the path of the king-第17部分

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　her　saints；　among　whom　not　the　least　was　that　grey…tunicked　Maid　whose　eyes　seemed　doorways　into　heaven。　Her　tirewoman　found　her　asleep　on　her　faldstool。

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Early　next　morning　there　came　posts　to　Beaumanoir；　men　on　weary　horses　with　a　tragic　message。　On　the　day　before；　in　the　market…place　of　Rouen；　the　chief　among　the　daughters　of　God　had　journeyed　through　the　fire　to　Paradise。



CHAPTER　6。　THE　WOOD　OF　LIFE

The　Lady　Catherine　de　Laval；　in　her　own　right　Countess　of　Beaumanoir；　and　mistress　of　fiefs　and　manors；　rights　of　chase　and　warren；　mills　and　hospices；　the　like　of　which　were　not　in　Picardy；　was　happy　in　all　things　but　her　family。　Her　one　son　had　fallen　in　his　youth　in　an　obscure　fray　in　Guienne；　leaving　two　motherless　boys　who；　after　her　husband's　death；　were　the　chief　business　of　life　to　the　Countess　Catherine。　The　elder；　Aimery；　grew　to　manhood　after　the　fashion　of　the　men　of　her　own　house；　a　somewhat　heavy　country　gentleman；　much　set　upon　rustic　sports；　slow　at　learning；　and　averse　alike　from　camps　and　cities。　The　ambition　of　the　grandmother　found　nothing　to　feed　upon　in　the　young　lord　of　Beaumanoir。　He　was　kind；　virtuous　and　honest；　but　dull　as　a　pool　on　a　winter's　highway。

Catherine　would　fain　have　had　the　one　youth　a　soldier　and　the　other　a　saint；　and　of　the　two　ambitions　she　most　cherished　the　latter。　The　first　made　shipwreck　on　the　rustic　Aimery；　and　therefore　the　second　burned　more　fiercely。　She　had　the　promise　from　the　saints　that　her　line　had　a　great　destiny；　and　the　form　of　it　she　took　to　be　sanctitude。　For；　all　her　married　days　she　had　ruled　her　life　according　to　the　canons　of　God；　fasting　and　praying；　cherishing　the　poor；　tending　the　afflicted；　giving　of　her　great　wealth　bountifully　to　the　Church。　She　had　a　name　for　holiness　as　far　as　the　coasts　of　Italy。　Surely　from　the　blood　of　Beaumanoir　one　would　arise　to　be　in　dark　times　a　defender　of　the　Faith；　a　champion　of　Christ　whom　after　death　the　Church　should　accept　among　the　beatified。　Such　a　fate　she　desired　for　her　seed　more　hungrily　than　any　Emperor's　crown。

In　the　younger；　Philip；　there　was　hope。　He　had　been　an　odd　child；　slim　and　pale　while　Aimery　was　large　and　ruddy；　shy　where　his　brother　was　bold　and　bold　where　he　was　shy。　He　was　backward　in　games　and　unready　in　a　quarrel；　but　it　was　observed　that　he　had　no　fear　of　the　dark；　or　of　the　Green　Lady　that　haunted　the　river　avenue。　Father　Ambrose；　his　tutor；　reported　him　of　quick　and　excellent　parts；　but　marred　by　a　dreaminess　which　might　grow　into　desidia　that　deadly　sin。　He　had　a　peculiar　grace　of　body　and　a　silken　courtesy　of　manner　which　won　hearts。　His　grey　eyes；　even　as　a　small　boy；　were　serious　and　wise。　But　he　seemed　to　dwell　aloof；　and　while　his　brother's　moods　were　plain　for　all　to　read；　he　had　from　early　days　a　self…control　which　presented　a　mask　to　his　little　world。　With　this　stoicism　went　independence。　Philip　walked　his　own　way　with　a　gentle　obstinacy。　〃A　saint；　maybe；〃　Father　Ambrose　told　his　grandmother。　〃But　the　kind　of　saint　that　the　Church　will　ban　before　it　blesses。〃

