But for two happenings by the way Stephen La Mothe's ride over the route taken twenty-four hours earlier by Commines was without event. Of these happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in mercy the bitter came first, leaving the sweet to comfort the end of the journey.
Once fully clear of Amboise the leader of the troop halted, and by a prearranged plan his followers gathered round them, hemming them into a circle as they had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day.
"Monsieur La Mothe," he said civilly, but speaking with the air of a man who had a fixed purpose, "there is a certain signet which I must demand. We who come from Valmy always say must and demand," he added, with a touch of grim humour, which was lost on La Mothe, but which Paul Beaufoy would have appreciated.
"Your instructions said nothing about a signet."
"I must have it, nevertheless. You can see for yourself that the order was written in haste, and how should I know the ring exists if the King had not told me? To be frank with you, these men do not go with us all the way to Valmy, and where would I be if, when we arrived, you played your signet against my scrap of paper?"
"But you have my parole."
"Valmy's parole!" he said scornfully. "I mean no offence, but I can afford no risks. Come, Monsieur La Mothe, do not put me and yourself to the indignity of a search."
At the contempt in the scornful voice La Mothe started, flushing hotly in the darkness. But the memory of the deadly deceit practised on his own faith was too recent, and he controlled himself. How could he blame a stranger for judging the servant by the master?
"The ring came from the King and should go back to the King. On your honour, is this part of your duty?"
"My most solemn duty, as God is above us; without the signet I cannot fulfil all that has been laid upon me"—which was true in a sense. The order stolen from Beaufoy might gain him entrance to Valmy, but without the signet he could not count on forcing a way to Louis himself.
"On compulsion, then," said La Mothe, giving up the signet, and thenceforward they rode in silence, not pressing their horses unduly; but it vexed him to think that Louis would not trust him to return the ring.
If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could blame him or charge it to the discredit of his courage? The rough lesson had been roughly taught that it is better to tramp the road of life afoot and one's own master than to ride a-horseback under compulsion. He had learned, too, that on the tree of knowledge of the ways of men are many fruits which pucker the mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As to the ways of women, that is an altogether different book—a serial, let us say, but in how many numbers?
Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun of a new day had risen. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the auberge where Paul Beaufoy had purchased breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, the troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from which La Mothe was excluded, and the two rode on alone. Each was preoccupied and neither spoke. Knowing the relationship which existed between Valmy and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange in the procedure followed both at the Château and afterwards. If the King suspected he had joined the camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might have been resisted; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, there was no further need for force. The King who kept no faith was shrewd to know when he could trust the faith of others, and the troopers doubtless were required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at a distance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais' flight in the desperate possibility of his escape from Valmy.
Unconsciously following the precedent set by Commines, they drew rein while it was yet dark. Daylight, both knew, would show Valmy in the distance. But as they crawled at a foot's pace in the yet darker shadow of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a sullen grey ribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the horizon like an inverted giant monolith, there sounded behind them the remote pad, pad of rapid hoofs muffled by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when even nature is steeped in the quiet of a child's sleep, and the rhythmic beat broke the stillness like the throbbing of a heart.
"This way and be silent."
La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught, wrenching his horse backward into a gloom so heavy that those behind them would have passed them by but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the bit, tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. Instantly the foremost rider checked, and a voice called out of the darkness, "Who is there? Stephen! Stephen!" It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch of the spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, dragging the rein from the hand which held it.
"Ursula! You! Why are you here? Who is with you?"
"Where else should I be?" she answered between laughter and a sob."Did you think I could wait, breaking my heart alone in Amboise?Besides, there is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we shallbe together to the end."
"But the Dauphin?"
"Your orders are cancelled, don't you remember? There is no longer any fear for the Dauphin. And if there was," she added half defiantly, "I would be here all the same."
From the shadow of the pines La Mothe's captor rode slowly forward."For what purpose, mademoiselle?"
"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell him—that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre. My one fear was I might be too late, and all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach Valmy before me."
"But there is no entering Valmy in the dark."
"Monsieur La Mothe's signet——"
"La Mothe, you never told me that."
"Why should I?" replied La Mothe. "I owed you no information. You took your instructions from the King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must not, dare not, go to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be madness, the danger——"
"Where you go I go," she answered steadily. "Dear, do not try to dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us not fret ourselves in the little time we have. And is the danger less for you than for me?"
