not too loudly, and do not call me rude if I do
not listen. I know that must sound strange, but at times music helps
me to think. Is it not so with you?"

The question was apologetic, and as such La Mothe understood it. He
understood, too, the straits in which she found herself. So powerful
was her influence over Charles, the boy would certainly act on her
advice. Her knowledge of Stephen La Mothe was greater than he
supposed. If he was right, and she held her peace, this breach between
father and son would not only remain unhealed but would be widened by
Louis' natural resentment at the rejection of his covert overtures; but
if La Mothe was mistaken she knew the old King well enough to be
certain that he would use the boy's unwelcome advances against him in
some cunning fashion. Which way lay wisdom? Or, as she had put
it--raising the question to a higher plane--which was the right?

"If you please," she said imperiously. "Yes, I mean it. Play David to
the evil spirit of my doubt," and with a laugh to cover his sense of
embarrassment La Mothe obeyed, touching the instrument very softly.

But she could not have told whether he played a drinking-song or a
Miserere. With her, as with many, the quiet rhythm of the music
stimulated thought, and gradually the perplexity cleared from her mind.
Stephen La Mothe was not a fool, that counted for much. He was honest,
that counted for much more. The King was notoriously ailing and, being
superstitious, might well repent; no high motive, but a probable one.
Philip de Commines' visit to Amboise was not by chance, and nothing
less than his master's orders would have kept him so long from Valmy.
If Stephen La Mothe was right, then these orders must surely have a
connection with the King's changed disposition towards the Dauphin.
She would watch Commines, doing nothing hastily, and by his actions
would shape her course.

With the relaxation from concentrated thought the swing of the music's
rise and fall caught her ear. It was a ballad air, and new to her.
Shifting her chair, she looked up at La Mothe as he bent over his
instrument. Streaming through the windows behind him the cunning
sunshine lit the brown of his hair to a red-gold. She had never seen
just such a colour in a man, and the Apollo simile was not so unapt.

"Sing," she said suddenly, and again La Mothe obeyed, catching up the
air almost unconsciously.

"Lilies White and Roses Red,
Gracious sw