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Updated: May 23, 2025
"And, mind you, I find it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how and when he can." "Does Saxe know?" "Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may have been at the way you pounded his horse." La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and now, leaving the grey where he stood, the sweat caking on his dusty flanks, he turned to the stables.
"Molembrais!" he cried, and sprang on Molembrais; and from behind, as they twisted in each other's arms, he heard the King whisper in an indrawn, frightened breath, "Molembrais! Molembrais!" as if the dead had risen. Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. Straining his grip yet tighter, La Mothe fought for his life.
But it was only for a moment; already their horses were scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart. "God guard you, Ursula." "Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye?" For answer he shook his head, but not in denial; none knew for certain how suddenly good-byes might be said in Valmy. Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La Mothe to close up with him. "We must keep together now.
"Do you think I have risked my neck galloping these accursed roads all night to be delayed now just because you do not know me? Is it the King's signet or is it not?" "Pass, then," said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. "Does Monsieur La Mothe go with you?" For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say no?
First there had been the coiner of Thouars, then the brawling drunkard of Tours, the thief of Valmy, the nettle-gatherer, and lastly Molembrais who held the King's safe-conduct. Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small when not even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in his cups, or the holder of the King's safe-conduct could slip through.
Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, tripped and fell; and with the blood drumming in his ears La Mothe heard nothing, knew nothing, felt nothing but Molembrais' hot breath in his face, Molembrais' tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a sudden the room was ablaze, a racking violence wrenched.
"Mademoiselle, you read my instructions; they have nothing to do with you." "Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any importance, but I believe the King will thank you." "Flatly, I decline to take you." "Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not." "Father!" and in his angry perplexity Molembrais turned, appealing to the priest.
But we shall save her together," and this time Stephen La Mothe, out of the horror of the thought of Ursula de Vesc given over to the mercies of such a man as Tristan, found it in his heart to ask, "How?" The answer came promptly, but with grave deliberation. "By the King's mercy." "What mercy had the King on Molembrais? Will he be more merciful to a woman?" "Then by his gratitude.
Had he not given his satire a loose rein over the safe-conduct which drew this very Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthlessness which brushed aside any such feeble plea as a King's good faith?
"To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe will never tell him that he has twice saved the Dauphin's life against that would-be murderer, Molembrais. And when all France hears the story, as all France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a finger on the most loyal gentleman from Artois to Navarre.
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