Chương Chương 53 · THE RETREAT IN WHICH MONSIEUR LOUIS OF FRANCE SAYS HIS

. THE RETREAT IN WHICH MONSIEUR LOUIS OF FRANCE SAYS HIS

PRAYERS.

The reader has not, perhaps, forgotten that one moment before

catching sight of the nocturnal band of vagabonds, Quasimodo, as

he inspected Paris from the heights of his bell tower, perceived

only one light burning, which gleamed like a star from a window

on the topmost story of a lofty edifice beside the Porte

Saint-Antoine. This edifice was the Bastille. That star was the

candle of Louis XI. King Louis XI. had, in fact, been two days in

Paris. He was to take his departure on the next day but one for

his citadel of Montilz-les-Tours. He made but seldom and brief

appearance in his good city of Paris, since there he did not feel

about him enough pitfalls, gibbets, and Scotch archers.

He had come, that day, to sleep at the Bastille. The great

chamber five toises[64] square, which he had at the Louvre, with

its huge chimney-piece loaded with twelve great beasts and

thirteen great prophets, and his grand bed, eleven feet by

twelve, pleased him but little. He felt himself lost amid all

this grandeur. This good _bourgeois_ king preferred the Bastille

with a tiny chamber and couch. And then, the Bastille was

stronger than the Louvre.

This little chamber, which the king reserved for himself in the

famous state prison, was also tolerably spacious and occupied the

topmost story of a turret rising from the donjon keep. It was

circular in form, carpeted with mats of shining straw, ceiled

with beams, enriched with fleurs-de-lis of gilded metal with

interjoists in color; wainscoated with rich woods sown with

rosettes of white metal, and with others painted a fine, bright

green, made of orpiment and fine indigo.

There was only one window, a long pointed casement, latticed with

brass wire and bars of iron, further darkened by fine colored

panes with the arms of the king and of the queen, each pane being

worth two and twenty sols.

There was but one entrance, a modern door, with a flat arch,

garnished with a piece of tapestry on the inside, and on the

outside by one of those porches of Irish wood, frail edifices of

cabinet-work curiously wrought, numbers of which were still to be

seen in old houses a hundred and fifty years ago. “Although they

disfigure and embarrass the places,” says Sauvel in despair, “our

old people are still unwilling to get rid of them, and keep them

in spite of everybody.”

In this chamber, nothing was to be found of what furnishes

ordinary apartments, neither benches, nor trestles, nor forms,

nor common stools in the form of a chest, nor fine stools

sustained by pillars and counter-pillars, at four sols a piece.

Only one easy arm-chair, very magnificent, was to be seen; the

wood was painted with roses on a red ground, the seat was of ruby

Cordovan leather, ornamented with long silken fringes, and

studded with a thousand golden nails. The loneliness of this

chair made it apparent that only one person had a right to sit

down in this apartment. Beside the chair, and quite close to the

window, there was a table covered with a cloth with a pattern of

birds. On this table stood an inkhorn spotted with ink, some

parchments, several pens, and a large goblet of chased silver. A

little further on was a brazier, a praying stool in crimson

velvet, relieved with small bosses of gold. Finally, at the

extreme end of the room, a simple bed of scarlet and yellow

damask, without either tinsel or lace; having only an ordinary

fringe. This bed, famous for having borne the sleep or the

sleeplessness of Louis XI., was still to be seen two hundred

years ago, at the house of a councillor of state, where it was

seen by old Madame Pilou, celebrated in _Cyrus_ under the name

_Arricidie_ and of _la Morale Vivante_.

Such was the chamber which was called “the retreat where Monsieur

Louis de France says his prayers.”

At the moment when we have introduced the reader into it, this

retreat was very dark. The curfew bell had sounded an hour

before; night was come, and there was only one flickering wax

candle set on the table to light five persons variously grouped

in the chamber.

The first on which the light fell was a seigneur superbly clad in

breeches and jerkin of scarlet striped with silver, and a loose

coat with half sleeves of cloth of gold with black figures. This

splendid costume, on which the light played, seemed glazed with

flame on every fold. The man who wore it had his armorial

bearings embroidered on his breast in vivid colors; a chevron

accompanied by a deer passant. The shield was flanked, on the

right by an olive branch, on the left by a deer’s antlers. This

man wore in his girdle a rich dagger whose hilt, of silver gilt,

was chased in the form of a helmet, and surmounted by a count’s

coronet. He had a forbidding air, a proud mien, and a head held

high. At the first glance one read arrogance on his visage; at

the second, craft.

