it was monsieur de commines himself who came for me as i went my rounds of self-instruction three days after the four nations had gone a-hunting.

"the king calls you," he said, out of breath with haste; "i think your chance has come, for he has some scheme in his head."

"the king? what! this instant?" and i looked downward at my dress, plain, clean, and serviceable enough, but hardly fit for a court presentation.

"bah! catch fortune as she flies. besides, silks and satins would not become the man who files a wolf's bars to save the king's life, and then hunts the brutes back to their cage at the risk of his own."

"but, monseigneur, i did none of these things."

"no, but the king thinks you did, and that is the same thing. i told you the counter-plot was too trivial for me to lend my name to it. it would not hoist a man at the top of the ladder an inch higher; but you, who are at the bottom, it may raise a rung, or even two, if you are politic. come, the king waits; he has his dogs to play with, but he may tire of them at any moment, and your chance be lost. one last word," he went on, as, hurrying at a trot whose pace was very significant in a man of monseigneur's age and dignity, we drew near the mouth of the cour au soleil, where louis warmed his cold blood in the sun. "remember, you climb over my back. it is i who have brought you into plessis, and there are many who would be glad to see you muddy my shoulders; therefore be watchful. here in a sentence is the way to win and hold court favour. catch the king's meaning, and jump with his humour, whatever it may be. hush! not a word till he speaks, he is often like that."

the court was triangular in shape, and faced south. across the apex of the angle a couch was drawn, and there, stretched upon its cushions, was louis. one leg was drawn up under him, the other lay straight out, and where it showed below the edge of his mantle the calf was of a bigness no greater than my wrist. a sleeved cloak or coat of scarlet satin, lined and trimmed with ermine, wrapped him to the knees. a tight-fitting cap of the same colour as the cloak covered not alone the scalp, but coming round the back of the head as far as the nape, caught in his ears, leaving only the face exposed, and, my god! what a face it was! meagre as a death's head, the smooth-shaven skin a yellow parchment, the nose long and thin as a vulture's beak, the full lips withered and shrivelled to a crumpling of livid skin tightened across broken teeth, the eyes—was he awake or asleep? living or dead? for though these eyes were open they had rolled back in their sockets and showed only a narrow splash of muddy grey shot with blood at the corners. one arm hung over the couch-edge almost to the ground, and the whole attitude was the pitiable collapse of a sick old age and utter weariness.

three or four dogs stood or sprawled beside him, good courtiers all! for they seemed to know his mood, and lay quiet, waiting for the change. one, a coarse-jowled brindled beast that panted for fatness, cowered on its haunches a foot or two away from the couch-head. no member of the court was present, but knots of the king's archers, half-armoured, but with sword and dagger, and carrying their bows, were on guard at every point that commanded the court.

as minute after minute passed, and the king still lay as one dead, there was ample time for the picture to fix itself in my memory. then, suddenly, the sightless eyes rolled in their sockets, and he awoke.

"sire," said monseigneur, as, hat in hand, i went down on one knee, "here is monsieur de helville."

"the compatriot of monsieur jehan flemalle?"

"your majesty's faithful servant."

"faithful as england, and for the same cause," answered louis, beckoning with his fingers to the big-jowled dog crouching near him.

the brute saw and understood, for, though the lips twitched till the fangs showed, it flattened itself on its belly and inched nearer to the thin hand it feared. but though the king called the dog, his eyes never left my face, and as i said of the face a moment back so now i say, my god! what eyes they were! ice and fire, cold, inscrutable, implacable; dead as grey ash, but with the smouldering heat of the ember not far below the film; remorseless eyes that groped the secrets of a man's thoughts as the delicate fingers of the blind grope a face.

"i call him england, after my dear brother edward," went on louis, "because though he shows his teeth and would fly at me if he dared, a sop will always bribe him, and, like the king whose premature decease we all so bitterly lament, he will die at last of over-eating. god and saint claude forgive me if i seem to speak evil of the dead! are you as faithful as this my dog, monsieur de helville?"

for a moment i was silent, partly because the shrewd, malevolent, fixed gaze fascinated me as men say a serpent fascinates a bird, partly because he had cleft the truth to the very core. i had told mademoiselle that i owed the king no loyalty, i had even been in two minds as to letting jan flemael's plot run a triumphant course; to gain my own ends, and my own ends alone, had brought me to plessis. as the king had said, my fidelity was no greater than that of the cowed bull-dog, and thereby came a lesson.

the poor brute had crept reluctantly within reach of the beckoning hand, and the thin fingers that looked so frail, but had so much iron of will in them, had gripped the loose skin of the plethoric neck, twisting it till the dog wheezed in an agony of breathlessness. let the grip close in another half-inch, and it would choke.

