"Some one has spoken to Saxe," he said. "Hugues or another. I know
Saxe well, he has not brains enough to imagine so great a truth."
"A truth!" cried Commines, catching at the phrase he waited for.
"Stephen, Stephen, all along I warned you she was dangerous."
"Very dangerous," said Villon, "I have felt it myself. No man is safe. In '57—or was it '58?—there was just such another. Her mother kept the little wine shop at the corner of——"
"Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not me. You said Saxe had told the truth."
"That the King and France are both sick; yes, Monsieur d'Argenton."
"No, no, but that Saxe had been approached."
"By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that."
"You hear, Stephen? Does that satisfy you?"
"But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added a little on his own account," went on Villon as if Commines had never spoken.
"Then what is the truth?"