d to
leave the Chateau."

"But, monsieur--monseigneur, I mean--it was the King--"

"Hold your tongue, you fool," said Villon, hustling him through the
doorway; "would you make bad worse, or do you want to hang twice over?"

But even when the door was shut behind them Commines stood irresolute.
There are times when to be alone is the instinct of nature, and this
was one of them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, some
reverse, a disaster even. Louis' last letter, received that very day,
had been harsh in tone, curt to severity, its few words full of a
personal complaint which his pride had concealed from Stephen La Mothe.
It had been more than a rebuke, it had been a warning, almost a threat.
Now upon its heels came this, and he knew that of the three who watched
him curiously two were his open enemies. If it was his dismissal, his
downfall, there would be no pity. But to be alone was impossible. The
situation had to be faced there and then. "With your permission.
Monseigneur?" he said, and tore the envelope open.

It was a short letter, as many fateful letters are, and Commines read
it in a glance, then a second time. "My God!" they heard him say twice
over, drawing in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him suddenly.
Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the paper, then as
unconsciously smoothed it out again. The instinct to be alone had
possessed him like a prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick of
finding an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitariness he
desired had come upon him. He forgot he was not alone, and the truest
solitude is the isolation of the spirit when the material world slips
from us, and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to face
with his own soul. So he stood, the paper shaking in his shaking
hands, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he shifted his eyes, and as
they fell upon the Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc's arms, the skirt
of the white robe half wrapped round him, his head almost upon her
breast, he straightened himself with an effort.

"Monseigneur," he began, "the King----" but the words choked in his
throat. His coarse, healthy face had gone wan and grey, now it flushed
and a rush of tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of the
head he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe saw him struggling for
self-control. "The King is dead," he said hoarsely. "God have mercy
on us all; the King is dead--dead."

From the