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Updated: June 26, 2025
"That the King and France are both sick; yes, Monsieur d'Argenton." "No, no, but that Saxe had been approached." "By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that." "You hear, Stephen? Does that satisfy you?" "But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added a little on his own account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken. "Then what is the truth?" "You ask that of a poet?
La Mothe shook his head as he turned it over on his palm. "This? What do you call it?" "Many things; the shadow of death for one; revenge, I think, for another; hate, and a warning certainly, unless I am a fool as well as all the hard things Monsieur d'Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am a fool, perhaps I had better have left that lying where I found it. Almost death, that's just what it is."
If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe Ursula de Vesc's No! against him." "Good boy," repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, to the world at large. "The very first time I saw him I said he was the image of myself. Monsieur d'Argenton, what is Jean Saxe's story?" "That by Mademoiselle de Vesc's directions Hugues sounded him on behalf of the Dauphin, but vaguely at first.
"As pure and good as these lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieur d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc." "Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat at the feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could not have said it better myself." But Commines was unmoved by the outburst.
Charles had caught her hand in both his and held it pressed against his breast. It was clear that he did not understand, but the full meaning of the tragedy of death is not comprehensible in a single moment, nor was the girl's answer much more than an exclamation. "Monsieur d'Argenton! The King? The King dead?"
And yet you say there is love." "I say what I know. Trust me, and give me time to prove it." "We do trust you, indeed we do. Love in Amboise? Is it for that you are here?" "Yes," answered La Mothe soberly. "It is for that I am here?" "And Monsieur d'Argenton? Is that why he is here too?" For a moment La Mothe returned no reply, but stood passing his fingers through Charlemagne's soft hair.
Or do you think it will be all the same fifty years hence? By all the Muses, there's an idea! I must write the 'Ballad of Fifty Years to Come. Let me see let me see 'm yes, the first verse might run like this: "Where is La Mothe, that lover gay, Or Francois Villon, poet splendid! Madonna of the eyes of grey, Or Charles whom Bertrand nearly ended? D'Argenton, are his manners mended?
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.
Mademoiselle de Chausseraye waited until she returned, and then broke the matter to her gently, and after much preamble and circumlocution, as though she were about to announce the death of some one. The tears, the cries, the howlings of Madame d'Argenton filled the house, and announced to all the domestics that the reign of felicity was at an end there.
"How is it you are blind, you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure the King shall hear the truth." But Villon was unabashed. "What is the truth, Monsieur d'Argenton? Even your friend Tristan would not hang a man without first telling him what for. What is this truth of yours?" "There is a plot against the King's life." "In Amboise?" "In Amboise.
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