"In Amboise?"
"In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de Vesc, Hugues——"
"It's a lie," cried La Mothe, shaking himself free from Commines' arm. "A lie, a lie. I have Mademoiselle de Vesc's own word for it that it is a lie."
"And I have proof that it is true."
"Proof? Whose proof?"
Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had overstepped his purpose. Before making his disclosure to La Mothe he had searched for Villon in the hope of drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a mind willing to be convinced, might pass for confirmation; but in his vexed anger he had spoken prematurely. Weakly he tried to cover his error, first by an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in Stephen La Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor threatened.
"Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years? What interest have I but the King's service?"
"Uncle, you said proofs—whose proofs?"
"What is that to you? Do you forget that you are to obey my orders?"
"Proofs, Monsieur d'Argenton, whose proofs?"