cook, and more time went to its eating than would havebeen to Paul Beaufoy's advantage had the King known the excellence ofhis appetite. But the King knew nothing and would know nothing, so noone was hurt by the picking of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothewould naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a prick of thespur would drag back some of the lost minutes.
Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as light as a bird onthe wing or the paper which was to consign this unknown poor devil of aLa Mothe to he neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantlythe generous beast between his knees answered the call. But--surelydisjunctive conjunctions are the tragedies of the language! Theytumble our castles in Spain about our ears with neither ruth norwarning. Man would be in Paradise to this day--but Eve ate the apple;Napoleon would have conquered Europe--but England stood in the way. Sowas it with Paul Beaufoy. His lost hour would have been regained--butbut the pace killed, and with Amboise a weary distance away he foundhimself stranded and disconsolate beside a foundered horse. And linkedto the tragedy of the disjunctive was this other tragedy. It is thegenerous-hearted who pay for the follies of others. Had thebroken-down beast been a cowardly scum it would never have lain acastaway by the roadside.
And now, indeed, in the King's vigorous phrase, hell was at his back;only, as is so often the way with blinded humanity, he never guessedthe truth, but thought it salvation, from behind, down a side-road,clattered a small troop at a quick trot, and taking the middle of thehighway Beaufoy called a halt.
"In the King's name!" he cried, holding up the hand of authority. Theintoxication of a first commission is almost as self-deceiving as thatof a first love. In his place Philip de Commines, recognizing that hewas outnumbered ten to one, would have been diplomatic. When there isno power to strike, it is always unwise to clench the fist, especiallywhen a hat in the hand may gain the point. But the authority sufficed,and at a motion from their leader the troop halted.
"More energy than discretion," said he, with a glance at the disabledhorse. "What can I do for you, and why in the King's name?"
"My energy and discretion are my affair," answered Beaufoy, morenettled by his inability to dispute the truth than by the truth itself."I am from Valmy upon the King's business, and must have a horsewithout delay."
"Let Valmy buy its own horses, I am no dealer," was the brusque answer.But the hands which had caught up the loosened reins promptly tightenedthem afresh. "How long from Valmy?"
"That can matter nothing to you; what does matter is that I am on theKing's business and must have a horse."
"Having, like a fool, killed your own! But that, as you say, is noaffair of mine. When did you leave Valmy?"
"I see no reason----" began Beaufoy, but with a backward gesture theother silenced him.
"Reasons enough," he said. "Count them for yourself. For the thirdtime, when did you leave Valmy?"
"This morning, and I warn you that the King will call you to accountfor every minute's delay."
"You, not me; I did not founder your horse." The half banter passedfrom his voice, and the bronzed face hardened. "And we have accountsenough as it is, the King and I."
"Pray God he pays his debts and mine, and that I be there to see,"retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of all prudence. "Again, in theKing's name I demand your help. I must have a horse. Two of your mencan ride double."
"Must this! Demand that! Tut, tut! you forget the reasons behind me."But though he spoke with a return of the banter which goaded theunfortunate Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert andthere was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy been a Philip deCommines he would have known that jest with no laughter at its back ismore dangerous than a threat. "Where are you going?"
"That is my affair and the King's."
Lurching forward in the saddle the elder man--he was eight or ten yearsthe senior--shook his clenched gauntlet in Beaufoy's face, his owncrimson from the gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. "TheKing! The King! The King!" he cried furiously. "Curse you and yourKing! What devil's plot is that lying old tiger-fox scheming now thatyou ride to death an honester brute than either of you? Whose murdercomes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give some account ofyourself."
"If you are a gentleman, if you are not a coward as well as a bully,"answered Beaufoy, his face as white as the other's was flushed, "comedown from your horse and meet me man to man. You'll not ask me to givean account of myself a second time."
"That is Valmy all over! Give up my advantage that you may gain! Andwho are you with your musts and demands?"
"My name is Beaufoy----"
"Then you are not from Valmy," broke in the other, running on Beaufoy'sname, "for no faith, beau, bonne, or belle, ever came out of Valmy."
With a shrug of his shoulders Beaufoy turned on his heel. "Coward aswell as bully," he began, but at a sign from their leader the troopgathered round, hemming him in in a circle.
"Now that my reasons are plainer to you, will you answer myquestion--where are you going? No reply? And yet no one understandsthe logic of numbers better than your coward of a master. But I'llhave my answer. Are you going to Blois? No! To Tours? No! Amboise?Ah! your eyes have a tongue of their own. You cannot have lived verylong in Valmy, my ingenuous friend. Why to Amboise? You won't tell?But, by God, you shall! Do you think I'll be baulked for a scruple?"His hand crept to his hilt as he spoke; now, with a swift wrench theblade was out and its point at Beaufoy's throat. "Come, your message?"
