"Why France was afraid. Well, that was probable. I see no lie in that."
"No, Sire; but Saxe fixed the day definitely, and Molembrais was alive at the time."
The King's hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet further into the pillows. He was breathing heavily, and from old experience Commines knew that he controlled his fury of anger only by an effort and because Coictier, his physician, had warned him that any outbreak of violent emotion might be fatal.
"Oh, the fool! the—the—the—I must be calm. May all the devils—no, I must be calm, I must control myself; my miserable, wretched heart—but to be cursed with such a fool, such a fool!"
"A scoundrel, Sire, rather than a fool; a villainous, lying scoundrel, who would traduce the Dauphin himself. Let us thank God he overreached himself and his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince your son is innocent of all blame, is loving and loyal. Let us publicly, promptly stamp Saxe for the liar he has proved himself to be, lest he malign the King himself. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now the one course possible."
"Eh, Philip? What was that? Accuse the King himself? Accuse me—me? Of what, Philip, of what? Where is this Saxe? In whose keeping? Monsieur d'Argenton, have you been imprudent—careless? By God! you shall answer for it if this liar of a Saxe spits his poison at me—at me. No, Philip, I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he has lied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal son of his loving father. We owe you much, France owes you much for this news. Yes, we rejoice—we rejoice—God knows how we rejoice! Philip, the cordial—there, on the table—that crystal flask. This joyful emotion is killing me."
Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed at with a hand which faltered and fluttered in the air a moment, then fell lifeless on the bedclothing, Commines stooped over the King, holding it to his mouth. At first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more rapidly. As the strength of the liquor reached the heart the labouring of the chest quieted, the leaden dullness of the cheeks took on some semblance of life, and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but for a moment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan's letter had, at worst, been prophetic. Motioning that he had drunk sufficient, Louis closed his eyes, laying his head back upon the pillows that he might rest the easier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His eyes still closed he beckoned to Commines to stoop lower.
"Saxe—where is Saxe?"
"In safe keeping, Sire."
"Safe? He cannot talk?"