The Justice of the King Part 22

"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. Why are you not faithful? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme is hatched and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you grown besotted in your age? And you, Stephen, you who were given a free hand in Amboise for this very thing, you who have spent your days in child's play--Stephen, son"--with a sudden gesture Commines put his hand across La Mothe's shoulder, drawing him almost into the hollow of his arm, and the cold severity pa.s.sed from the hard voice--"don't mistake me, don't think I scoff at to-day's danger, to-day's courage. No. I thank G.o.d you are safe, I thank G.o.d he has given me back my son Stephen; but what am I to say to the King?"

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

"Most of all I blame you," and Commines, his arm still round La Mothe's shoulders, turned upon Villon in a swift access of pa.s.sion. "How is it you are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure the King 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 him what 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 it is 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 in the hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mind willing to be convinced, might pa.s.s for confirmation; but in his vexed anger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error, first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen La Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened.

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

"Uncle, 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 himself drunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for her own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprang forward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs you would cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songs till the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint."

"A saint," answered La Mothe hoa.r.s.ely, "a saint. I say so--I say so.

A saint as good, as sweet, as pure----" He paused, looking round him in the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good as these lilies, and the Mother of G.o.d they are called, for that, Monsieur d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc."

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

But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this very unreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation.

Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, a word or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, a little sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a d.a.m.ning reality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such an amplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel would serve no good purpose.

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

"Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly.

Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the ground slipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "So far 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 at its very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeks ago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It was the very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. The King is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In his sick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judging afterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for no cause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances, and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follow next. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some one must act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle de Vesc. That was weeks ago, and you," again Commines turned upon Villon in denunciation, "you must have known."

"Lies, all d.a.m.nable lies," said La Mothe, choking. "Who is the liar?

You won't tell me? But I must know; I must and shall. Not in the Chateau, but at its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it Jean Saxe, 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, was that Jean Saxe? A traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who else could it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave Molembrais his chance ten 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 Saxe in league against the boy? Uncle, you are mad and your proof proves too much. If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursula de Vesc's No! against him."

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

"That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalf of the Dauphin, but vaguely at first. There was great discontent, said Hugues, and greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteed though he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking who was secure if once the King had determined on his destruction. Even loyalty was no safeguard. In the King's sick suspicion his most faithful servants might be the first to suffer. Not a day pa.s.sed but there was a hanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both high and low. For a man 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, two days ago, Hugues spoke a second time, urging Saxe to a decision. If the Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, all France would say, Thank G.o.d! The generous nature of the boy was well known.

There would be rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him to promise----"

But La Mothe could control himself no longer. Through Commines'

indictment, coldly, almost phlegmatically delivered, he stood motionless and silent, his hands clenched, every muscle tense with restraint. It was the fighting att.i.tude, the att.i.tude of a man who waits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but a blow which will surely come. Now the restraint snapped.

"Villon, for G.o.d's sake, do you believe this lie?"

It was an exceeding bitter cry, and the pain of it pierced through even Commines' armour of calmness. But Villon, though he s.h.i.+vered 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 know Saxe 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 kept the little wine shop at the corner of----"

"Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxe had 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 his own account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken.

"Then what is the truth?"