"Do you mean," demanded Molembrais, "that the signet will give admission to the King at any hour, day or night?"
"At any hour, yes."
"And we are ready to go," said the girl, ranging her horse by the side of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe was within touch of her hand.
"Neither you nor the priest—La Mothe and La Mothe only," he answered, his voice roughening into passion for the first time. "Come, sir, I hold your parole."
"But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe's parole."
"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do with you."
"Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I believe the King will thank you."
"Flatly, I decline to take you."
"Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not."
"Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to the priest.
"She is right," answered the Franciscan, speaking for the first time, "and when one is right there is no turning back, no matter what the end may be. Yes," he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly seen in the gloom, "I know you are armed and we are not, but, short of killing me, you can no more turn me back from the right than you can turn back the finger of God from lifting the sun yonder."
He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his arm all faced with him. Dawn trembled in birth below the hard rim of the world. The leaden sullenness was colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, but the impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the coming glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was as if indeed the Divine had clothed itself in visibility, that the troubled in spirit might take comfort, and faith go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid.
Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips the monk sat in silence, like one tranced. "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and the King of Glory shall come in,'" he murmured. Then he roused, straightening himself in the saddle. "Let us ride on. Have no fear, mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I serve you shall taste no harm."
"They will never let you pass the outer guard."
"A way will open; ride on."
"Well ride, then!" And ride they did, furiously. The fewer sleepless eyes in Valmy the better for his purpose; the surer, too, his chance of escape in the confusion which must follow the King's death. Once only Molembrais looked round.
"Remember your parole. Keep near me, La Mothe!" Then, crouching low, he drove his spurs home and dashed forward at a reckless gallop.
But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and the Franciscan, he was mistaken. Thanks to the good offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, they had changed horses at Château-Renaud, and now their freshness more than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. Even Father John, the weakest rider of the four, never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff with pain and every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed fatigue, kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen and Ursula came last, side by side. Crossing the Loire the pace slackened, and for the first time speech was possible.
"Stephen, you are not vexed? I could not wait in Amboise eating my heart out, knowing nothing."
"How could love vex me?" he answered as they clasped hands across the current. "But, beloved, I am in terror for you. The King——"
"Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is right, God's over all, and I have no fear." The clasp tightened in a message neither could speak. But it was only for a moment; already their horses were scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart.
"God guard you, Ursula."
"Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, but not in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might be said in Valmy.
Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up with him.
"We must keep together now. If I have done my part courteously, help me in return by silence. Remember, no one in Valmy knows of the arrest. Mademoiselle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves."
La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was natural. For his part he had no desire to be a target for curious questions. He had no explanation to give, nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, he knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining the Dauphin's party. As to Ursula, it seemed safer for her to be disassociated from him in either case; safer, too, that the King should see him first and alone; the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two rode on ahead, Ursula and Father John following more leisurely. The dawn was as yet little more than a haze of yellow mist.
While they were still a bow-shot from the walls a hoarse voice shouted a command to halt, but Molembrais, holding the signet above his head, called back "In the King's name," and rode on. Every moment of gloom was precious, and a bold assertion of privilege was his surest hope. If he appeared to doubt his own credentials, who would believe? There is always a certain willingness to take a man at his own valuation, especially if the valuation be a low one. Waiting for no challenge, and faithful to his policy, he flung himself from his horse at the outer gate with every appearance of haste.
"In the King's name," he cried, scarcely giving himself time to light upon his feet and holding fast by Paul Beaufoy's formula. "To His Majesty, Monsieur La Mothe and I—quickly now."
As he more than half expected, the very importunity staggered opposition.
"His Majesty is asleep; you cannot pass——"
"His orders are imperative—sleeping or waking—any hour by day or by night. Who is on guard?"
"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre."
"Send for him, then. Stir yourself, my man, and don't stand there gaping like a fish."
But Saint-Pierre had already heard the altercation, and at the rasp of his spurs on the flags Molembrais turned sharply. Quick to note the richer dress he drew his own conclusion. Waiting for neither question nor explanation he again held out the signet.
"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, we must see the King at once—at once, you understand. Here is my authority."
"But I do not know you? No stranger can——"
"But you know this!" Molembrais cut him short. "Do you think I have risked my neck galloping these accursed roads all night to be delayed now just because you do not know me? Is it the King's signet or is it not?"