He was standing bareheaded, a long roll of parchment in his hand,

behind the arm-chair in which was seated, his body ungracefully

doubled up, his knees crossed, his elbow on the table, a very

badly accoutred personage. Let the reader imagine in fact, on the

rich seat of Cordova leather, two crooked knees, two thin thighs,

poorly clad in black worsted tricot, a body enveloped in a cloak

of fustian, with fur trimming of which more leather than hair was

visible; lastly, to crown all, a greasy old hat of the worst sort

of black cloth, bordered with a circular string of leaden

figures. This, in company with a dirty skull-cap, which hardly

allowed a hair to escape, was all that distinguished the seated

personage. He held his head so bent upon his breast, that nothing

was to be seen of his face thus thrown into shadow, except the

tip of his nose, upon which fell a ray of light, and which must

have been long. From the thinness of his wrinkled hand, one

divined that he was an old man. It was Louis XI. At some distance

behind them, two men dressed in garments of Flemish style were

conversing, who were not sufficiently lost in the shadow to

prevent any one who had been present at the performance of

Gringoire’s mystery from recognizing in them two of the principal

Flemish envoys, Guillaume Rym, the sagacious pensioner of Ghent,

and Jacques Coppenole, the popular hosier. The reader will

remember that these men were mixed up in the secret politics of

Louis XI. Finally, quite at the end of the room, near the door,

in the dark, stood, motionless as a statue, a vigorous man with

thickset limbs, a military harness, with a surcoat of armorial

bearings, whose square face pierced with staring eyes, slit with

an immense mouth, his ears concealed by two large screens of flat

hair, had something about it both of the dog and the tiger.

All were uncovered except the king.

The gentleman who stood near the king was reading him a sort of

long memorial to which his majesty seemed to be listening

attentively. The two Flemings were whispering together.

“Cross of God!” grumbled Coppenole, “I am tired of standing; is

there no chair here?”

Rym replied by a negative gesture, accompanied by a discreet

smile.

“Croix-Dieu!” resumed Coppenole, thoroughly unhappy at being

obliged to lower his voice thus, “I should like to sit down on

the floor, with my legs crossed, like a hosier, as I do in my

shop.”

“Take good care that you do not, Master Jacques.”

“Ouais! Master Guillaume! can one only remain here on his feet?”

“Or on his knees,” said Rym.

At that moment the king’s voice was uplifted. They held their

peace.

“Fifty sols for the robes of our valets, and twelve livres for

the mantles of the clerks of our crown! That’s it! Pour out gold

by the ton! Are you mad, Olivier?”

As he spoke thus, the old man raised his head. The golden shells

of the collar of Saint-Michael could be seen gleaming on his

neck. The candle fully illuminated his gaunt and morose profile.

He tore the papers from the other’s hand.

“You are ruining us!” he cried, casting his hollow eyes over the

scroll. “What is all this? What need have we of so prodigious a

household? Two chaplains at ten livres a month each, and, a

chapel clerk at one hundred sols! A valet-de-chambre at ninety

livres a year. Four head cooks at six score livres a year each! A

spit-cook, an herb-cook, a sauce-cook, a butler, two

sumpter-horse lackeys, at ten livres a month each! Two scullions

at eight livres! A groom of the stables and his two aids at four

and twenty livres a month! A porter, a pastry-cook, a baker, two

carters, each sixty livres a year! And the farrier six score

livres! And the master of the chamber of our funds, twelve

hundred livres! And the comptroller five hundred. And how do I

know what else? ’Tis ruinous. The wages of our servants are

putting France to the pillage! All the ingots of the Louvre will

melt before such a fire of expenses! We shall have to sell our

plate! And next year, if God and our Lady (here he raised his

hat) lend us life, we shall drink our potions from a pewter pot!”

So saying, he cast a glance at the silver goblet which gleamed

upon the table. He coughed and continued,—

“Master Olivier, the princes who reign over great lordships, like

kings and emperors, should not allow sumptuousness in their

houses; for the fire spreads thence through the province. Hence,

Master Olivier, consider this said once for all. Our expenditure

increases every year. The thing displease us. How, _pasque-Dieu!_

when in ’79 it did not exceed six and thirty thousand livres, did

it attain in ’80, forty-three thousand six hundred and nineteen

livres? I have the figures in my head. In ’81, sixty-six thousand

six hundred and eighty livres, and this year, by the faith of my

body, it will reach eighty thousand livres! Doubled in four

years! Monstrous!”

He paused breathless, then resumed energetically,—

“I behold around me only people who fatten on my leanness! you

suck crowns from me at every pore.”

All remained silent. This was one of those fits of wrath which

are allowed to take their course. He continued,—

“’Tis like that request in Latin from the gentlemen of France,

that we should re-establish what they call the grand charges of

the Crown! Charges in very deed! Charges which crush! Ah!

gentlemen! you say that we are not a king to reign _dapifero

nullo, buticulario nullo!_ We will let you see, _pasque-Dieu!_

whether we are not a king!”

