The Justice of the King

by Hamilton Drummond

  CHAPTER XXXII

  LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION

  Partly to divert the boy from his grief at Hugues' death, but partlyalso as an outlet for her new-found lightness of heart, Ursula de Vescwould have turned what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into aplayful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand Turk, seated on adivan of shawls and cushions, would receive the envoy of the Sultan ofAfrica bringing presents from his master. It would be just such a playof make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe proposed topresent the offering in the name of the King of the Genie her zestwaned, and a little alloy seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day.That would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, shedeclared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the night's amusement.

  So only she, Father John, and the dogs were present in the Dauphin'sprivate apartment, study and playroom in one, when La Mothe and Villonentered. As is almost always the case, the room reflected many of thecharacteristics of its owner, and in its ordered disorder, its hints ofstudies, its litter of wooden swords and broken dog-whips, might beseen the boy who was almost man in gravity and yet still a child in achild's love of toys. Rising as the two were announced, his effort atdignity was sorely marred by the eager curiosity with which he eyed thelinen bundle carried by La Mothe.

  "So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, and we will have nomore games together."

  "When I return, Monseigneur."

  "And I hope that will be soon, though I don't know why you are going.But, then, I never quite knew why you came at all."

  "Nor I until to-day, but the reason is the very best in the world,"answered La Mothe, and the boy, following his glance, caught thesignificance of the colour warming Ursula de Vesc's cheeks.

  "So you have made up your quarrel, you two?"

  "Never to quarrel again, Monseigneur."

  "I hope so, but I don't believe it. Two people can't live togetherwithout quarrelling. Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur LaMothe, will you please call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish."

  "Monseigneur, you are very good."

  "Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don't forget. It's all I have togive. Father John, who never saved my life or did anything for me,calls me Charles, so why not you who saved my life twice? Down,Charlot, down! leave Monsieur La Mothe's parcel alone. You are alwayspushing your nose where it is not wanted. What have you in thatnapkin, Monsieur La Mothe?"

  "For your acceptance, Monseigneur----"

  "Charles, not Monseigneur," said Ursula softly. "You will be callingme mademoiselle next!"

  "Hush, Ursula! I cannot hear what Monsieur La Mothe says if you keepchattering. For my acceptance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give mepresents; but then, I don't think there is much love in the world."

  "There is more love in the world than you think," said La Mothe, "andsome day you will very reverently thank God for it, as I do. Some day,too, you will know that these are from the very heart of love itself."

  "Yes, yes," said the boy, shifting impatiently in his chair as LaMothe, laying the package on the table, busied himself untying theknotted corners, "I know very well all you have done for me; but whathave you there?"

  "Wait, my son, wait; you will know all in good time." But when theFranciscan would have laid a restraining hand on the Dauphin'sshoulder, Villon twitched him by the sleeve of his robe.

  "Hush, man, hush! Had you never young blood in you? Why, I am likeCharlot the puppy, just itching to know what is inside."

  "But it is not good for youth----"

  "It is good for youth to be young," said Villon testily. "Ah,Monseigneur, I like that better than a frock with a cord that goes allround, and no offence to you, Father John."

  Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points, La Mothe shook it outand held it hanging with such a careful carelessness that thelamplight, picking out each separate link, fired its length and breadthinto a dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through by thecolder blue of hammered steel. With every cunning, unseen movement ofthe fingers a ripple from the throat rolled downward and out at theedges in a white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he caughtit in his open hands, shaking them till it settled so compactly downthat it lay entirely hidden in their cup.

  "Monsieur La Mothe! Oh, Monsieur La Mothe!"

  To La Mothe the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, and, above all, theexclamation, were so pathetically eloquent of a stinted, starved,neglected childhood that a rush of passionate resentment swept acrosshim in arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those commonjoys which are childhood's natural food and rightful heritage. To be aman in responsibilities, a man bearing the burden and sorrows of hisyears, without having first been a boy at heart is more than anirreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy which haskilled the purest sweetener of the sours of life. Rob the twig of itssunshine and you rob the tree of its strength. But even while theflame of his anger scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had comethe gifts which brightened the boy's eyes, and was ashamed. Had he notsaid there was a wealth of unimagined love in the world?

  "For me, Monsieur La Mothe?"

  "If you will accept them."

  "See, Ursula! See, Father John! Now I can really be a knight likeRoland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. Oh, thank you, Monsieur LaMothe, thank you. And what is this?"