"Pass, then," said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. "Does Monsieur La Mothe go with you?"
For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say no? He would have given much to have shaken off La Mothe now that the gates were passed, and have forced his way to the King alone; but the attempt might waken that suspicion which slept so lightly in Valmy. While he paused, La Mothe answered, deciding the question.
"Unfortunately, yes, Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. Will you please tellMonsieur de Commines that I have arrived?"
"Is it arrest? My dear lad——" he began as La Mothe nodded, butMolembrais again interrupted him.
"We have no time now. Where is the King?"
"In his usual lodgings."
"Mort-dieu! monsieur, how should I know his usual lodgings? Am I ofValmy?"
"Monsieur, a little civility would do you no harm."
"Monsieur, once I have seen the King I will be as civil or as uncivil as you please."
Turning on his heel Saint-Pierre beckoned to an under officer. "Pass these gentlemen to Captain Leslie: he is on duty in the King's ante-room. Don't fear, La Mothe, I will send word to Monsieur de Commines without delay. He is anxious about you, for he has been enquiring at the gates once this morning already."
"Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, there is a lady behind us; she has ridden all night——"
"A lady?" Saint-Pierre's hand fell on his shoulder in a kindly touch. "Not old enough to be your mother, I'll wager! Don't fret, mon gars, I have been young myself," and with that La Mothe had to be content.
Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais took up his position last of the three. Now that he was within its walls the indefinable terror of Valmy possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was not that he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly determined, not that he had grown coward or would have turned back had return been possible, but the chill of the shadows through which the path lay crept deeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, in part the inexpressible revolt of nature against an inevitable sacrifice, in part the sinister suggestions inseparable from Valmy itself.
And how could he escape from that suggestiveness? There, where the denser gloom sloped from the roof across a paved courtyard, Guy's scaffold might have stood; through that doorway, dimly outlined against the greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light for the last time; these obscure, uncertain windows, blind eyes in the slowly waning night, might have seen the axe fall; down these cellar stairs might have been carried—but they had swung to the left into a narrow court, and before them were the King's lodgings. No! it was not that he repented, not that he had turned coward, but would fate and circumstances trick him of his revenge at the last?
There are some men whom the dread of failure chills to the heart when the crisis calls them, and Marc de Molembrais was one of them. He had no definite plan of either attack or escape. How could he have, when every angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room through which they passed was strange to him? But if he had no plan, he had a purpose firmly set in his determination, which neither gloom nor chill could check; from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice of revenge, he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow he would get Louis of France into his grip, and somehow he would break to liberty. At the door of the King's ante-room Leslie met them, and their guide stepped aside: his work was done.
In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinctively he felt that neither bluster nor importunity would serve him now. Then he glanced aside at La Mothe. "We must see the King and at once," he almost whispered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his dread of failure he feared the excitement in his voice would betray him at the last.
"Where from?"
"Amboise."
Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy should go and a stranger return was quite in keeping with the King's devious methods. "Give me your sword and then I will waken him. I think he expects you."
"My sword?" The request staggered him. He had relied upon his sword for the one thrust necessary, then to aid him in his escape, or at least that he might die fighting.
"Don't you know that no one approaches the King armed? not even I, not even Lessaix. There is nothing personal in it."
"No, I never heard that." He stood a minute, gnawing his lip, then wrenched the buckle open. What matter, he had his dagger hidden!
Laying the weapon aside, Leslie softly lifted the portière, holding it looped with one hand while with the other he opened the door very gently.
"Sire!"
"Is that Leslie? I am awake."
"There are messengers from Amboise. Your Majesty's signet——"
"Thank God! Oh, thank God! Lord God! Mother of God! Christ of God! grant he was in time." The voice was thin and tremulous, the end almost a sob. "Turn up the lamp, Leslie, and leave them with me alone. Mercy of God! strengthen me for what is to come."
Dropping the portière behind him, Leslie crossed the room with a quietness rare in one so roughly natured and so strongly built. But Louis had the power of winning men's affections when it so pleased him, and it was politic to win the man who held his life in care. Loosening the wick in its socket with the silver pin hanging from the lamp for that purpose, Leslie returned to the door.
"Are you ready, Sire?"
An affirmative wave of the hand was the answer, as, high upon his pillows and pushed to the very outer edge of the bed, the King leaned forward. Was he ready? He dared not say so. Words do not come easily when life or death waits uncertain behind the door.