Here he smiled, in the consciousness of his power; this softened

his bad humor, and he turned towards the Flemings,—

“Do you see, Gossip Guillaume? the grand warden of the keys, the

grand butler, the grand chamberlain, the grand seneschal are not

worth the smallest valet. Remember this, Gossip Coppenole. They

serve no purpose, as they stand thus useless round the king; they

produce upon me the effect of the four Evangelists who surround

the face of the big clock of the palace, and which Philippe

Brille has just set in order afresh. They are gilt, but they do

not indicate the hour; and the hands can get on without them.”

He remained in thought for a moment, then added, shaking his aged

head,—

“Ho! ho! by our Lady, I am not Philippe Brille, and I shall not

gild the great vassals anew. Continue, Olivier.”

The person whom he designated by this name, took the papers into

his hands again, and began to read aloud,—

“To Adam Tenon, clerk of the warden of the seals of the

provostship of Paris; for the silver, making, and engraving of

said seals, which have been made new because the others

preceding, by reason of their antiquity and their worn condition,

could no longer be successfully used, twelve livres parisis.

“To Guillaume Frère, the sum of four livres, four sols parisis,

for his trouble and salary, for having nourished and fed the

doves in the two dove-cots of the Hôtel des Tournelles, during

the months of January, February, and March of this year; and for

this he hath given seven sextiers of barley.

“To a gray friar for confessing a criminal, four sols parisis.”

The king listened in silence. From time to time he coughed; then

he raised the goblet to his lips and drank a draught with a

grimace.

“During this year there have been made by the ordinance of

justice, to the sound of the trumpet, through the squares of

Paris, fifty-six proclamations. Account to be regulated.

“For having searched and ransacked in certain places, in Paris as

well as elsewhere, for money said to be there concealed; but

nothing hath been found: forty-five livres parisis.”

“Bury a crown to unearth a sou!” said the king.

“For having set in the Hôtel des Tournelles six panes of white

glass in the place where the iron cage is, thirteen sols; for

having made and delivered by command of the king, on the day of

the musters, four shields with the escutcheons of the said

seigneur, encircled with garlands of roses all about, six livres;

for two new sleeves to the king’s old doublet, twenty sols; for a

box of grease to grease the boots of the king, fifteen deniers; a

stable newly made to lodge the king’s black pigs, thirty livres

parisis; many partitions, planks, and trap-doors, for the

safekeeping of the lions at Saint-Paul, twenty-two livres.”

“These be dear beasts,” said Louis XI. “It matters not; it is a

fine magnificence in a king. There is a great red lion whom I

love for his pleasant ways. Have you seen him, Master Guillaume?

Princes must have these terrific animals; for we kings must have

lions for our dogs and tigers for our cats. The great befits a

crown. In the days of the pagans of Jupiter, when the people

offered the temples a hundred oxen and a hundred sheep, the

emperors gave a hundred lions and a hundred eagles. This was wild

and very fine. The kings of France have always had roarings round

their throne. Nevertheless, people must do me this justice, that

I spend still less money on it than they did, and that I possess

a greater modesty of lions, bears, elephants, and leopards.—Go

on, Master Olivier. We wished to say thus much to our Flemish

friends.”

Guillaume Rym bowed low, while Coppenole, with his surly mien,

had the air of one of the bears of which his majesty was

speaking. The king paid no heed. He had just dipped his lips into

the goblet, and he spat out the beverage, saying: “Foh! what a

disagreeable potion!” The man who was reading continued:—

“For feeding a rascally footpad, locked up these six months in

the little cell of the flayer, until it should be determined what

to do with him, six livres, four sols.”

“What’s that?” interrupted the king; “feed what ought to be

hanged! _Pasque-Dieu!_ I will give not a sou more for that

nourishment. Olivier, come to an understanding about the matter

with Monsieur d’Estouteville, and prepare me this very evening

the wedding of the gallant and the gallows. Resume.”

Olivier made a mark with his thumb against the article of the

“rascally foot soldier,” and passed on.

“To Henriet Cousin, master executor of the high works of justice

in Paris, the sum of sixty sols parisis, to him assessed and

ordained by monseigneur the provost of Paris, for having bought,

by order of the said sieur the provost, a great broad sword,

serving to execute and decapitate persons who are by justice

condemned for their demerits, and he hath caused the same to be

garnished with a sheath and with all things thereto appertaining;

and hath likewise caused to be repointed and set in order the old

sword, which had become broken and notched in executing justice

on Messire Louis de Luxembourg, as will more fully appear....”

The king interrupted: “That suffices. I allow the sum with great

good will. Those are expenses which I do not begrudge. I have

never regretted that money. Continue.”

“For having made over a great cage....”

“Ah!” said the king, grasping the arms of his chair in both

hands, “I knew well that I came hither to this Bastille for some

purpose. Hold, Master Olivier; I desire to see that cage myself.

You shall read me the cost while I am examining it. Messieurs

Flemings, come and see this; ’tis curious.”

