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"You sleep in the Dauphin's room o' nights as Hugues does at the door, and now and then you lay your head on her knee, while she strokes and pets you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not born a dog, tell me that?" At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their play, sat up panting a moment, and then in a tumultuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe.
Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for himself, and said them with the dignity of a Dauphin of France struggling through the shy manners of a self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating both dignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frankness which told La Mothe that Ursula de Vesc's influence was already at work.
The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe so irrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instant comprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shot through the disgust. "Perhaps the hand will lift the glass," he said, "and let the fly back to its spilt wine and spices?" Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. "Will that give me back my twenty years?
Yes, and La Mothe strode up and down the room to give his indignation ease by the exercise of his muscles; that was Ursula de Vesc, tender, gentle, loving: but wise in her tenderness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear in her love.
He had not given Lacoste a drink, hadn't even spoken with him, at the Riguepeu fair, but had passed the day with M. Mothe. Cournet had told him of Lacoste's having a headache, but had said nothing of vomitings. He had not seen Lacoste during the latter's illness, because Lacoste was seeing nobody. This business of the annuity had got rather entangled, but he would explain.
"Monsieur," and the little man slipped from the table-edge to his feet and bowed, his eyes twinkling with an intense enjoyment, "I can vouch for him as you can for Stephen La Mothe: I have the honour to present to you Francois Villon, Master of Arts of Paris and of all the crafts of this wicked world." La Mothe stared up at him incredulously.
Even I quarrel with Ursula at times. Monsieur La Mothe, will you please call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish." "Monseigneur, you are very good." "Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don't forget. It's all I have to give. Father John, who never saved my life or did anything for me, calls me Charles, so why not you who saved my life twice?
"Monsieur La Mothe of where?" asked the boy gravely. "Of Landless, in the Duchy of Lackeverything," replied La Mothe, bowing with an equal gravity, and at the adroit parrying of a difficult question the smile crept down from Ursula de Vesc's eyes until it loosened the hard lines of the mouth, and bent them to that Cupid's bow La Mothe so much desired to see.
"Eh?" he said, rousing himself as La Mothe repeated the question. "The Dauphin? I know little of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy or Plessis with the King: it is long since the two have met. An ailing, obstinate, dull boy, they say, with no more wit than can be put in him with a spoon.
Between these two so profoundly distrusted stood Stephen La Mothe. Between them, but was he of them? That was the problem. That morning, from Hugues' report of the visit in the darkened quiet of the Château, and remembering how familiarly Villon had introduced La Mothe overnight, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy of the rendezvous with Commines argued some sinister threat.
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