"At whose expense?" broke in Villon. "In love and the building of kingdoms there is always a giving and a taking."
"Silence!" cried Charles sharply. "If you interrupt again I will have you removed, even though you are who you are. Now, monsieur, go on, please."
"He added province to province," continued La Mothe, "until in all that part of Arabia there was no such kingdom for greatness or for power, and no king so feared by the kings of the surrounding countries. But though his affairs were so prosperous he had one bitter grief which was never absent from his thoughts: he was estranged from his only son, whom he loved with all a father's love."
"Yes," said Charles gravely, "I see this is really an eastern story: a kind of a fairy tale, is it not, Monsieur La Mothe? A tale one wishes were true, but knows is all make-believe."
"All fairy tales have a heart of truth," answered La Mothe, "and this is a very true one, Monseigneur, as I hope you will believe before I have ended. In all his cares of state, and with so great a kingdom his cares were very many, there was no such care, no such sorrow, as this longing, unsatisfied love of the father's heart. Day and night his one thought was how he might win for his old age the love which his boy——"
"Ursula, I am tired," and Charles rose with a yawn. "Monsieur La Follette, will you please call Hugues, and I will go to bed? If we are duller to-morrow than we are to-day we will hear the rest of the story, but I don't think I like it very much. Even fairy tales should sound probable. Good night, Monsieur d'Argenton, good night, Monsieur La Follette, good night, Monsieur La Mothe," and with a bow which contrived to omit Villon from its scope the Dauphin left the room, followed by Ursula de Vesc. But at the door she paused a moment.
"A room will be made ready for you in the Château, Monsieur La Mothe, and perhaps to-morrow you will tell me the end of your story?"
"Dull?" said Villon, stretching himself with vigorous ostentation. "My faith, yes! If you are wise, friend La Mothe, you will finish the night with me at the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulders with genius familiarly."
But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe's arm.
"Genius?" he said, sternly contemptuous. "Yes! Genius depraved and degraded: genius crapulous and drunken. Take advice, Monsieur La Mothe, and bide indoors: the foulest soiling of God's earth is a foul old age unashamed of its disgrace." Then lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "Come to my room when all is quiet, son Stephen. Look out for the cross of shadow and take care that the de Vesc girl does not see you."