Then he rose, leaned on the arm of his interlocutor, made a sign

to the sort of mute who stood before the door to precede him, to

the two Flemings to follow him, and quitted the room.

The royal company was recruited, at the door of the retreat, by

men of arms, all loaded down with iron, and by slender pages

bearing flambeaux. It marched for some time through the interior

of the gloomy donjon, pierced with staircases and corridors even

in the very thickness of the walls. The captain of the Bastille

marched at their head, and caused the wickets to be opened before

the bent and aged king, who coughed as he walked.

At each wicket, all heads were obliged to stoop, except that of

the old man bent double with age. “Hum,” said he between his

gums, for he had no longer any teeth, “we are already quite

prepared for the door of the sepulchre. For a low door, a bent

passer.”

At length, after having passed a final wicket, so loaded with

locks that a quarter of an hour was required to open it, they

entered a vast and lofty vaulted hall, in the centre of which

they could distinguish by the light of the torches, a huge cubic

mass of masonry, iron, and wood. The interior was hollow. It was

one of those famous cages of prisoners of state, which were

called “the little daughters of the king.” In its walls there

were two or three little windows so closely trellised with stout

iron bars; that the glass was not visible. The door was a large

flat slab of stone, as on tombs; the sort of door which serves

for entrance only. Only here, the occupant was alive.

The king began to walk slowly round the little edifice, examining

it carefully, while Master Olivier, who followed him, read aloud

the note.

“For having made a great cage of wood of solid beams, timbers and

wall-plates, measuring nine feet in length by eight in breadth,

and of the height of seven feet between the partitions, smoothed

and clamped with great bolts of iron, which has been placed in a

chamber situated in one of the towers of the Bastille

Saint-Antoine, in which cage is placed and detained, by command

of the king our lord, a prisoner who formerly inhabited an old,

decrepit, and ruined cage. There have been employed in making the

said new cage, ninety-six horizontal beams, and fifty-two upright

joists, ten wall plates three toises long; there have been

occupied nineteen carpenters to hew, work, and fit all the said

wood in the courtyard of the Bastille during twenty days.”

“Very fine heart of oak,” said the king, striking the woodwork

with his fist.

“There have been used in this cage,” continued the other, “two

hundred and twenty great bolts of iron, of nine feet, and of

eight, the rest of medium length, with the rowels, caps and

counterbands appertaining to the said bolts; weighing, the said

iron in all, three thousand, seven hundred and thirty-five

pounds; beside eight great squares of iron, serving to attach the

said cage in place with clamps and nails weighing in all two

hundred and eighteen pounds, not reckoning the iron of the

trellises for the windows of the chamber wherein the cage hath

been placed, the bars of iron for the door of the cage and other

things.”

“’Tis a great deal of iron,” said the king, “to contain the light

of a spirit.”

“The whole amounts to three hundred and seventeen livres, five

sols, seven deniers.”

“_Pasque-Dieu!_” exclaimed the king.

At this oath, which was the favorite of Louis XI., some one

seemed to awaken in the interior of the cage; the sound of chains

was heard, grating on the floor, and a feeble voice, which seemed

to issue from the tomb was uplifted. “Sire! sire! mercy!” The one

who spoke thus could not be seen.

“Three hundred and seventeen livres, five sols, seven deniers,”

repeated Louis XI. The lamentable voice which had proceeded from

the cage had frozen all present, even Master Olivier himself. The

king alone wore the air of not having heard. At his order, Master

Olivier resumed his reading, and his majesty coldly continued his

inspection of the cage.

“In addition to this there hath been paid to a mason who hath

made the holes wherein to place the gratings of the windows, and

the floor of the chamber where the cage is, because that floor

could not support this cage by reason of its weight, twenty-seven

livres fourteen sols parisis.”

The voice began to moan again.

“Mercy, sire! I swear to you that ’twas Monsieur the Cardinal

d’Angers and not I, who was guilty of treason.”

“The mason is bold!” said the king. “Continue, Olivier.”

Olivier continued,—

“To a joiner for window frames, bedstead, hollow stool, and other

things, twenty livres, two sols parisis.”

The voice also continued.

“Alas, sire! will you not listen to me? I protest to you that

’twas not I who wrote the matter to Monseigneur de Guyenne, but

Monsieur le Cardinal Balue.”

“The joiner is dear,” quoth the king. “Is that all?”

“No, sire. To a glazier, for the windows of the said chamber,

forty-six sols, eight deniers parisis.”

“Have mercy, sire! Is it not enough to have given all my goods to

my judges, my plate to Monsieur de Torcy, my library to Master

Pierre Doriolle, my tapestry to the governor of the Roussillon? I

am innocent. I have been shivering in an iron cage for fourteen

years. Have mercy, sire! You will find your reward in heaven.”

“Master Olivier,” said the king, “the total?”

