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Updated: May 21, 2025
To have thought such a thought of Ursula de Vesc was as preposterous as saying she would philander in a rose garden.
There would be no pity for Ursula de Vesc. "Damnation," cried La Mothe almost in a sob, and, forgetting that he, too, wore a sword, he would have sprung upon him barehanded in his despair had not Hugues forced him to keep his place. "Not yet," he whispered. "Wait; perhaps later " and the moment of possibility had passed. The troop was upon them. But their leader held them back.
La Mothe's voice was strange even to his own ears, so harsh and dry was it, the voice of age rather than of youth, and, indeed, he felt as if in this last hour he had suddenly grown so old that the world was a weariness. "There were three in this plot," answered Commines, unmoved from his slow gravity, "Hugues, the Dauphin, and Mademoiselle de Vesc. Hugues is dead, but two still remain."
The splendor and novelty of the proposal to conquer such a realm as Italy inflamed the imagination of Charles, the cupidity of his courtiers, the ambition of de Vesc and Briçonnet. In order to assure his situation at home, Charles concluded treaties with the neighboring great powers. He bought peace with Henry VII. of England by the payment of large sums of money.
Three resolute men could surely hold the well hole till succour came. Resolute? Much more than resolute desperate. Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. Had he not the best cause the world holds to be resolute to desperation? Hugues had died for love's sake, please God he would live for it.
He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found himself in a difficulty. In spite of his gratitude and reverence for Commines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounder judgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned a dead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of a moment.
A pretty passport, and one not much to his credit, thought La Mothe, and fell to wondering if Ursula de Vesc of the uncertain eyes would class them as birds of a feather Ursula who found Amboise dull and was to kiss the poet as Margaret had kissed Alain Chartier.
And every day proof has piled upon proof, presumptive proof I grant, but proof damning and conclusive nevertheless. Every day the King has been held up to loathing and contempt. Every day the woman you, Mademoiselle de Vesc, you egged on the boy to worse than disaffection. Every day the son reviled the father, even to telling God's own priest that his one thought was hate everlasting hate.
"I quite understand, and here is my sword. Monseigneur no, since you permit it, Charles, my friend, I leave you in good keeping. You will have Mademoiselle de Vesc, Father John, and Villon here, to watch over you. Villon, beware of that third cast of the net. I think that is now the one great danger." "La Mothe, La Mothe, must you go? Is there no other way? Remember Molembrais."
"Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a link!" cried the boy, rushing in as Villon disappeared. Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so full of a child's joyous life, a child's flood-tide of the gladness of living, and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted dauphin of France. "Father John says I look like a Crusader, but I would rather be Roland. Now I must wear my mask."
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