But even when the door was shut behind them Commines stood irresolute. There are times when to be alone is the instinct of nature, and this was one of them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, some reverse, a disaster even. Louis' last letter, received that very day, had been harsh in tone, curt to severity, its few words full of a personal complaint which his pride had concealed from Stephen La Mothe. It had been more than a rebuke, it had been a warning, almost a threat. Now upon its heels came this, and he knew that of the three who watched him curiously two were his open enemies. If it was his dismissal, his downfall, there would be no pity. But to be alone was impossible. The situation had to be faced there and then. "With your permission. Monseigneur?" he said, and tore the envelope open.
It was a short letter, as many fateful letters are, and Commines read it in a glance, then a second time. "My God!" they heard him say twice over, drawing in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him suddenly. Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the paper, then as unconsciously smoothed it out again. The instinct to be alone had possessed him like a prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick of finding an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitariness he desired had come upon him. He forgot he was not alone, and the truest solitude is the isolation of the spirit when the material world slips from us, and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to face with his own soul. So he stood, the paper shaking in his shaking hands, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he shifted his eyes, and as they fell upon the Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc's arms, the skirt of the white robe half wrapped round him, his head almost upon her breast, he straightened himself with an effort.
"Monseigneur," he began, "the King——" but the words choked in his throat. His coarse, healthy face had gone wan and grey, now it flushed and a rush of tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of the head he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe saw him struggling for self-control. "The King is dead," he said hoarsely. "God have mercy on us all; the King is dead—dead."
From the boy his eyes had travelled upwards, following the protecting arm which lay across the slender shoulders, and it was Ursula de Vesc who answered. Charles had caught her hand in both his and held it pressed against his breast. It was clear that he did not understand, but the full meaning of the tragedy of death is not comprehensible in a single moment, nor was the girl's answer much more than an exclamation.
"Monsieur d'Argenton! The King? The King dead?"
"Dead," he said dully, "the greatest King that France has ever known, the greatest mind that was alive in France. In France? In Europe! There was none like him—none. A great King, great in his foresight, great in his wisdom, great in his love for France; a great King, and he is dead. But yesterday, this very day even, he held the peace of nations in the hollow of his hand, now—— Why, how poor a thing is man. Dead! dead! But his monument is a great nation, a new France; and who shall hold France in her pride of place amongst the nations where his dead hand raised her? Dead; the Great King and my friend."
CHAPTER XXV
"IT IS A TRAP"
This time no one broke the silence, and for a little space the quiet was like the reverent stillness of a death-chamber. The awe inseparable from sudden death possessed them. And yet, after the first shock of natural horror, La Mothe was conscious of a great relief. Not till then did he realize how tense the strain had been, how acute the fear. But at the slow dropping of Commines' bitter-hearted words there came a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to find a gladness in such a cause of grief. For the loss to France he cared little. To him Louis had been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not Louis, then another, and France would still be France. But as Commines turned away and, following that other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal, hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he leaned against the wall, the lad's heart went out in sympathy to the man who had lost his friend. And surely over and above his greatness of mind there must have been some deep heart of goodness in the dead man when he moved affection to such a grief. But at last the silence came to an end, and again it was Ursula de Vesc who spoke.
"Monsieur d'Argenton, you will, of course, go to Valmy at once?"