And Louis, a huddled, shapeless mass on his tossed cushions, sat gnawing his finger-tips and staring with dull eyes into vacancy. All passion had died from him and suddenly he had grown very old, though the indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age.
"My son," he said, shivering, "my son, my son." Then the bent shoulders straightened, the bowed head was raised, and into the tired eyes there shot a gleam of fire. "I have no son but France!" Was he a hypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who never deceived himself to another's hurt cast the first stone at him.
When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from Valmy the next morning on their way to Amboise he was there upon the walls, a solitary grey figure pathetic in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as they were in sight, did his eyes wander from them.
CHAPTER VII
FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN
Many, deep, and diverse are the springs of silence. If Commines asked no question when La Mothe returned from his interview with Louis, and made no comment beyond "You are late, my son," it was because he knew that curiosity was almost as dangerous as opposition where the schemes or secrets of his master were concerned. La Mothe, in his ignorance, had on the other hand no such thought, no such fear, but a charge which he held sacred had been solemnly committed to him: he shared a secret with the King and the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines' ultimate orders might be he understood now what his mission was, this mission to Amboise: it was to do for the father what the father might not do for himself, and as they rode slowly along the high road from Valmy he thought complacently to himself that he alone recognized the true nature of the man who watched them from the walls.
But there were obvious limits to the silence if the line of procedure laid down by the King was to be followed. A parting and a meeting were to be arranged, a plan of campaign to be decided upon; and it struck La Mothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make-believe in a boy could yet seize upon make-believe for his own purposes.
"The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise with you," began La Mothe, and it is to his credit that he spoke with hesitation. To Commines, as Commines himself had said, he owed everything, and yet it seemed as if already he had come between Commines and the King's confidence. And yet, just because he was in the King's confidence it was not easy to keep a touch of importance out of his voice. It was as if he said, "The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are to stand aside." But the bubble of his complacency was soon pricked.
"At Château-Renaud you will stay behind after we have dined," answered Commines, "nor will you leave the inn until three o'clock. You will then go on foot to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and take the Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then to ford the Loire at Grand-Vouvray and enter Amboise from the south. Once in Amboise ask for the Chien Noir and put up there for the night."
"So you know all about it," said La Mothe, crest-fallen. Nor was it simply that Commines knew all about it, it seemed he knew much more than La Mothe himself.