To　the　old　dame　of　Beaumanoir　the　child　was　the　apple　of　her　eye；　and　her　affection　drew　from　him　a　tenderness　denied　to　others。　But　it　brought　no　confidences。　The　dreaming　boy　made　his　own　world；　which　was　not；　like　his　grandmother's；　one　of　a　dark　road　visited　rarely　by　angels；　with　heaven　as　a　shining　city　at　the　end　of　it；　or；　like　his　brother's；　a　green　place　of　earthy　jollity。　It　was　as　if　the　Breton　blood　of　the　Lavals　and　Rohans　had　brought　to　the　solid　stock　of　Beaumanoir　the　fairy　whimsies　of　their　dim　ancestors。　While　the　moors　and　woodlands　were　to　Aimery　only　places　to　fly　a　hawk　or　follow　a　stag；　to　Philip　they　were　a　wizard　land　where　dreams　grew。　And　the　mysteries　of　the　Church　were　also　food　for　his　gold　fancy；　which　by　reshaping　them　stripped　them　of　all　terrors。　He　was　extraordinarily　happy；　for　he　had　the　power　to　make　again　each　fresh　experience　in　a　select　inner　world　in　which　he　walked　as　king；　since　he　was　its　creator。

He　was　a　child　of　many　fancies；　but　one　especially　stayed　with　him。　When　still　very　small；　he　slept　in　a　cot　in　his　grandmother's　room；　the　walls　of　which　were　hung　with　tapestry　from　the　Arras　looms。　One　picture　caught　his　eye；　for　the　morning　sun　struck　it；　and　when　he　woke　early　it　glowed　invitingly　before　him。　It　represented　a　little　river　twining　about　a　coppice。　There　was　no　figure　in　the　piece；　which　was　bounded　on　one　side　by　a　great　armoire；　and　on　the　other　by　the　jamb　of　the　chimney；　but　from　extreme　corner　projected　the　plume　of　a　helmet　and　the　tip　of　a　lance。　There　was　someone　there；　someone　riding　towards　the　trees。　It　grew　upon　Philip　that　that　little　wood　was　a　happy　place；　most　happy　and　desirable。　He　fancied　himself　the　knight；　and　he　longed　to　be　moving　up　the　links　of　the　stream。　He　followed　every　step　of　the　way；　across　the　shallow　ford；　past　the　sedges　of　a　backwater；　between　two　clumps　of　willows；　and　then　over　smooth　green　grass　to　the　edge　of　the　wood。　But　he　never　tried　to　picture　what　lay　inside。　That　was　sacredeven　from　his　thoughts。

When　he　grew　older　and　was　allowed　to　prowl　about　in　the　scriptorium　of　the　Abbey　of　Montmirail　which　lay　by　the　Canche　side；　he　found　his　wood　again。　It　was　in　a　Psaltery　on　which　a　hundred　years　before　some　Flemish　monk　had　lavished　his　gold　and　vermilion。　Opposite　the　verse　of　Psalm　xxiii。；　〃In　loco　pascuae；〃　was　a　picture　almost　the　same　as　that　in　the　bedroom　arras。　There　were　the　river；　the　meadows；　and　the　little　wood；　painted　in　colours　far　brighter　than　the　tapestry。　Never　was　such　bloom　of　green　or　such　depth　of　blue。　But　there　was　a　difference。　No　lance　or　plume　projected　from　the　corner。　The　traveller　had　emerged　from　cover；　and　was　walking　waist…deep　in　the　lush　grasses。　He　was　a　thin；　nondescript　pilgrim；　without　arms　save　a　great　staff　like　the　crozier　of　a　Bishop。　Philip　was　disappointed　in　him　and　preferred　the　invisible　knight；　but　the　wood　was　all　he　had　desired。　It　was　indeed　a　blessed　place；　and　the　old　scribe　had　known　it；　for　a　scroll　of　gold　hung　above　it　with　the　words　〃Sylva　Vitae。〃