“Three hundred sixty-seven livres, eight sols, three deniers

parisis.

“Notre-Dame!” cried the king. “This is an outrageous cage!”

He tore the book from Master Olivier’s hands, and set to

reckoning it himself upon his fingers, examining the paper and

the cage alternately. Meanwhile, the prisoner could be heard

sobbing. This was lugubrious in the darkness, and their faces

turned pale as they looked at each other.

“Fourteen years, sire! Fourteen years now! since the month of

April, 1469. In the name of the Holy Mother of God, sire, listen

to me! During all this time you have enjoyed the heat of the sun.

Shall I, frail creature, never more behold the day? Mercy, sire!

Be pitiful! Clemency is a fine, royal virtue, which turns aside

the currents of wrath. Does your majesty believe that in the hour

of death it will be a great cause of content for a king never to

have left any offence unpunished? Besides, sire, I did not betray

your majesty, ’twas Monsieur d’Angers; and I have on my foot a

very heavy chain, and a great ball of iron at the end, much

heavier than it should be in reason. Eh! sire! Have pity on me!”

“Olivier,” cried the king, throwing back his head, “I observe

that they charge me twenty sols a hogshead for plaster, while it

is worth but twelve. You will refer back this account.”

He turned his back on the cage, and set out to leave the room.

The miserable prisoner divined from the removal of the torches

and the noise, that the king was taking his departure.

“Sire! sire!” he cried in despair.

The door closed again. He no longer saw anything, and heard only

the hoarse voice of the turnkey, singing in his ears this ditty,—

“Maître Jean Balue,

A perdu la vue

De ses évêchés.

Monsieur de Verdun.

N’en a plus pas un;

Tous sont dépêchés.”[65]

The king reascended in silence to his retreat, and his suite

followed him, terrified by the last groans of the condemned man.

All at once his majesty turned to the Governor of the Bastille,—

“By the way,” said he, “was there not some one in that cage?”

“Pardieu, yes sire!” replied the governor, astounded by the

question.

“And who was it?”

“Monsieur the Bishop of Verdun.”

The king knew this better than any one else. But it was a mania

of his.

“Ah!” said he, with the innocent air of thinking of it for the

first time, “Guillaume de Harancourt, the friend of Monsieur the

Cardinal Balue. A good devil of a bishop!”

At the expiration of a few moments, the door of the retreat had

opened again, then closed upon the five personages whom the

reader has seen at the beginning of this chapter, and who resumed

their places, their whispered conversations, and their attitudes.

During the king’s absence, several despatches had been placed on

his table, and he broke the seals himself. Then he began to read

them promptly, one after the other, made a sign to Master Olivier

who appeared to exercise the office of minister, to take a pen,

and without communicating to him the contents of the despatches,

he began to dictate in a low voice, the replies which the latter

wrote, on his knees, in an inconvenient attitude before the

table.

Guillaume Rym was on the watch.

The king spoke so low that the Flemings heard nothing of his

dictation, except some isolated and rather unintelligible scraps,

such as,—

“To maintain the fertile places by commerce, and the sterile by

manufactures....—To show the English lords our four bombards,

London, Brabant, Bourg-en-Bresse, Saint-Omer....—Artillery is the

cause of war being made more judiciously now....—To Monsieur de

Bressuire, our friend....—Armies cannot be maintained without

tribute, etc.”

Once he raised his voice,—

“_Pasque Dieu!_ Monsieur the King of Sicily seals his letters

with yellow wax, like a king of France. Perhaps we are in the

wrong to permit him so to do. My fair cousin of Burgundy granted

no armorial bearings with a field of gules. The grandeur of

houses is assured by the integrity of prerogatives. Note this,

friend Olivier.”

Again,—

“Oh! oh!” said he, “What a long message! What doth our brother

the emperor claim?” And running his eye over the missive and

breaking his reading with interjection: “Surely! the Germans are

so great and powerful, that it is hardly credible—But let us not

forget the old proverb: ‘The finest county is Flanders; the

finest duchy, Milan; the finest kingdom, France.’ Is it not so,

Messieurs Flemings?”

This time Coppenole bowed in company with Guillaume Rym. The

hosier’s patriotism was tickled.

The last despatch made Louis XI. frown.

“What is this?” he said, “Complaints and fault finding against

our garrisons in Picardy! Olivier, write with diligence to M. the

Marshal de Rouault:—That discipline is relaxed. That the

gendarmes of the unattached troops, the feudal nobles, the free

archers, and the Swiss inflict infinite evils on the

rustics.—That the military, not content with what they find in

the houses of the rustics, constrain them with violent blows of

cudgel or of lash to go and get wine, spices, and other

unreasonable things in the town.—That monsieur the king knows

this. That we undertake to guard our people against

inconveniences, larcenies and pillage.—That such is our will, by

our Lady!—That in addition, it suits us not that any fiddler,

barber, or any soldier varlet should be clad like a prince, in

velvet, cloth of silk, and rings of gold.—That these vanities are

hateful to God.—That we, who are gentlemen, content ourselves

with a doublet of cloth at sixteen sols the ell, of Paris.—That

messieurs the camp-followers can very well come down to that,

also.—Command and ordain.—To Monsieur de Rouault, our

friend.—Good.”

