e little in your own eyes, when you were the
humble fetcher and carrier to that Bully of Burgundy whom I crushed,
when you were the very hound and cur of his pleasure, fawning on him
for the scraps of life, I took you up, I!--I! Now you are Lord of
Argenton, now you are Seneschal of Poitou, now you are Prince of
Talmont, and I have made you all these, I!--I! and you answer me with
an 'if'! But the hand which raised you up can drag down, you who
answer me with an 'if.' The hand which drew from the mud can fling
into the ditch, you who answer me with an 'if.' And, by God! I'll do
it! An 'if'? We say 'ifs' to fools. Was I a fool to turn the
lickshoe of Charles the Bully into the Prince of Talmont? Was I a fool
to grope in the mud for a Seneschal of Poitou? Am I a fool now--I, who
have held the strings of all Europe in my hand for thirty years, and
loosed or ravelled them as suited the greatness of France? God be my
witness, all has been for the greatness of France! France comes first,
always first. And now, when I say my son plots against me, that
twelve-year boy who is of an age to be king, am I a fool and liar?
Does this lie? Answer me, Argenton, does this lie?" And wrenching his
hand free from Commines he shook the paper passionately above his head.

So sudden and so fierce was the attack, so full of bitter venom and raw
rage, so brutally naked and perilous in its threat, that Commines
fairly quailed. The florid ruddiness of his fleshy face faded to a
pallor more cadaverous than the unhealthy grey of Louis' sunken cheeks
as he remembered Molembrais. At the door stood the guards with crossed
pikes, beyond these were Leslie and Saint-Pierre, watchful and alert.
He was loved little better than his master, and he knew it. Let the
King speak and there would be no hesitancy, little pity. In his rapid
rise he had kicked many rivals from the ladder of Court favour, and
climbed yet higher by trampling them underfoot, caring little what gulf
of disgrace or worse swallowed them. And the King's threat was no idle
boast; the hand which had raised could drag down, not only to
irremediable disaster, but to the very grave itself. A hand? A
beckoning finger to those who waited at the door would be enough, and
Commines trembled.

"Sire, sire," he cried, his arms raised in protest and supplication,
"how have I offended you? In what have I been ungrateful? I meant no
more but that it seemed impossible a son could t