"Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some one who can open the doors of the Château to you I know nothing, and I want to know nothing. There you are to obey orders, but to have your time to yourself; and, my son, my son, pray God there may be no orders to give."
"But the King told me nothing of all this last night."
"It is enough that he told me this morning," answered Commines drily. "You need not look downcast; it is his custom to divide his instructions."
But La Mothe had another objection, and one so obvious that he marvelled how it had escaped Commines' notice.
"One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as a stranger will be impossible. Riding behind us there are twelve good reasons why I should be recognized."
"Do you take us for fools?" retorted Commines. Turning in his saddle he pointed backwards. Valmy was still in sight, and a keen eye could have detected the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the grey walls. "What is that to the right of the castle?"
"Valmy gallows."
"And from it hang three good reasons why the twelve will keep silence.
The King's grip is as sure in Amboise as it is in Valmy; it is over all
France, and God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. Think
twice, Stephen, before you say the King forgets—and then don't say it."
La Mothe rode on in silence. This sudden reminder of the justice of the King had dashed his satisfaction. Wherever he turned it confronted him, and always with a warning which was less a warning than a threat. It had been so with Tristan, it was so now with Commines, nor could the memory of the coat of mail and embroidered toy in his saddle-bags entirely quiet the uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seeking relief, his thought cast back to Commines' curt instructions.
"Who is this fellow—for I suppose it is a man who is to meet me at the
Chien Noir?"