"_A voice was heard in Ramah, In Ramah, Lamentations and bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children, Refused to be comforted: For her children, Because they were not._"
Obviously there was some mistake or lack of attention on the part of the choir, for the last line had to be repeated three times.
"_Because they were not._"
CHAPTER LI
THE MARSHAL"S CHAMBER
There came a low voice in Laurence MacKim"s ear, chill and sinister: "You do well to look out upon the fair world. None knoweth when we may have to leave it. Yonder is a star. Look well at it. They say G.o.d made it. Perhaps He takes more interest in it than in the concerns of this other world He hath made."
The son of Malise MacKim gripped himself, as it were, with both hands, and turned a face pale as marble to look into the grim countenance which hid the soul of the Lord of Machecoul.
Gilles de Retz appeared to peruse each feature of the boy"s person as if he read in a book. Yet even as Laurence gave back glance for glance, and with the memory of what he had seen yet fresh upon him, a strange courage began to glow in the heart of the young Scot. There came a kind of contempt, too, into his breast, as though he had it in him to be a man in despite of the devil and all his works.
The marshal continued his scrutiny, and Laurence returned his gaze with interest.
"Well, boy," said the marshal, smiling as if not ill pleased at his boldness, "what do you think of me?"
"I think, sir," said Laurence, simply, "that you have grown older since I saw you in the lists at Thrieve."
It seemed to Laurence that the words were given him. And all the time he was saying to himself: "Now I have done it. For this he will surely put me to death. He cannot help himself. Why did I not stick to it that I was an Irelander?"
But, somehow, the answer seemed like an arrow from a bow shot at a venture, entering in between the joints of the marshal"s armour.
"Do you think so?" he said, with some startled anxiety, yet without surprise; "older than at Thrieve? I do not believe it. It is impossible. Why, I grow younger and younger every day. It has been promised me that I should."
And setting his elbow on the sill of the window, Gilles de Retz looked thoughtfully out upon the cool dusk of the rose garden. Then all at once it came to him what was implied in that unlucky speech of Laurence"s. The grim intensity returned to his eyes as he erected himself and bent his brows, white with premature age, upon the boy, who confronted him with the fearlessness born of youth and ignorance.
"Ah," he said, "this is interesting; you have changed your nation. You were an Irishman to De Sille in Paris, to the clerk Henriet, and to the choir at Machecoul. Yet to me you admit in the very first words you speak that you are a Scot and saw me at the Castle of Thrieve."
Even yet the old Laurence might have turned the corner. He had, as we know, graduated as a liar ready and expert. He had daily practised his art upon the Abbot. He had even, though more rarely, succeeded with his father. But now in the day of his necessity the power and wit had departed from him.
To the lord of the Castle of Machecoul Laurence simply could not lie.
Ringed as he was by evil, his spirit became strong for good, and he testified like one in the place of final judgment, when the earthly lendings of word and phrase and covering excuse must all be cast aside and the soul stand forth naked and nakedly answer that which is required.
"I am a Scot," said Laurence, briefly, and without explanation.
"Come with me into my chamber," said the marshal, and turned to precede him thither.
And without word of complaint or backward glance, the lad followed the great lord to the chamber, into which so many had gone before him of the young and beautiful of the earth, and whence so few had come out alive.
As he pa.s.sed the threshold, Laurence put into his mouth the elastic pellet which had been given him by Blaise Renouf, the choir-master"s son.
The marshal threw himself upon a chair, reclining with a wearied air upon the hands which were clasped behind his head. In the action of throwing himself back one could see that Gilles de Retz was a young and not an old man, though ordinarily his vitality had been worn to the quick, and both in appearance and movement he was already prematurely aged.
"What is your name?"
The question came with military directness from the lips of the marshal of France.
"Laurence MacKim," said the lad, with equal directness.
"For what purpose did you come to the Castle of Machecoul?"
"I came," said Laurence, coolly, "to take service with you, my lord.
And because I was tired of monk rule, and getting only the husks of life, tired too of sitting dumb and watching others eat the kernel."
"Ha!" cried Gilles de Retz, "I am with you there. There is, after all, some harmony between our immortal parts. For my part, I would have all of life,--husk, kernel, stalk,--aye, and the root that grows amid the dung."
He paused a moment, looking at Laurence with the air of a connoisseur.
"Come hither, lad," he said, with a soft and friendly accent; "sit on this seat with your back to the window. Turn your head so that the lamp shines aright upon your face. You are not so handsome as was reported, but that there is something wondrously taking about your countenance, I do admit. There--sit so, and fear nothing."
Laurence sat down with the bad grace of a manly youth who is admired for what he privately despises, and wishes himself well quit of. But, notwithstanding this, there was something so insinuating and pleasant about the marshal"s manner that the lad almost thought he must have dreamed the incident of the burned door and the sacrifice upon the iron altar.
"You came hither to search for Margaret of Douglas," said the marshal, suddenly bending forward as if to take him by surprise.
Laurence, wholly taken aback, answered neither yea nor nay, but held his peace.
Then Gilles de Retz nodded sagely, with a quiet satisfaction in his own prevision, which to one less bold and reckless than the young clerk of Dulce Cor would have proved disconcerting. Then he propounded his next question:
"How many came hither with you?"
"One," said Laurence, promptly; "I came here alone with your servant De Sille."
The marshal smiled.
"Good--we will try some other method with you," he said; "but be advised and speak. None hath ever hidden aught from Gilles de Retz."
"Then, my lord," said Laurence, "there is the less reason for you to put me to the question."
"I can expound dark speeches," said the marshal, "and I also know my way through the subtleties of lying tongues. Hope not to lie to me.
How many were they that came to France with you?"
"I will not tell you," said the son of Malise.
The marshal smiled again and nodded his head repeatedly with a certain gustful appreciation.
"You would make a good soldier. It is a pity that I have gone out of the business. Yet I have only (as it were) descended from wholesale to particular, from the gross to the detail."
Laurence, who felt that the true policy was to be sparing of his words, made no answer.
"You say that you are a clerk. Can you read Latin?"
"Yes," said Laurence, "and write it too."