Commines broke the silence with a bold stroke. "He carried more letters than yours, Sire. A man named Saxe——"

"Saxe?" said Louis, drawling the word. "Who is Saxe?"

"An innkeeper in Amboise. Yesterday, an hour or two after I had received Your Majesty's letter, he came to me with a lying tale."

"What sort of reputation has this Saxe?"

"He is an innkeeper."

"An innkeeper? Innkeepers are decent folk. Travellers trust them nightly with their property, with their lives even. There is no discredit in innkeeping. You know, Monsieur d'Argenton, I do not hold that honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. This Saxe, now, what was his tale?"

"One, Sire, that if true would have plunged all France into sorrow, and you into the deepest grief of all. He accused the Dauphin, a girl named Ursula de Vesc, and one Hugues, the Dauphin's valet, of plotting against Your Majesty."

"Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you understood when you left Valmy. Did I not tell you to sift, and search, and find? Now comes this Saxe, a decent, reputable man——"

"Sire, Saxe lied."

"Lied?" Loosing the curtain Louis slipped back upon his pillows, huddled in a shapeless heap, his hands clenched upon his breast, his chin sunk upon their clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only the eyes, dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed alive. "Who says Saxe lies?"

"All who heard him, Sire."

"What? There were witnesses?"

"There was need of witnesses for the sake of the publicity afterwards."

"Um! I do not say you were wrong, but it has turned out badly. Well?"

"Saxe proved too much. He swore the Dauphin quoted Molembrais' death as a reason why all France was——" Commines paused, fearing to offend by an unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for him.

"Why France was afraid. Well, that was probable. I see no lie in that."

"No, Sire; but Saxe fixed the day definitely, and Molembrais was alive at the time."

The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into the pillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Commines knew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and because Coictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violent emotion might be fatal.

"Oh, the fool! the—the—the—I must be calm. May all the devils—no, I must be calm, I must control myself; my miserable, wretched heart—but to be cursed with such a fool, such a fool!"

"A scoundrel, Sire, rather than a fool; a villainous, lying scoundrel, who would traduce the Dauphin himself. Let us thank God he overreached himself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince your son is innocent of all blame, is loving and loyal. Let us publicly, promptly stamp Saxe for the liar he has proved himself to be, lest he malign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now the one course possible."

"Eh, Philip? What was that? Accuse the King himself? Accuse me—me? Of what, Philip, of what? Where is this Saxe? In whose keeping? Monsieur d'Argenton, have you been imprudent—careless? By God! you shall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me—at me. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he has lied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of his loving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news. Yes, we rejoice—we rejoice—God knows how we rejoice! Philip, the cordial—there, on the table—that crystal flask. This joyful emotion is killing me."

Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a hand which faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless on the bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to his mouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly. As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of the chest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblance of life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for a moment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst, been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closed his eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest the easier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes still closed he beckoned to Commines to stoop lower.

"Saxe—where is Saxe?"

"In safe keeping, Sire."

"Safe? He cannot talk?"

"Quite safe. Only La Mothe and Villon visit him.

"La Mothe? Faugh! another fool. There is no end to the breed. I think God made them as He made flies, to be the fret and plague of life. You vouched for the fool, Philip, remember that."

"And I still vouch for La Mothe," answered Commines. He felt that he was now safe, so safe that he might even venture to plead for Stephen. "Consider, Sire, you who are so just, is it the boy's fault that we failed to discover what does not exist? Remember, Saxe lied, lied throughout, and has always lied." He paused, but if he expected to draw some further comment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent, his face void of expression, and Commines went on: "That cruel jest the Provost-Marshal played upon us all cut me to the heart. Sire, Sire, how could you permit it? All night long I have ridden from Amboise in despair and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved of so good and true a friend, so great a King. The awful shock——"

"There, there, no more of that," said Louis harshly. The reminder of the grim, inevitable certainty which had lately been so significantly near was more than he could bear. With an effort he struggled on his elbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I am strong—stronger than for years. Coictier says so; but he says, too, that I should rest, so I will lie back again. Yes, yes, a jest—and yet not all a jest." From under his drooped lids he looked up at Commines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what did Charles say? Charles, who is so loving and loyal. Laughed and thanked God—eh, Philip?"

