“It would be mos’ foolish,” interrupted William. “It is prove’.”
“Will your Highness then make an end?”
“That is not the way in this mos’ advance’ country,” answered William, and now there was no mistaking the smile. “My cousin in France ’as the lettres de cachet—but ’ere we ’ave the trial, the witness, the lawyer—all mos’ fair.”
He leaned back on his chair and his smile deepened.
“It is amusin’ ’ow you plot for the King you yoursel’ throw out. This is a list for my cousin (or Monsieur de Louvois) signe’ by all you could persuade—n’est pas?”
He sat up with a rattle of his sword-hilt against the chair.
“Who of my courtiers ’ave their names there?” he said, tapping the sealed paper. “It is mos’ amusin’, but, monsieur, it is not new to me. Per’aps you think I am thick head, and do not know who betray me—Mon Dieu! I think I tell you almos’ all the names there.”
“Your Highness employs many of the men whose names you will find there,” said Jerome, “and there are many more whom your Highness has never heard of, country gentlemen, honest small folk all over England whom you can ruin at once—you can be revenged on your servants and these others, your Highness, by merely opening that paper.”
“You, monsieur, speak like a enemy of me,” said William calmly. “You think it is my pleasure to shed blood—you are of those who write that when I was outside Bruxelles I burn alive my wounded soldiers, and that I poisone’ my Uncle Charles—I ’ave read these things in your leaflets.”
Jerome flushed.