He dictated this letter aloud, in a firm tone, and in jerks. At

the moment when he finished it, the door opened and gave passage

to a new personage, who precipitated himself into the chamber,

crying in affright,—

“Sire! sire! there is a sedition of the populace in Paris!” Louis

XI.’s grave face contracted; but all that was visible of his

emotion passed away like a flash of lightning. He controlled

himself and said with tranquil severity,—

“Gossip Jacques, you enter very abruptly!”

“Sire! sire! there is a revolt!” repeated Gossip Jacques

breathlessly.

The king, who had risen, grasped him roughly by the arm, and said

in his ear, in such a manner as to be heard by him alone, with

concentrated rage and a sidelong glance at the Flemings,—

“Hold your tongue! or speak low!”

The new comer understood, and began in a low tone to give a very

terrified account, to which the king listened calmly, while

Guillaume Rym called Coppenole’s attention to the face and dress

of the new arrival, to his furred cowl, (_caputia fourrata_), his

short cape, (_epitogia curta_), his robe of black velvet, which

bespoke a president of the court of accounts.

Hardly had this personage given the king some explanations, when

Louis XI. exclaimed, bursting into a laugh,—

“In truth? Speak aloud, Gossip Coictier! What call is there for

you to talk so low? Our Lady knoweth that we conceal nothing from

our good friends the Flemings.”

“But sire...”

“Speak loud!”

Gossip Coictier was struck dumb with surprise.

“So,” resumed the king,—“speak sir,—there is a commotion among

the louts in our good city of Paris?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And which is moving you say, against monsieur the bailiff of the

Palais-de-Justice?”

“So it appears,” said the gossip, who still stammered, utterly

astounded by the abrupt and inexplicable change which had just

taken place in the king’s thoughts.

Louis XI. continued: “Where did the watch meet the rabble?”

“Marching from the Grand Truanderie, towards the

Pont-aux-Changeurs. I met it myself as I was on my way hither to

obey your majesty’s commands. I heard some of them shouting:

‘Down with the bailiff of the palace!’”

“And what complaints have they against the bailiff?”

“Ah!” said Gossip Jacques, “because he is their lord.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sire. They are knaves from the Cour-des-Miracles. They have

been complaining this long while, of the bailiff, whose vassals

they are. They do not wish to recognize him either as judge or as

voyer?”[66]

“Yes, certainly!” retorted the king with a smile of satisfaction

which he strove in vain to disguise.

“In all their petitions to the Parliament, they claim to have but

two masters. Your majesty and their God, who is the devil, I

believe.”

“Eh! eh!” said the king.

He rubbed his hands, he laughed with that inward mirth which

makes the countenance beam; he was unable to dissimulate his joy,

although he endeavored at moments to compose himself. No one

understood it in the least, not even Master Olivier. He remained

silent for a moment, with a thoughtful but contented air.

“Are they in force?” he suddenly inquired.

“Yes, assuredly, sire,” replied Gossip Jacques.

“How many?”

“Six thousand at the least.”

The king could not refrain from saying: “Good!” he went on,—

“Are they armed?”

“With scythes, pikes, hackbuts, pickaxes. All sorts of very

violent weapons.”

The king did not appear in the least disturbed by this list.

Jacques considered it his duty to add,—

“If your majesty does not send prompt succor to the bailiff, he

is lost.”

“We will send,” said the king with an air of false seriousness.

“It is well. Assuredly we will send. Monsieur the bailiff is our

friend. Six thousand! They are desperate scamps! Their audacity

is marvellous, and we are greatly enraged at it. But we have only

a few people about us to-night. To-morrow morning will be time

enough.”

Gossip Jacques exclaimed, “Instantly, sire! there will be time to

sack the bailiwick a score of times, to violate the seignory, to

hang the bailiff. For God’s sake, sire! send before to-morrow

morning.”

The king looked him full in the face. “I have told you to-morrow

morning.”

It was one of those looks to which one does not reply. After a

silence, Louis XI. raised his voice once more,—

“You should know that, Gossip Jacques. What was—”

He corrected himself. “What is the bailiff’s feudal

jurisdiction?”

“Sire, the bailiff of the palace has the Rue Calendre as far as

the Rue de l’Herberie, the Place Saint-Michel, and the localities

vulgarly known as the Mureaux, situated near the church of

Notre-Dame des Champs (here Louis XI. raised the brim of his

hat), which hotels number thirteen, plus the Cour des Miracles,

plus the Maladerie, called the Banlieue, plus the whole highway

which begins at that Maladerie and ends at the Porte

Sainte-Jacques. Of these divers places he is voyer, high, middle,

and low, justiciary, full seigneur.”

