"The days of Brutus have gone by," answered Commines, never ceasing from his restless pacing of the room. The motion eased the tension of his nervous distress and made speech less formal, less difficult. "Treason is treason wherever found. You know its punishment, but the days of Brutus are gone. The justice of the King, the justice of the father, can no longer—no longer——" But even his restless pacing could not give him power to clothe the grim thought in blunt words, and Commines was silent.
La Mothe's scornful indignation had no such reticence, nor had he yet learned how to cloak the ugliness of a naked truth in the pleasant euphemisms of diplomacy. With frank brutality he completed Commines' broken sentence.
"The father can no longer murder the son and call it justice. But, monsieur," and it was significant that the adoptive relationship was unceremoniously swept aside, "what has the father's murder of the son to do with me?"
"Treason is treason," repeated Commines, finding some comfort and strength in the bald platitude: it was incontrovertible and at least gave him firm ground under his feet. "Nor can treason go unpunished, or how would the throne be safe for a day? But what the father cannot do, though a king, another can and must; and must," he reiterated, steeling himself with a rising emphasis for what was to follow. "And you have been chosen as the King's arm in Amboise."
This time there was no outburst of scorn or indignation. It was not that the crisis was too deep for noisy declamation, though human nature differs from organic in that it commonly meets its most grave crises in quietness. The truth was, simply, that La Mothe did not grasp the full meaning of the words.
"The King's arm in Amboise?" he said uncomprehendingly. "The King's arm? What does that mean?" Then, by the very repetition of the phrase, enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his fingers closing in upon his palms. "Not that! For God's sake, Monsieur de Commines, say it is not that! Not that the father—— Oh! it cannot be, it cannot. Is it—is it murder?"
"Justice," replied Commines doggedly through his shut teeth. "Let us call things by their proper names. I say justice, justice of——"
"Hell!" broke in La Mothe fiercely. "Justice is sacred, to God Almighty, and this—this—— Where is God's hand? Where is—? Oh, no, no, it is damnable, damnable!"
"Justice," repeated Commines, quoting Louis. "Not even the son of a king is above or beyond justice."
"Vicarious murder!" retorted La Mothe. "No smooth sophism can make it less. He would have another commit an iniquity he dare not commit himself. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? Never! God helping me. I am to obey you, Monsieur de Commines; these were the King's orders; but not in this, never in this, never, so help me God!"