"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning the edge of the awkwardness with a gibe. "Princes have need of masks lest the world should see they 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 the door, followed by Villon, and the three stood watching the Dauphin half dragging Father John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaise his treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly by the sleeve, his cold suspicion of all that came from Valmy banished for once, and was hugging the mail to his breast with the other arm.
"More and more you are my dear," she whispered, her lips so near his ear that his blood tingled at the stirring of the warm breath. "It was a 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 suddenly red?
Left to promptings of his own desires, Charlot the inquisitive debated whether the door or the table offered the better field for amusement and improving observation. The door, with its group of three crowded into the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage-way, promised well, but the table was nearer and forbidden, which promised better. Besides, some play he did not share was in progress, and he owed it to the dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once already, when he tried to push his nose into that linen package, he had been baulked. Rearing himself on his hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of the Dauphin's chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the chair was blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon the seat, his ears cocked, his head aslant.
So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked about him with an enquiring mind. There was something new on the table, something strange, part of the play he had been shut out from, and his curiosity was piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, twitching nose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, certainly was strange, so new 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 his teeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little dazed by his success he looked about him. The humans were at the door talking quietly, Charlemagne beside them; Diane and Lui-même were biting one another's ears in a corner; he had the floor to himself, and could investigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. Nosing the mask face downward he sniffed again, drawing a long breath, and as he sniffed a thrill shivered through him, his legs braced under him rigidly as if they were not his legs at all, then he gave a little soft, growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His legs relaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, his muzzle buried in the hollow of the mask.
"In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of France herself!" said
Villon as they turned back from the doorway.
"And perhaps his plays may waken something of the Maid's great soul in him." Then, before La Mothe could tell her that she herself had shown much of Joan's strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfish spirit, she added, "It was a sorrowful year when France lost so great a soul."
"But France is never long bereaved," replied Villon, and from his tone they could not say if he spoke in jest or earnest. "If a great soul went, a great soul came—I was born that year! La Mothe, Charlot is no respecter of the rights of princes."
"Charlot! You mischievous dog!" Stooping to rescue the mask, Ursula de Vesc caught the puppy with both hands to drag him towards her; but at 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. The plump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly on its side. "Stephen, Charlot is dead!"