“Bless me!” said the king, scratching his left ear with his right

hand, “that makes a goodly bit of my city! Ah! monsieur the

bailiff was king of all that.”

This time he did not correct himself. He continued dreamily, and

as though speaking to himself,—

“Very fine, monsieur the bailiff! You had there between your

teeth a pretty slice of our Paris.”

All at once he broke out explosively, “_Pasque-Dieu!_ What people

are those who claim to be voyers, justiciaries, lords and masters

in our domains? who have their tollgates at the end of every

field? their gallows and their hangman at every cross-road among

our people? So that as the Greek believed that he had as many

gods as there were fountains, and the Persian as many as he

beheld stars, the Frenchman counts as many kings as he sees

gibbets! Pardieu! ’tis an evil thing, and the confusion of it

displeases me. I should greatly like to know whether it be the

mercy of God that there should be in Paris any other lord than

the king, any other judge than our parliament, any other emperor

than ourselves in this empire! By the faith of my soul! the day

must certainly come when there shall exist in France but one

king, one lord, one judge, one headsman, as there is in paradise

but one God!”

He lifted his cap again, and continued, still dreamily, with the

air and accent of a hunter who is cheering on his pack of hounds:

“Good, my people! bravely done! break these false lords! do your

duty! at them! have at them! pillage them! take them! sack

them!... Ah! you want to be kings, messeigneurs? On, my people

on!”

Here he interrupted himself abruptly, bit his lips as though to

take back his thought which had already half escaped, bent his

piercing eyes in turn on each of the five persons who surrounded

him, and suddenly grasping his hat with both hands and staring

full at it, he said to it: “Oh! I would burn you if you knew what

there was in my head.”

Then casting about him once more the cautious and uneasy glance

of the fox re-entering his hole,—

“No matter! we will succor monsieur the bailiff. Unfortunately,

we have but few troops here at the present moment, against so

great a populace. We must wait until to-morrow. The order will be

transmitted to the City and every one who is caught will be

immediately hung.”

“By the way, sire,” said Gossip Coictier, “I had forgotten that

in the first agitation, the watch have seized two laggards of the

band. If your majesty desires to see these men, they are here.”

“If I desire to see them!” cried the king. “What! _Pasque-Dieu!_

You forget a thing like that! Run quick, you, Olivier! Go, seek

them!”

Master Olivier quitted the room and returned a moment later with

the two prisoners, surrounded by archers of the guard. The first

had a coarse, idiotic, drunken and astonished face. He was

clothed in rags, and walked with one knee bent and dragging his

leg. The second had a pallid and smiling countenance, with which

the reader is already acquainted.

The king surveyed them for a moment without uttering a word, then

addressing the first one abruptly,—

“What’s your name?”

“Gieffroy Pincebourde.”

“Your trade.”

“Outcast.”

“What were you going to do in this damnable sedition?”

The outcast stared at the king, and swung his arms with a stupid

air.

He had one of those awkwardly shaped heads where intelligence is

about as much at its ease as a light beneath an extinguisher.

“I know not,” said he. “They went, I went.”

“Were you not going to outrageously attack and pillage your lord,

the bailiff of the palace?”

“I know that they were going to take something from some one.

That is all.”

A soldier pointed out to the king a billhook which he had seized

on the person of the vagabond.

“Do you recognize this weapon?” demanded the king.

“Yes; ’tis my billhook; I am a vine-dresser.”

“And do you recognize this man as your companion?” added Louis

XI., pointing to the other prisoner.

“No, I do not know him.”

“That will do,” said the king, making a sign with his finger to

the silent personage who stood motionless beside the door, to

whom we have already called the reader’s attention.

“Gossip Tristan, here is a man for you.”

Tristan l’Hermite bowed. He gave an order in a low voice to two

archers, who led away the poor vagabond.

In the meantime, the king had approached the second prisoner, who

was perspiring in great drops: “Your name?”

“Sire, Pierre Gringoire.”

“Your trade?”

“Philosopher, sire.”

“How do you permit yourself, knave, to go and besiege our friend,

monsieur the bailiff of the palace, and what have you to say

concerning this popular agitation?”

“Sire, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Come, now! you wanton wretch, were not you apprehended by the

watch in that bad company?”

“No, sire, there is a mistake. ’Tis a fatality. I make tragedies.

Sire, I entreat your majesty to listen to me. I am a poet. ’Tis

the melancholy way of men of my profession to roam the streets by

night. I was passing there. It was mere chance. I was unjustly

arrested; I am innocent of this civil tempest. Your majesty sees

that the vagabond did not recognize me. I conjure your majesty—”

“Hold your tongue!” said the king, between two swallows of his

ptisan. “You split our head!”

