The Justice of the King

  E-text prepared by Al Haines

  THE JUSTICE OF THE KING

  by

  HAMILTON DRUMMOND

  Author of "The King's Scapegoat," "Room Five," "The Houses," "Shoes of Gold," Etc.

  International Fiction LibraryCleveland ---------- New York

  Copyright, 1911by the MacMillan CompanyAll rights reserved

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. THE DESPATCH II. A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE III. FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE IV. THE JUSTICE OF THE KING V. THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART VI. HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON VII. FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN VIII. THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE IX. FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT X. LOVE, THE ENEMY XI. THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS XII. LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED XIII. "FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY" XIV. FOR LIFE AND THRONE XV. A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY XVI. TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST XVII. STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION XVIII. FRENCH AND ENGLISH XIX. GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN XX. THE LAST STAND XXI. DENOUNCED XXII. "WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER" XXIII. JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT XXIV. A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR XXV. "IT IS A TRAP" XXVI. COMMINES TAKES ADVICE XXVII. THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE XXVIII. PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST XXIX. THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST XXX. "LOVE IS MY LIFE" XXXI. SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION XXXII. LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION XXXIII. THE ARREST XXXIV. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS XXXV. THE DAWN BROADENS

  THE JUSTICE OF THE KING

  CHAPTER I

  THE DESPATCH

  All morning the King had been restless, unappeasable, captious, withlittle relapses unto the immobility of deep thought, and those who knewhim best were probing deeply both their conscience and their conduct.Had he sat aloof, quiet in the sunshine, his dogs sleeping at his feet,his eyes half closed, his hands, waxen, almost transparent, and bird'sclaws for thinness, spread out to the heat, those about him would havegone their rounds with a light heart. At such times his schemes werethoughts afar off, dreams of some new, subtle stroke of policy, andnone within touch had cause to fear.

  But this May day he was restless, unsettled, his mind so full of anactive purpose shortly to be fulfilled that he could not keep his tiredbody quiet for long, but every few minutes shifted his position or hisplace. If he sat in his great chair, padded with down to ease hisweakness and the aching of his bones, his fingers were constantlyplucking at his laces, or playing with the tags which fastened thefur-lined scarlet cloak he wore for a double purpose, to comfort thecoldness of his meagre body, and that the death-like pallor of his facemight be touched by its gay brightness to a reflected, fictitious glowof health. But to remain seated for any length of time jarred with hismood. Pushing himself to his feet he would walk the length of thegallery and back again, leaning heavily upon his stick, only to sinkonce more into his chair and fumble anew with shaking hands at whateverloose end or edge lay nearest.

  So it had been all morning, but the restlessness had redoubled withinthe last half-hour. It was then that a post had reached Valmy, no manknew from whence, nor had the messenger been asked any questions. Thesuperscription on the despatch was a warning against the vice ofcuriosity. It was in the King's familiar handwriting, bold andangular, and ran, "To His Majesty the King of France, At his Chateau ofValmy, These in great haste." A "Louis" in large letters was sprawledacross the lower corner of the cover.

  But though none asked questions it was noted that the horse was fresherthan the man, and that whereas the one was streaming in a lather ofsweat which had neither set nor dried, the other was splashed, caked,and powdered with mud and dust to the eyebrows: therefore the wise insuch matters deduced that short relays had been provided, but that therider had only halted long enough to climb from saddle to saddle. Insilence he handed his letter to the Captain of the Guard, together withthe King's signet, and in silence he rode away; but whereas he came ata gallop he rode away at a slow walk: therefore the wise furtherdeduced that his task was ended.

  With the King in residence not even the Captain of the Guard could movefreely through Valmy, but the signet answered all challenges. Everydoor, every stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these silentfigures the rooms and passages were alike empty. Loitering for gossipwas not encouraged at Valmy, and least of all in the block which heldthe King's lodgings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King tookthe air with the pointed windows open to the south for warmth, wasthere any suggestion of a court. Here, at the entrance, and remotefrom the King alone at the further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were inattendance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time Lessaixunbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to Saint-Pierre, and passedon. In Valmy suspicion never slept, never opened its heart in faith toloyalty, and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach the Kingarmed.

  While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnawing his under lip ashe watched him, suddenly flung out one hand, the palm outward, thefingers spread, and Lessaix halted.

  "Well?" He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man speaks whose temper is wornto breaking-point.

  "A despatch, sire."

  "From whom?"

  "There is nothing to show----"

  "From whom?"

  "I do not know, sire."

  "Have you no tongue to ask?"

  "I asked nothing, sire."

  "Um; hold it up." Leaning forward Louis bridged his dim eyes with hishand, and under the shadow Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shutconvulsively; but when the hand was lowered the King's face wasexpressionless. "What else?"

  "Your Majesty's signet."

  "Let me see! Let me see! Um; that will do. Put them on the table andgo. Where is the messenger?"

  "He left at once."

  "Um; were the roads bad from Paris?"

  "He did not say, sire; he never opened his lips."

  "Silent, was he? Then there is one wise man in France. Thank you,Captain Lessaix."

  With a salute Lessaix retired, but as he buckled on his sword againSaint-Pierre whispered, "Whence?"

  "I don't know," replied Lessaix, also under his breath, "but not fromParis!"

  Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips mumblingnervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his own handwriting: thering, a passport to life or death, he had at once slipped upon hisfinger. Every moment he knew he was watched, every action weighed, andhe was a little uncertain how far a judicious self-betrayal wouldfurther his purpose. His handwriting would tell them nothing but thathe knew the writer of the letter, whence it came, and that it wasimportant. To heighten the importance but conceal the cause seemedwise. Of course presently he must take some one into his confidence,and from the depth of his soul he regretted the necessity.

  That was the curse of kingship--the brain which planned, reconcilingdiscordant elements, must rely for execution on hands it could notalways control. Yes, that was the vice of government, and the reasonwhy so many well-devised, smoothly-launched schemes utterly miscarried.If the brain could only be the hands also! If the hands could onlyreach out from where the brain pondered and foresaw! But they couldnot, and so he must trust Commines. Trust Commines! A little gust ofanger at his impotence shook him and he shivered, dashing his handsupon the table; it was never safe to trust any one--never! But he washelpless, there was no escape, and in turn Commines must trust oneother: trust him with execution, that is, with blind performance, notwith knowledge. Beyond Commines he would trust no man with knowledge,at least not as yet, nor Commines more than he must. Later it might bepolicy to let it be known publicly the great danger which hadthreatened him, and France through him, but not till all was over!

  Till all was over! Again Louis shivered a little, but not this timewith anger. The
phrase was a euphemism for death, and he hated theword even when wrapped up in a euphemism and applied to another. Deathwas death, disguise it in what phrase one might; a horror, a terror,another vice of kings worse than the first. It said in plain words,"You can sow, but you may never reap; you can begin, but you may neverfinish. Some one else will reap: some one else will finish." Some oneelse! The thought was intolerable. He hated, he loathed the some oneelse as he hated and loathed death. With a sweep of his arm, as if hethrust some bodily presence from him, Louis leaned forward and caughtup the despatch. Let him make an end to brooding, here was work to bedone.

  Having closely examined the seals securing the back to make certainthey were intact, he ripped apart the threads which bound it round andround passing through the seals, and drew out the enclosure. It was asingle sheet of stiff paper. This he unfolded, and spreading it flatupon the table bent over it eagerly. But before he could have readthree lines he sank back in his chair with a cry, and so fierce was hisface that Saint-Pierre and Leslie, at the end of the gallery,instinctively drew apart, each suspicious of the other. The King'swrath was like lightning, swift to fall, and where it fell there wasthe danger of sudden destruction to those near.

  So he sat for a full minute, his brows drawn, his thin lips narrowed toa line, his head sunk between his shoulders, then with a sigh audibleto the length of the gallery he again bent above the paper, resting hisweight on both arms, as if utterly weary both in body and spirit.

  This time the pause was while he might have read the page slowly twiceover, weighing its sense word by word, and when at length he raised hishead all passion had gone from him; he was a sorrowful old man, wearyand worn and grey.

  "Commines!" he said harshly, "send me Commines," and sat back, thepaper crumpled lengthwise in his hand.

  But he did not sit for long. Rising, he paced up the gallery, his headbent, his iron-shod stick striking the flags with a clang as he leanedupon it at every second step, the crumpled paper still caught in hishand. At the door he paused, looking up sideways.

  "Commines? Where is Commines? Head of God! is there no one to bringme Commines?"

  "We have sent for him, sire."

  "Sent for him? Why is he not here when I need him? I am theworse-served king in Christendom. No one takes thought, no one cares,no one---- Who is on guard? Leslie? Ah! Leslie cares, with Leslie Iam safe: yes, yes, with Leslie I am safe," and once more he turnedaway, the iron ringing from the pavement as before. Suspicion breedssuspicion, and it would never do to vex Leslie's blunt loyalty with anyseeming distrust. Besides, it was true, he could trust Leslie. It wasnot the same trust as he had in Commines; Leslie would watch over him,would guard him at all costs, but Commines would obey and ask noquestions.

  Three times he had walked the length of the gallery, always withgrowing impatience, and three times turned before he heard the sound ofwhispering at the door, and the ring of rapid feet followed him. Buthe gave no sign, and went on his way as if he had heard nothing. Herecognized the footfall, but preferred that Commines should reach himas remotely from the door as possible.

  "Sire!"

  "Ah!" Louis turned with a start. "You have come at last! At last!There was a time I was served better. But let that pass. Philip, Ihave had letters."

  "Yes, sire, I know: Lessaix told me."

  "You know, and Lessaix told you! You watch me--spy on me, do you?"

  "Sire, it is my business to know everything which touches----"

  "Yes! and what more do you know? Where did the post come from, you,whose business it is to know everything?"

  "Lessaix thought from Paris."

  "From Paris," and Louis raised his voice so that the affirmation in itmight be clearly heard at the further end of the gallery. Then heturned to the silent group at the doorway, watchful to seize upon anyclue to the King's mystery which might guide their feet clear of thepitfalls besetting Valmy.

  "Let all men go from me but my friend Argenton," he said, with a waveof the hand which still held the paper crumpled in the grasp. "Let theguard remain beyond the door, but let no man enter till I give leave.Paris! Let them think Paris," he went on, lowering his voice, "butfrom you, Philip, I have no secrets. We are old friends, too oldfriends to have secrets one from the other, eh, Philip, eh? Give meyour arm that I may lean upon it, for I grow tired. It is the heat,not that I am ill or weaker; the heat, the heat, and I grow tired. Andyet I must walk: I cannot rest; no, not for a moment; this--this horrorhas unstrung me."