"You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Monsieur d'Argenton, but the King was so jealous and, may I add, so generous, it would vex his ghost to think he was so soon forgotten."
"Mademoiselle, I serve France, and to-night France is in Amboise."
"Is the letter from Coictier, his doctor, Uncle?" Hitherto La Mothe had kept silence. He agreed with Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found himself in a difficulty. In spite of his gratitude and reverence for Commines, in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, sounder judgment, he revolted from this callous opportunism which abandoned a dead master for a new service without the apparent compunction of a moment. Surely the grave should first shut out all that was mortal of the old obedience? And yet, because of that unfailing gratitude and profound faith, he could not join with the girl in her open condemnation. But crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his head as if the question was distasteful.
"No."
"From the King's son-in-law, Monsieur de Beaujeu, then? He would, of course, send you word immediately. Or Leslie? or Saint-Pierre?"
But after each name Commines made a gesture of dissent, pushing the paper into his pocket at the last to end the questioning.
"Not from any of these?" said mademoiselle. "Who, then, has written?
Surely the Dauphin has a right to know?"
"Tristan," answered Commines, and, turning, he looked her full in the face.
"Tristan?" she said icily, drawing herself back with a movement which La Mothe recognized by an unhappy experience. "You choose your friends strangely."
"But he is no friend," protested La Mothe, full of scorn and indignation for Commines' sake at the shame of the suggestion. "It would be impossible with such a man. And Monsieur de Commines has told me more than once that Tristan is jealous of his influence with the King, and is his bitterest enemy."