"faithful as england and for the same reason," said the king, reading the truth. "what is the sop that wins your love, monsieur de helville?"

"i desire service, sire."

he grinned contemptuously, grinned till the thin lips twitched up, showing the teeth as england had shown his.

"pish, man! leave useless flattery to your betters! you desire jan meert's life. monsieur d'argenton has told me. who knows! perhaps you may have it."

the words stung me, or rather, their contempt. it was as if he gave me the lie, and impelled by the smart, i answered more boldly than i had dreamed i would have dared—

"why not, sire? a man's house is his house, and if yours were burned would you not lop the hand——"

he stopped me with a laugh; no thin sarcastic smile at such a childish outburst, but full-throated merriment.

"the torch, you mean, monsieur hellewyl, not the hand itself; the hand that held the torch was—elsewhere!"

groping upward, he patted a little leaden image of the virgin that hung from a loop in his cap, patted it without reverence but rather as one who would say, god is on my side.

"mary have mercy upon you if you so much as touch that hand except to kiss it; what it gropes it grasps, and what it grasps it crushes. you mean the torch, eh, monsieur hellewyl?"

"the torch, then, sire," said i, shivering a little, so significant was the threat, and so significant too, when taken in conjunction with that threat, the laugh that foreran it; "would you not set your foot on the torch that burned your father's house? would you not trample it, quench it——?"

"i? i am france, while you are——" he flung aside the half-choked brute with more strength than one would have supposed possible in such a shrunken frame. "monsieur d'argenton, take away the dogs, but do not hasten poor england lest he die before his next sop gorges him; and you, monsieur hellewyl, wait."

back he sank upon the cushions, upwards rolled the eyes to sightlessness, and again he lay as one dead, but breathing heavily from the exertion.

without so much as a grimace of repugnance at his task, monsieur de commines caught up a little shaggy spanish dog, a present from king ferdinand the catholic, and nursing it in his arms turned away, whistling softly to the rest. the signal was well known and quickly obeyed, for all at once followed him, england capering clumsily in the joy of dismissal.

i admit my envy went with the wheezing beast. had i dared, i, too, would have danced lightheartedly out of the sunshine of the king's presence into any shadow in plessis. but such joyful release was not for me. wait, said he, and i waited, motionless, still on one knee. wait for what? to be gripped, so to speak, by the throat, gibed at, and then flung aside like a dog? and yet that was the very fate i craved for jan meert, whose only offence was that he had done what he was bid.

how far the king played a part, and how far his weariness was real no man could tell, but it's my belief that through all his lassitude nothing escaped him. no sooner had monsieur de commines and the drove of dogs turned the angle of the court than he sat up.

"on your feet, on your feet!" he said sharply, all the weak huskiness gone from his voice. "you asked for service, priests serve with their knees—god be thanked for prayer—but a man with his hands and feet. what service? jehan flemalle's place is vacant, will that suit you?" pausing, he again read my thoughts, read them as a man reads a book, and put them into such blunt words as after his late rebuke i would not have dared to use. "you are a gentleman, and fit for something better than to feed offal to brutes? perhaps; and then again, perhaps not! what do i know of your fitness? will you take jehan flemalle's place, monsieur de helville?"

"if the king bids me," answered i, crestfallen.

"and if the king bids you do him some other service?"

"if my honour, sire——"

"honour! god's name sir, i am your honour." the sudden storm that possessed him frightened me, so fierce was it, so malevolent. his dull lacklustre eyes blazed up like powder sparks, and he shook his clenched fist at me as if he desired nothing better than to strike me down. "we have no room for if's in plessis, no, nor out of it, on the king's service. if?—if?—do you serve me, or do you not?"

"with the blessing of god, yes, sire," i answered.