  "An embroidered mask for your plays, only none but you must wear it.See, this is the way it fastens behind, and this fringe hides themouth."

  "I don't think I like that so well. Yes, I do! For now I can be theman who attacked the Burnt Mill yesterday--he wore a mask, youremember. Poor Hugues! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that Imight show him my armour. But I will show it to Blaise instead. Youknow Blaise is to sleep at my door now? Come, Father John, while Ishow it to Blaise. I will put on the mask afterwards."

  "And meanwhile, Monseigneur," said Villon, "I will try how it fits."

  But La Mothe, remembering the King's instructions, intervened. "No,no, Villon, that is for the Dauphin alone--that and thecoat-of-mail--no one else must use them."

  For a moment it seemed as if Villon, vexed at what he took to be arebuke for presumption, would have pushed aside La Mothe's protestinghand, but with a shrug of his shoulders he gave way.

  "Perhaps you are right," he said, turning the edge of the awkwardnesswith a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should seethey are nothing but common flesh and blood like the rest of us."

  Slipping her hand into La Mothe's arm Ursula de Vesc drew him to thedoor, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin halfdragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaisehis treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve,his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, andwas hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm.

  "More and more you are my dear," she whispered, her lips so near hisear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It wasa beautiful thought and I love you for it, but it was just like you.Oh, Stephen, how I wish Villon was not here!"

  Now why did she wish that? And why did the white rose flame suddenlyred?

  Left to promptings of his own desires, Charlot the inquisitive debatedwhether the door or the table offered the better field for amusementand improving observation. The door, with its group of three crowdedinto the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage-way, promisedwell, but the table was nearer and forbidden, which promised better.Besides, some play he did not share was in progress, and he owed it tothe dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once already, when hetried to push his nose into that linen package, he had been baulked.Rearing himself on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of theDauphin's chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the chairwas blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon the seat, his earscocked, his head aslant.

  So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with anenquiring mi
nd. There was something new on the table, somethingstrange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiositywas piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitchingnose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, sonew and strange that he must enquire further. Again, very cautiously,for he knew he had no business there at all, he caught the mask in histeeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by hissuccess he looked about him. The humans were at the door talkingquietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-meme were biting oneanother's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and couldinvestigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the maskface downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as hesniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under himrigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a littlesoft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legsrelaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buriedin the hollow of the mask.

  "In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of France herself!" saidVillon as they turned back from the doorway.

  "And perhaps his plays may waken something of the Maid's great soul inhim." Then, before La Mothe could tell her that she herself had shownmuch of Joan's strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfishspirit, she added, "It was a sorrowful year when France lost so great asoul."

  "But France is never long bereaved," replied Villon, and from his tonethey could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soulwent, a great soul came--I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is norespecter of the rights of princes."

  "Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursulade Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; butat the first touch she let him slip from her hold and drew back,startled, looking up into La Mothe's face as he bent over her. Theplump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen,Charlot is dead!"

  "Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; butthe limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on theshoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched backfrom the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be nodoubt--Charlot's days of curiosity were ended.

  "Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" Butwhen reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villonanticipated her, setting his foot upon it.

  "Don't touch it, for God's sake, don't touch it!"

  "Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin's."

  "It killed Charlot!"

  "Killed Charlot? How?"

  "Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and should know."

  Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction of the Dauphin'stoy and the tone of Villon's reply, she caught at the table-edge,pulling herself upright.

  "Stephen, what does it all mean?"

  But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension had been staggered buthad recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances,luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselvestogether in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How putin words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villonwho gave her the key.

  "Poison."

  "Poison?" she repeated, shrinking in a natural repulsion. "Poison on amask you gave the Dauphin? Stephen, how could that be? But you mustanswer, you must tell us," she insisted as he shook his head for thesecond time, "you must, you must!"

  "I cannot." He spoke curtly, harshly, but the determination wasunmistakable. Twice he repeated it. "I cannot, I cannot."

  "But, Stephen----"

  "Ursula, you don't doubt me? You don't think--you can't think I knew?You can't think I planned this--this----" He faltered as his eyesturned upon the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had passedhis word to the King to be silent, and even if he spoke, the truthwould only add horror to horrors. "Ursula--beloved!" Laying Charloton the table he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught inboth hers, and he himself drawn into her arms.

  "Doubt you? No, Stephen, no, no; I trust you utterly--utterly. Andcannot you trust me? We have the boy to think of--the Dauphin--he mustbe protected. But for Charlot he--he--oh! I cannot say it. Stephen,don't you see? don't you understand? How can we guard him in the dark?The mask, Stephen: whose was it? where did it come from? Tell me forthe boy's sake."

