f his which
see so much more than most men imagine. 'Tristan?' says Monsieur de
Commines, very sourly for so great a man, 'Tristan does not travel with
me, Monseigneur.' 'He must be somewhere near,' says little Charles,
'since you come from my father, do you not? and you are both friends of
his.' It was a sharp thrust and it was not the Dauphin who looked the
fool. Now, was that more or less than the impishness that's in all
boys, prince or gutter rat? More, I say. No, children are too subtle
for me: give me women for simplicity! But I may help you with him all
the same."

Though a king dwelt in Valmy and a king's son in Amboise, never was
there a greater contrast than between the watchfulness exercised for
their safety. At Valmy guards had thronged at every turn, more
vigilant than pickets who hold the lives of a sleeping army in their
keeping, but at Amboise the doors swung open to the touch of almost the
first comer, though it was not easy to be certain how much of this
laxity was due to the guarantee of Villon's presence. A careless
porter kept the outer gate, a single sentinel, lounging in the
guard-room, let them pass into the central court unchallenged, and the
servant or two they met upon the stairs gave them no more than a
heedless glance. That, at least, was La Mothe's first impressions.
But when he saw the same face in the lower hall, again at the
stair-head, yet again in the ante-room, and recognized that the plainly
dressed serving-man had kept them under observation at every turn,
unobtrusively but of evident purpose, he decided that a casual stranger
could not have penetrated to the heart of Amboise without first giving
a good account of himself. The watcher was Hugues, the Dauphin's
valet. And yet when Villon gently drew aside a curtain masking a
doorway which opened upon the stair-head, there was no one in
attendance to announce them. It was as if the King said, more
significantly, more emphatically than in any words, "My son may be the
Dauphin, but I alone am France."

"There are the boy and the woman," said Villon softly, "Charles and
Ursula de Vesc. Now, had I been your age I would rather have won the
woman."

CHAPTER X

LOVE, THE ENEMY

Charles was seated on a low stool at the further end of the room, a
pale-faced boy with dull, peevish eyes closely set together, the long
Valois nose, and a thin, obstinate mouth. His dress was severely,
obstinately, contemptuously plain.