But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the quality of itsdefects. The law that might was right had bred a contempt for life,one's own or another's, it mattered little which. In the great game ofnational aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the manwho slew without pity could die without fear. If any second incentivewere needed, Beaufoy found it in the gibe at his name. Beaufoy wouldhold good faith let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himselfrigidly he answered nothing.
"Come, the message! I'll have it, though I rip it out of you. Youwon't answer? Then there is no help for it. Once!"--and the pointtouched--"twice!"--and the point pricked--"three times! Monsieur, youare a brave fool, but on your life do not stir. Grip him by theelbows, Jan. Now you, Michault, go through his pockets. What first?An empty purse! And yet you must have a horse, must you? Was I tocollect its price at Val
my, my good sir? When I go to Valmy it will befor more than the life of a horse. Next, a woman's ribbon! No wonderthe purse was empty. A paper! Give it me--a love-letter! Icongratulate you, Monsieur Beaufoy, and return it without reading thesignature. No doubt the empty purse is justified. May she show asfirm a faith as you have done; her cause is the better of the two. Nowthat. This time we have it. Monsieur Beaufoy, you have doneeverything a brave and honourable gentleman could do. Give me yourparole to hurt neither yourself nor us and Jan will release your arms."
Panting, every nerve tense with impotent resentment, Paul Beaufoylooked up into the not unkindly eyes turned down to his. Aphysiognomist would have said it was a reckless face rather than anevil one. The blade had been lowered, but Jan's muscular hands stillheld his elbows behind his back in an iron grip; beyond him wasMichault. No prisoner in shackles was more helpless.
"For this time," he said between his teeth; "but God granting melife----"
"Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I trust you as I would nevertrust that brute without a soul you call King. Trust the King? Godhelp the man who trusts King Louis! One very dear to me trusted him,trusted his pledged word with his life, and I humbly pray God's mercyhas him in its keeping, for he found none in Valmy." Sheathing hissword he sat back in the saddle and smoothed the looted papercarefully. "Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bringhim to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and onyour life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.--LOUIS."
Having read the order through from beginning to end, he read it over asecond time, sentence by sentence, pausing to consider each separately.
"'Go to Amboise.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not wish to ask you anythinga man of honour such as you are cannot answer. Do they know you inAmboise?"
"No," answered Beaufoy, after a moment's consideration; "and if Ithought it mattered one way or the other, you would get no answer fromme. I am from the north, and a stranger both in Valmy and Amboise."
"'Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy withoutdelay.' It follows that you do not know this Stephen La Mothe nor heyou?"
"No," repeated Beaufoy.
"Nor his offence?"
"Not even that."
"God knows there need be no offence at all. 'Tell him his orders arecancelled.' Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not ask you what these orders are."
"And if I knew, I would not tell you."
"Then you do not know?"
"No."
"'On your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.' Is itfair to ask why?"
"Again, if I knew, I would not tell you, but I do not."
"Then it comes to this: you, a stranger in Amboise, are to arrest astranger to yourself for an offence of which you are ignorant?"
"With my orders clear and explicit I have no need of knowledge."
"Is this order public property at Valmy?"
"No one knows of it except myself and the King," replied Beaufoy,clinging desperately to the remnants of his authority.
The other nodded abstractedly, his thoughts busy elsewhere. He quiterecognized the type of man with whom he had to do--light-hearted,careless, frivolous even up to a certain point, but beyond thatimmovable. To question further would be useless, and almost inviolation of the strange code of honour which permitted unscrupulousviolence but respected the right of reticence in an equal--in an equal,be it observed; an inferior had no rights, none whatever.
"'Bring him to Valmy.'" Turning in his saddle he beckoned to one ofhis followers, a man older than the rest, shrewd-faced and grizzled."What do you think, Perrault; can we do it?"
"Enter Amboise?"
"Enter Valmy."
But Beaufoy could control himself no longer. "Monsieur, whoever youare, I demand back the King's order. These instructions are for mealone and I must----"
"What? More musts? No, no, you have done all a man of honour cando--except hold your tongue and acknowledge the inevitable. Jan andMichault, take Monsieur Beaufoy into the field yonder, but quietly,courteously."
"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustledacross the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Someday you shall answer me for this."
"If the King permits," was the ironic reply. "Be a little more gentle,Jan. Now, Perrault?"
"Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy."
"Not all of us, not you--I alone."
"Alone? Monsieur Marc, you would never venture----"
"Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would venture to the gatesof hell for just five minutes with Louis of France, and you know it."
"But it is impossible."
"Desperate, not impossible. This," and he shook the paper in hisclosed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King'ssignet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmyif I have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast--La Mothe,through whom I have twice missed the Dauphin! Perrault, I'll do it; byall the saints, I'll do it."
"Yes," said Perrault, and there was a wistful tenderness in his roughvoice, "you may get into Valmy, but, Master Marc, you'll never win outagain."
"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung inmy way? And would Guy have done less for me?"
But Perrault returned no answer.
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