"But surely all the world may know of such a gift as that? Sire, sire, let me tell the whole truth; give me leave to say this is from the father to the son, from the King who is to the King who shall be——"
"God's name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with your King who shall be! Is this Commines' work? Does he think—does he think—that—that—Christ give me breath!" And the hooked fingers caught roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that the lean neck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare to the glare. "Quick, quick, is it Commines—Commines—Commines?" he stammered, gasping. "I took him from the gutter—from the very gutter; he was traitor to a Charles to serve Louis, and now is he a traitor to Louis to serve a Charles again?" Pushing himself up, half kneeling on the couch, half leaning on the low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening hand towards La Mothe. "Why don't you speak, boy, why don't you speak and tell the truth, you dumb dog?"
But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw dropped, he shivered as if with cold, and fell back upon the cushions, one hand feebly beckoning to La Mothe to come nearer.
"Whisper," he said, patting La Mothe's arm fawningly, a wry smile twitching his lips, but leaving the watchful eyes cold. "We are alone, we two. Who put that thought into your head? Eh? Come now? Come now?"
"No one, sire, on my honour, no one."
"Honour? I know too much of the ways of men to trust men's honour. Swear, boy," he burst out again, passionately roused. "Swear on this. It is the Cross of Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears falsely dies, dies within the year—dies damned. Honour? Honour is a net with too wide a mesh to hold men's oaths. Dare you swear?"
Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it reverently, while
Louis, his lungs still fighting for breath, witched him narrowly.
"Sire, I meant nothing, nothing but——"
"But that you were a fool. Only a fool sells—the lion's skin—while the lion—is alive." His voice strengthened as if the thought stimulated him like a cordial. "And the lion is alive—alive! I must finish, I must finish," he went on more querulously. "Yes, a fool, but fools are commonly honest. You may be a faithful servant, but you are a bad courtier, Monsieur La Mothe."
"But, sire, have you not more need of the one than of the other?"