"ah!" and the lean hands went together, the fingers pointing upwards, following the direction of his eyes. "if the blessing of god be not with us we are indeed undone. his mercy forbid we should ever seek aught contrary to his will. but i have often found that what i willed, he was graciously pleased to will also, and this service, monsieur de helville, is one peculiarly pleasing to god almighty. tell me, why did you file the bars of the four nations?"

the question caught me unawares, and for two reasons i had no answer ready; one, that i am unready in a lie and had not filed the bars at all; the other, that my first impulse had been to let jan flemael do his own filing, follow what might. louis was quick to catch my embarrassment, and shrewd to understand it, at least in part.

"so, so!" he said. "you, too, are of flanders, monsieur hellewyl? but let that pass. i judge a man by his acts, and whatever your first thought was in the end you filed the bars. but why? why? you, too, being of flanders."

by this time i had my wits at command, and could have lied with a courtier-like straight face, protesting against the imputation, but that i knew he would have scoffed at the pretence. jump with his mood, said monsieur de commines, and as his mood seemed to desire the truth, i told it.

"for the sake of peace, sire. the wolves would have torn france. better one man die than——"

"a whole nation perish! my own thought, monsieur de helville, of a verity my own thought, as god's my witness." crossing his breast hastily, he put a hand under him, pushing himself to his feet, and stood facing me, his back arched, his limbs trembling in weakness, but with the virile fire of the eyes unquenched, indomitable in their masterful purpose. "i, too, desire peace, and shall one life stand between to say no! to me? peace to france, peace—oh yes, yes, yes"—and he laughed a little cackling laugh, nodding his trembling head in time to the merriment—"peace, too, to navarre; poor distracted navarre that needs peace even more than does france! it is a christian act to bring peace, a christian act. monsieur de helville, does the service suit you?"

"a life, you said, sire: whose life?"

for a moment or two the king stood silent, one lean transparent hand laid across his narrow chest as if for warmth, the other covered his mouth so that the chin rested on the palm while the teeth gnawed at the finger nails.

"there is a child," he began at last, "a miserable, useless, puling child——"

"my god, sire!" i cried, shaken out of all control, even out of all trepidation, "is it murder?"

out flew both hands, open, shaking in a passion of menace, and he staggered forward a step as if to claw me in the face, but drew back, panting.

"i cannot! god! i cannot, i cannot!" he muttered, and gulping for breath, stood staring at me with blinking eyes. "murder? shame, monsieur de helville, shame, shame to think such a thought of a christian king, such a thought of me—of me!" groping upward, he again patted the image on his cap. "see! i swear it, by the virgin, by the virgin; god strike me—strike me—eh? you understand? i seek peace, monsieur, only peace and the good of france, and—yes, yes,—the pleasing of god, that of course, always, the pleasing of god. again i ask, do you say no! to such a service? dare any man say no? dare any—any——"

his voice fell, quavering, his jaw dropped, and a look of abject terror broke across his face. swaying on his feet he pawed blindly at the air, then collapsed backwards in a heap upon the cushions.

"coctier! coctier! coctier!" he screamed. "for the love of christ, come to me. coctier! coctier! ah! dear god! not this time, give me a little longer, just a little, little longer!"

whimpering, he tore at his throat with powerless fingers, and thinking he wanted his cloak loosened at the collar i ran forward to help him. but he dug at me with his nails, spitting like a frightened cat.

"not you, not you; no man but coctier. mon dieu! will no man send me coctier!" again his voice rose to a scream. "the king is dying, coctier, coctier! dying! dying!"

turning to seek help, i ran full tilt into the arms of monsieur de commines, who, with maitre jacques coctier, the king's physician, was hastening in answer to the cry.

"monseigneur——"

"dolt! you have crossed him and i bid you not. he is never like this except when crossed. if the king dies, by god! you may count jan flamael's end a happy one," and striking at me, he ran on.

down on one knee went coctier, his fingers busy with the throat of the king's cloak, and as i drew back i heard louis' voice as if in answer to a question.

"a priest? no, no, not this time, not this time. priests are for the sick, for the dying—and i must live that there may be peace."

peace! it was curious how i stumbled on the word. first mademoiselle, then monsieur de commines, and now the king; all desired peace, but it seemed to me that to all peace did not mean the same thing.