e wishes
were true, but knows is all make-believe."

"All fairy tales have a heart of truth," answered La Mothe, "and this
is a very true one, Monseigneur, as I hope you will believe before I
have ended. In all his cares of state, and with so great a kingdom his
cares were very many, there was no such care, no such sorrow, as this
longing, unsatisfied love of the father's heart. Day and night his one
thought was how he might win for his old age the love which his boy----"

"Ursula, I am tired," and Charles rose with a yawn. "Monsieur La
Follette, will you please call Hugues, and I will go to bed? If we are
duller to-morrow than we are to-day we will hear the rest of the story,
but I don't think I like it very much. Even fairy tales should sound
probable. Good night, Monsieur d'Argenton, good night, Monsieur La
Follette, good night, Monsieur La Mothe," and with a bow which
contrived to omit Villon from its scope the Dauphin left the room,
followed by Ursula de Vesc. But at the door she paused a moment.

"A room will be made ready for you in the Chateau, Monsieur La Mothe,
and perhaps to-morrow you will tell me the end of your story?"

"Dull?" said Villon, stretching himself with vigorous ostentation. "My
faith, yes! If you are wise, friend La Mothe, you will finish the
night with me at the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulders
with genius familiarly."

But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe's arm.

"Genius?" he said, sternly contemptuous. "Yes! Genius depraved and
degraded: genius crapulous and drunken. Take advice, Monsieur La
Mothe, and bide indoors: the foulest soiling of God's earth is a foul
old age unashamed of its disgrace." Then lowering his voice to a
whisper, he added, "Come to my room when all is quiet, son Stephen.
Look out for the cross of shadow and take care that the de Vesc girl
does not see you."

The de Vesc girl! Stephen La Mothe was almost as offended by the
curtly supercilious description of Mademoiselle Ursula as Villon was at
the bitter judgment so uncompromisingly passed upon him. That may have
been because Cupid's bow had shot its bolt, and love's new wounds are
almost as supersensitive as a poet's vanity.

CHAPTER XI

THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS

Two or three adroit questions addressed to the servant who showed him
to his sleeping-quarters gave La Mothe a sufficient clue to the
whereabouts of Commines' lodgings. That they were in the same block