"And who are in the castle?"
"Two or three units with a dozen of noughts to their tail to give them value; Monsieur de Commines——"
"Monsieur de Commines? Do you dare speak of Monsieur de Commines so insolently?" burst out La Mothe, too indignant in his loyal devotion to Commines to remember that a wandering singer ate the bread of sufferance and had no opinions. But the innkeeper took no offence, which again suggested that he had his own private opinion of the knapsack and the lute.
"Monsieur, I meant no harm," he protested humbly. "I am Monsieur de
Commines' man—that is, the King's man—to the death."
"Well, let it pass. Who else are at the Château?"
"Mademoiselle de Vesc——"
"Does she come next in consequence? Why not the Dauphin?"
"Oh! The Dauphin!" and Jean Saxe blew out his lips in contempt. "We who live in Amboise do not think great things of little Charles. To my mind little Charles is one of the noughts. But wait till you go to the Château and then you will understand for yourself."
"And why should I go to the Château?"
"Because they love music," and the fellow grinned knowingly as he cocked a cunning eye at the exposed lute, "because there is another who loves music and can open the doors and will say—— There! do you hear him? La, lilla, la! La, la, lilla, la! He always sings over the third bottle, and the King—God bless him—pays for all."