"Have you slept, Sire?"
"No." The voice was firmer as the hard will regained the upper hand, but it was harsh, dry, curt. "Perhaps I'll sleep—later. Please God I'll sleep later. Send them in."
But in the ante-room Leslie paused a moment.
"Take off those riding gloves," he said sharply. "You must know little of kings' courts. Leave them on the table. You can pick them up as you go out."
"I know my duty," answered Molembrais, "and that is enough for me." To speak sharply steadied his nerve. But at the door he stood aside and motioned to La Mothe. "Do you go in first." Again it was not that his courage failed him, but La Mothe would be so much covert, La Mothe would draw the King's attention. It would ruin everything if, while he was on the very threshold, the King should cry out, Where is Beaufoy?
But Louis never gave him a glance. As the light fell upon La Mothe's face he drew a shivering sigh and clenched his teeth with a snap. Life or death had passed the door—which was it?
"Come nearer," he said, beckoning. "Nearer yet. You, Beaufoy, stay there by the door. The Dauphin?—Charles?"
"Well, Sire."
"Well!" The beckoning hand dropped, then he leaned forward, covering his face. "Oh, God—God—God—God be thanked!" he sobbed, his shoulders shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. "God be thanked!" La Mothe heard him whisper a second time, and in the silence Molembrais crept forward and aside, edging by the wall where the shadows were thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench the lamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he stole towards the table.
Suddenly Louis reared himself upright, again shaking a hand before him, but this time in a threat.
"I cancelled my orders: where—where——"
"The mask is destroyed, Sire."
"Destroyed? Safely?"
"Safely, Sire."
"And the Dauphin—Charles—does he know——"
Again he paused, and again La Mothe filled the blank, reading into the completed words the uncompleted question.
"The Dauphin knows nothing but that the gifts were mine."
"Yours! Yes, yours, yours only, and you dared—who is that at the table?" His voice rose shrilly into a cry. "That is not Paul Beaufoy."
The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than the words themselves warned La Mothe. Round he spun, irresolute in surprise. Nor was it the figure stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached for the light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that light clear upon a signet ring, and Villon's phrase rang in his ears—"A martlet with three mullets in chief." Then the lamp flickered out.
"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, as they twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in an indrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the dead had risen.
Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yet tighter, La Mothe fought for his life. Molembrais was the stronger, Molembrais was the more desperate, and desperation is a strength in itself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped and fell; and with the blood drumming in his ears La Mothe heard nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing but Molembrais' hot breath in his face, Molembrais' tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the room was ablaze, a racking violence wrenched. Molembrais from his clasp, and he was pressed back downward on the floor, a sword at his throat. It was Commines; Leslie and a guard held Molembrais; beyond, at the doorway, stood Ursula de Vesc; by the bedside Father John stooped above the King, his arm thrown round him.
"Stephen, Stephen, what madness is this?"
Propped on his arm La Mothe pointed to Molembrais.
"Molembrais!" he panted. "Twice—the Dauphin—now the King. Thank GodI knew him at the last."
By the bedside the Franciscan stooped lower, whispering in the King's ear—whispering urgently, insistently, pleadingly. What he said none heard, but the hard face slowly softened.
"Philip, let him rise; you did well to vouch for Monsieur La Mothe. And you, young sir, who have learned when to speak and when to keep silence, was I not right? Amboise was dull, and queen and waiting-maid are all of the one flesh? Mademoiselle, take him back to Amboise with you and watch together over my son, the Dauphin, and the God of Mercy be gracious to you both as He has been to me this day."
He paused a moment. Shifting on his elbow he laid an arm round theFranciscan's neck, drawing him closer, and as he whispered to thepriest a laugh wrinkled his worn face. Father John nodded, smiling.The King's arm slipped from him and he straightened himself.
"You are right, Sire, it is their due. Mademoiselle, come nearer. Who giveth this woman to this man?"
"I do," answered Louis.
Seven years after the boy Charles succeeded to the throne a certain Stephen de Vesc, chamberlain to the King, was appointed, first, Seneschal of Beaucaire, then Governor of Gaeta, and finally Constable of France. Could it be that Stephen La Mothe adopted his wife's name to please the Dauphin? Such changes are not unknown in our day, and for less cause.