At　the　age　of　ten　the　boy　had　passed　far　beyond　Father　Ambrose；　and　was　sucking　the　Abbey　dry　of　its　learning；　like　some　second　Abelard。　In　the　cloisters　of　Montmirail　were　men　who　had　a　smattering　of　the　New　Knowledge；　about　which　Italy　had　gone　mad；　and；　by　the　munificence　of　the　Countess　Catherine；　copies　had　been　made　by　the　Italian　stationarii　of　some　of　the　old　books　of　Rome　which　the　world　had　long　forgotten。　In　the　Abbey　library；　among　a　waste　of　antiphonaries　and　homilies　and　monkish　chronicles；　were　to　be　found　texts　of　Livy　and　Lucretius　and　the　letters　of　Cicero。　Philip　was　already　a　master　of　Latin；　writing　it　with　an　elegance　worthy　of　Niccolo　the　Florentine。　At　fourteen　he　entered　the　college　of　Robert　of　Sorbonne；　but　found　little　charm　in　its　scholastic　pedantry。　But　in　the　capital　he　learned　the　Greek　tongue　from　a　Byzantine；　the　elder　Lascaris；　and　copied　with　his　own　hand　a　great　part　of　Plato　and　Aristotle。　His　thirst　grew　with　every　draught　of　the　new　vintage。　To　Pavia　he　went　and　sat　at　the　feet　of　Lorenzo　Vallo。　The　company　of　Pico　della　Mirandola　at　Florence　sealed　him　of　the　Platonic　school；　and　like　his　master　he　dallied　with　mysteries　and　had　a　Jew　in　his　house　to　teach　him　Hebrew　that　he　might　find　a　way　of　reconciling　the　Scriptures　and　the　classics；　the　Jew　and　the　Greek。　From　the　verses　which　he　wrote　at　this　time；　beautifully　turned　hexameters　with　a　certain　Lucretian　cadence；　it　is　clear　that　his　mind　was　like　Pico's；　hovering　about　the　borderland　of　human　knowledge；　clutching　at　the　eternally　evasive。　Plato's　Banquet　was　his　gospel；　where　the　quest　of　truth　did　not　lack　the　warmth　of　desire。　Only　a　fragment　remains　now　of　the　best　of　his　poems；　that　which　earned　the　praise　of　Ficino　and　the　great　Lorenzo；　and　it　is　significant　that　the　name　of　the　piece　was　〃The　Wood　of　Life。〃

At　twenty　Philip　returned　to　Beaumanoir　after　long　wanderings。　He　was　the　perfect　scholar　who　had　toiled　at　books　and　not　less　at　the　study　of　mankind。　But　his　well…knit　body　and　clear　eyes　showed　no　marks　of　bookishness；　and　Italy　had　made　him　a　swordsman。　A　somewhat　austere　young　man；　he　had　kept　himself　unspotted　in　the　rotting　life　of　the　Italian　courts；　and　though　he　had　learned　from　them　suavity　had　not　lost　his　simplicity。　But　he　was　more　aloof　than　ever。　There　was　little　warmth　in　the　grace　of　his　courtesy；　and　his　eyes　were　graver　than　before。　It　seemed　that　they　had　found　much；　but　had　had　no　joy　of　it；　and　that　they　were　still　craving。　It　was　a　disease　of　the　time　and　men　called　it　aegritudo。　〃No　saint；〃　the　aged　Ambrose　told　the　Countess。　〃Virtuous；　indeed；　but　not　with　the　virtue　of　the　religious。　He　will　never　enter　the　Church。　He　has　drunk　at　headier　streams。〃　The　Countess　was　nearing　her　end。　All　her　days；　for　a　saint；　she　had　been　a　shrewd　observer　of　life；　but　with　the　weakening　of　her　body's　strength　she　had　sunk　into　the　ghostly　world　which　the　Church　devised　as　an　ante…room　to　immortality。　Her　chamber　was　thronged　with　lean　friars　like　shadows。　To　her　came　the　Bishop　of　Beauvais；　once　a　star　of　the　Court；　but　now　in　his　age　a　grim　watch…dog　of　the　Truth。　To　him　she　spoke　of　her　hopes　for　Philip。

〃An　Italianate　scholar！〃　cried　the　old　man。　〃None　such　shall　pollute　the　Church　with　my　will。　They　are　beguiled　by　such　baubles　as　the　holy　Saint　Gregory　denounced；　poetarum　figmenta　sive　deliramenta。　If　your　grandson；　madame；　is　to　enter　the　service　of　God　he　must　renounce　these　pagan　follies。〃

The　Bishop　went；　but　his　words　remained。　In　the　hour　of　her　extremity　the　vision　of　Catherine　was　narrowed　to　a　dreadful　antagonism　of　light　and　darknessGod　and　Antichristthe　narrow　way　of　salvation　and　a　lost　world。　She　was　obsessed　by　the　peril　of　her　darling。　Her　last　act　must　be　to　pluck　him　from　his　temptress。　Her　mood　was　fanned　by　the　monks　who　surrounded　her；　narrow　men　whose　honesty　made　them　potent。

The　wan　face　on　the　bed　moved　Philip　deeply。　Tenderness　filled　his　heart；　and　a　great　sense　of　alienation；　for　the　dying　woman　spoke　a　tongue　he　had　forgotten。　Their　two　worlds　were　divided　by　a　gulf　which　affection　could　not　br