"All do not blind themselves as you do." Round he swung upon Villon, shaking a stretched-out finger at him viciously. "Drinking himself drunk like a sot, or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for her own vile ends. Silence, sir!" he thundered as La Mothe sprang forward in protest. "You ask for proofs, and when I come to proofs you would cry me down with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to your love songs till the crude boy in you thinks she is a saint."
"A saint," answered La Mothe hoarsely, "a saint. I say so—I say so. A saint as good, as sweet, as pure——" He paused, looking round him in the darkness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. "As pure and good as these lilies, and the Mother of God they are called, for that, Monsieur d'Argenton, is Ursula de Vesc."
"Good boy," said Villon, rubbing his hands softly; "he has not sat at the feet of Francois Villon these ten days for nothing. I could not have said it better myself."
But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It was to combat this very unreason of devotion that he had hoped for further confirmation. Villon would surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, a word or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a little colouring, a little sophistry, would make the little much and the hint a damning reality. To an adept in the art of twisting phrases such an amplification of evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel would serve no good purpose.
"Words, Stephen," he said more gently, "mere words, and what are rhetoric and declamation against proofs?"
"Whose proofs?" repeated La Mothe doggedly.
Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, he felt the ground slipping from under his feet and was afraid of he knew not what. "So far it is you who have answered with rhetoric and declamation."
"Word-of-mouth proofs."
"Here in the Château?"
"No," answered Commines reluctantly, "not just in the Château but at its very door. I tell you, Stephen, there can be no mistake. Weeks ago Hugues approached him, first with hints, then more openly. It was the very cunning of Satan, the line of argument was so plausible. The King is old and ailing, life a very weariness, death a relief. In his sick suspicion he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judging afterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men died daily for no cause, died innocent and as good as murdered, gave names and instances, and because of these France was afraid. None knew who would follow next. For the general good, for the safety of the nation, some one must act. So the Dauphin had sent him, the Dauphin and Mademoiselle de Vesc. That was weeks ago, and you," again Commines turned upon Villon in denunciation, "you must have known."