d if they but fell into his power. "And
this La Mothe," he went on, "there is no need to tell him all we know.
To tell all you know is to lose your advantage. And why should he be
faithful? Why does he owe you everything?"

"I promised his sister--it was years ago----"

"A woman? Um, I do not like women. The ways of men I can follow, but
the ways of women are beyond me. Seven devils were cast out of one,
but not from the rest, and so there is no understanding them. No, I do
not like women."

"Sire, she is long dead."

"Yes? That makes it safer, but I do not see that it is any reason for
trusting the brother. Take him with you to Amboise if you think he is
safe, but remember"--and the King's lean hand was shaken suddenly
upward almost in Commines' face, a threat as well as a warning--"I hold
you responsible, you, you, you only. Let him be with you, but not of
you; let him enter Amboise apart from you, and let him work out of
sight like a mole, obeying orders without knowing why he obeys. Then
if he fails, or blunders, or is fool enough to be caught spying, you
can disown him, can wash your hands of him, and let him hang! Um! You
don't like it? I see in your face that you don't like it. Will you
never learn that a face has a tongue of its own to be used to conceal
our thoughts? But yours--I know your thought. The woman! Bah! the
woman is dead."

"Sire, a promise to the dead is like a vow to the Saints; none can give
it back."

"Um! a vow to the Saints? But we must have the Saints on our side.
Let me see--let me see. Yes! Take him with you, openly or secretly as
you will, and if he bungles I shall deal with him. That frees you from
your promise. The justice of the King! Eh, Philip! will the justice
of the King please you better?"

The justice of the King! Louis sat back in his chair as he spoke, his
blotched gums showing in a grin between his thin lips, his dull eyes
half veiled by the drooping of the leaden-hued lids. More than ever he
was a mask of death, but of a death that possessed a grim humour,
malevolent in its satirical cynicism. The justice of the King. Who
should know that justice so well as Commines, its minister for almost a
dozen years, or who so testify to its stern implacability? None
escaped the rigid iron of its wrath. Their almost royal blood saved
neither the Duke of Nemours nor the Count of Armagnac. Saint-Pol,
Constable of France, perished on the scaffold. Besi