  "I cannot, Ursula. Dearest heart, I cannot."

  Lifting from the table the napkin in which the mask had been wrapped,Villon shook it out, holding it up much as La Mothe had held thecoat-of-mail. Then he threw it on the table, spreading it flat.

  "Fleur-de-lys," he said, his finger on the woven pattern.

  "Fleur-de-lys and--Stephen, you came from Valmy? Oh! My God! My God!I understand it all. So that is why you are in Amboise?"

  Villon nodded gravely. Temperamentally he was the most emotional ofthe three, and the tragedy in little, which so nearly had been atragedy in great, had so shaken his nerve that he controlled his tonguewith difficulty.

  "Yes," he said slowly, "that is why he is in Amboise, and he never knewit. There were two arrows on the string, Saxe and this. And it mighthave been me." He turned to La Mothe. "You saved me; but for you itwould have been me."

  But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the moment it seemed as if he hadforgotten Villon's existence altogether. His arms were round the girl,one hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her fears, loverfashion, and comfort her with his nearness. But his thoughts were inValmy, a thin, tired voice whispering in his ears, a white face whoseeyes smouldered fire looking into his. With a shiver he roused himself.

  "Yes, I came from Valmy, and I must go back to Valmy; I must go thisvery night. Saxe used to keep a horse always ready," he ended, withthe bitterness of shame in his voice.

  "Stephen, was it for this?"

  "I suppose so. But I must go to Valmy to-night. As to the Dauphin,when I return----"

  "When you return!" echoed Villon drearily. "Did Molembrais return?Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is dead. You will be the next, for youknow more than Saxe ever guessed at."

  "Saxe dead?" said Ursula, turning to Villon in her distress. "MonsieurVillon, how did Saxe die?"

  "Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep away from Valmy; let himgo anywhere--anywhere, but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, andMonsieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct."

  "Stephen, Stephen, for my sake! Oh, that terrible King!"

  "Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. Help me to be strongto go; you who are so loyal and so brave, be brave now for me. Surelyto be brave for another is love itself! But, Villon, the Dauphin mustknow nothing of what has happened. Let him be happy while he can.Take away poor Charlot and that horrible thing, and leave me to make upa tale. Ursula, go and play with the dogs--anything that he may notsee the pain on your dear face. He is coming back--listen how helaughs, poor lad! Go, Villon; go, man, go, go!"

  "Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy,rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him sofull of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness ofliving, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphinof France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I wouldrather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask."

  "Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness? but Charlot hastorn it."

  "Charlot? Where is Charlot?"

  "Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is banished for a week."

  "But my mask, I want my mask!"

  "It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one--a better one."

  "But I don't want a new one or a better one; I want this one, and Iwant it now! It was very careless, Monsieur La Mothe, and I am veryangry with you."

  "Charles! Charles!" broke in the Franciscan, "Roland would never havesaid that; and I am sure it was not Monsieur La Mothe's fault."

  For a moment the b
oy turned upon the priest in a child's gust ofpassion at the interruption, his face a struggle between petulance andtears. Then he tilted his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders underthe coat-of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done.

  "You are right, Father, though you do come from Valmy. Monsieur LaMothe, I am sorry for what I said, and do not forget you are to call meCharles. Ursula, you have been crying; is that because Charlot spoiltmy mask?"

  "No, Charles; but because Monsieur La Mothe must go to Valmy."

  "Oh! Valmy?" he said dully. "I am never happy but somehow it isValmy, Valmy, Valmy! I think hell must be like Valmy."

  "My son, you must not say such things."

  "But what if I think them? Am I not to say what I think? And in hellthey hate, do they not? Monsieur Villon," he went on as the poetre-entered the room, "they were talking of Valmy as I passed thestair-head. Will you go and see if my father is dead a second time?No! stay where you are, I hear some one coming."

  Hastily crossing the room, Charles cowered close to Ursula de Vesc,furtively catching at her skirts as if half ashamed of his fears andyet drawn to the comfort of a strength greater than his own. All hispride of possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and insteadof wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed spirit looked out of hisdull eyes. He was no longer Roland, but the son of Louis of France.Laying her arm about him in the old attitude of protection which had sostirred La Mothe's heart, she held him close to her, the anxiety of herwatchfulness no less evident than his own. The darkness of her dreadhad deepened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, no good toStephen La Mothe.