"No, Sire, no. For the moment he seemed struck dumb, as we all were. True grief is silent. When sorrow is at its sorest, words do not come easily, and never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin's last night." Which was true, for Hugues, who had loved him, lay dead. And Hugues' death gave Commines another inspiration, which, because of the end in view, he seized upon without a scruple. "But when at last words came they were worthy of him, worthy of his loyalty both as son and subject. 'I would be Dauphin again,' said he, 'if I could but bring him back.'"

Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis caught Commines by the arm with a greater strength than had seemed possible in one so frail, caught him and held him, and if the hand shook, it was not from weakness.

"He said that? Charles said that? Who prompted him?"

"No one, Sire. He spoke his own thought frankly, and every word he said came from his heart."

"Philip, as God lives, is that true?"

"As God lives," said Commines deliberately, "these were the Dauphin's very words, and he spoke them from his heart. No one prompted him, no one led him; they were his own thoughts, his only."

With a deep breath which might have been a sigh or a moan Louis lay back. His eyes were closed, but his whole air had changed: the lips were firm-pressed in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at this or that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness by a pretence at animation, and from long experience Commines knew that he had forced himself to some unusual effort at concentrated thought. But the outcome of the thought surprised and disappointed the watcher.

"La Mothe?"

"Sire, I vouch for La Mothe."

"God's name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for himself?"

"I had forgotten. To-day's blessed relief drove it from my head. Can you blame me, Sire, if I forgot everything but my joy? Last night, as I left Amboise, he said, 'Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell him that within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the order he gave me.'"

"Twelve hours? Twelve hours? Philip, by your salvation, have you told me the truth to-day? Charles? My son? That he said those things? More hangs on it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as I have made you what you are, do not deceive me."

"Most true, Sire; I would plead for the Dauphin——"

"Plead? What need have you to plead, you or any man? Plead? Your officiousness goes too far. Is he not my son? Who is on duty?"

"Beaufoy, Sire."

"Pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy to me—now, this very instant. Go, man, go! Why do you stand staring there like a wax image? Oh! pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy—do you not hear? Send Beaufoy, send Beaufoy this instant! Beaufoy! Beaufoy! And, Philip, have the fastest horse in Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make haste, for the love of Heaven, make haste! Beaufoy! Beaufoy!"

Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden outburst which filled Louis' frail body with passion, Commines hastened to the door. He thought he had sounded all his master's shifting moods, but this agony of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new to him. Dimly he understood that the antagonism to the Dauphin had broken down finally and for ever. La Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to draw the father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy? Why such anxiety of haste? Why that scream of fear in the voice? Beyond the door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and startled.

"The King—go to him."

"Ill? Dying?"

"No, he needs you. Go at once—at once," answered Commines, with a jerk of his head, and was gone.

"You called me, Sire?"

"Pen—ink—paper. There, on the table. Quicker, dolt, quicker!"

But with the quill between his fingers and the paper flattened on a pad against his knee, Louis was in no haste to write. Gnawing with unconscious savagery at his under-lip he stared into vacancy, searching, searching, searching for the precise words to express his thought. But they eluded him. It was not so simple to be precise, so clear that even a fool like Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yet be so cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of the order, would not betray him. Commines' voice was clanging in his ears like the clapper of a bell, and would not let him think coherently. Twelve hours! Twelve hours! Even now—no, not yet, but soon, very soon, it might be too late. "Perdition!" he cried, striking his hand upon the woollen coverlid—he was chilly even in May—"will they never come?"

And at last they came, not what satisfied him, but what perforce must suffice, and with a hand marvellously steady under the compulsion of the iron will he dashed off two or three sentences at white heat, added his signature in the bold, angular characters which had so often vouched a lie as the truth, and flung the paper across to Beaufoy.

"There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your horse is waiting you in the courtyard. Read your orders as you go, but let no man see them, not even Argenton. The moment they are executed return to Valmy."

"Go where, Sire?"

"To Amboise—Amboise, and ride as if all hell clattered at your back.
Go, man! Go, go!"

Until Beaufoy had dropped the curtain behind him Louis sat rigidly upright; then, as if the very springs of life were sapped to their utmost limit, he sank back in collapse upon the pillows. From the half-opened shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table, flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver Christ upon the cross, propped amongst the litter, and drew his eyes.

"Twelve hours," he whispered, staring at it, fascinated. "Thy power, Thy power and infinite love, O Lord! God have mercy upon us! God have mercy upon me! My son! My son!"

And riding down the slope to the river Beaufoy read:

"Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life let him hold no communication with the Dauphin.—LOUIS."