Tristan l’Hermite advanced and pointing to Gringoire,—

“Sire, can this one be hanged also?”

This was the first word that he had uttered.

“Phew!” replied the king, “I see no objection.”

“I see a great many!” said Gringoire.

At that moment, our philosopher was greener than an olive. He

perceived from the king’s cold and indifferent mien that there

was no other resource than something very pathetic, and he flung

himself at the feet of Louis XI., exclaiming, with gestures of

despair:—

“Sire! will your majesty deign to hear me. Sire! break not in

thunder over so small a thing as myself. God’s great lightning

doth not bombard a lettuce. Sire, you are an august and, very

puissant monarch; have pity on a poor man who is honest, and who

would find it more difficult to stir up a revolt than a cake of

ice would to give out a spark! Very gracious sire, kindness is

the virtue of a lion and a king. Alas! rigor only frightens

minds; the impetuous gusts of the north wind do not make the

traveller lay aside his cloak; the sun, bestowing his rays little

by little, warms him in such ways that it will make him strip to

his shirt. Sire, you are the sun. I protest to you, my sovereign

lord and master, that I am not an outcast, thief, and disorderly

fellow. Revolt and brigandage belong not to the outfit of Apollo.

I am not the man to fling myself into those clouds which break

out into seditious clamor. I am your majesty’s faithful vassal.

That same jealousy which a husband cherisheth for the honor of

his wife, the resentment which the son hath for the love of his

father, a good vassal should feel for the glory of his king; he

should pine away for the zeal of this house, for the

aggrandizement of his service. Every other passion which should

transport him would be but madness. These, sire, are my maxims of

state: then do not judge me to be a seditious and thieving rascal

because my garment is worn at the elbows. If you will grant me

mercy, sire, I will wear it out on the knees in praying to God

for you night and morning! Alas! I am not extremely rich, ’tis

true. I am even rather poor. But not vicious on that account. It

is not my fault. Every one knoweth that great wealth is not to be

drawn from literature, and that those who are best posted in good

books do not always have a great fire in winter. The advocate’s

trade taketh all the grain, and leaveth only straw to the other

scientific professions. There are forty very excellent proverbs

anent the hole-ridden cloak of the philosopher. Oh, sire!

clemency is the only light which can enlighten the interior of so

great a soul. Clemency beareth the torch before all the other

virtues. Without it they are but blind men groping after God in

the dark. Compassion, which is the same thing as clemency,

causeth the love of subjects, which is the most powerful

bodyguard to a prince. What matters it to your majesty, who

dazzles all faces, if there is one poor man more on earth, a poor

innocent philosopher spluttering amid the shadows of calamity,

with an empty pocket which resounds against his hollow belly?

Moreover, sire, I am a man of letters. Great kings make a pearl

for their crowns by protecting letters. Hercules did not disdain

the title of Musagetes. Mathias Corvin favored Jean de Monroyal,

the ornament of mathematics. Now, ’tis an ill way to protect

letters to hang men of letters. What a stain on Alexander if he

had hung Aristoteles! This act would not be a little patch on the

face of his reputation to embellish it, but a very malignant

ulcer to disfigure it. Sire! I made a very proper epithalamium

for Mademoiselle of Flanders and Monseigneur the very august

Dauphin. That is not a firebrand of rebellion. Your majesty sees

that I am not a scribbler of no reputation, that I have studied

excellently well, and that I possess much natural eloquence. Have

mercy upon me, sire! In so doing you will perform a gallant deed

to our Lady, and I swear to you that I am greatly terrified at

the idea of being hanged!”

So saying, the unhappy Gringoire kissed the king’s slippers, and

Guillaume Rym said to Coppenole in a low tone: “He doth well to

drag himself on the earth. Kings are like the Jupiter of Crete,

they have ears only in their feet.” And without troubling himself

about the Jupiter of Crete, the hosier replied with a heavy

smile, and his eyes fixed on Gringoire: “Oh! that’s it exactly! I

seem to hear Chancellor Hugonet craving mercy of me.”

When Gringoire paused at last, quite out of breath, he raised his

head tremblingly towards the king, who was engaged in scratching

a spot on the knee of his breeches with his finger-nail; then his

majesty began to drink from the goblet of ptisan. But he uttered

not a word, and this silence tortured Gringoire. At last the king

looked at him. “Here is a terrible bawler!” said, he. Then,

turning to Tristan l’Hermite, “Bah! let him go!”

Gringoire fell backwards, quite thunderstruck with joy.

“At liberty!” growled Tristan “Doth not your majesty wish to have

him detained a little while in a cage?”

“Gossip,” retorted Louis XI., “think you that ’tis for birds of

this feather that we cause to be made cages at three hundred and

sixty-seven livres, eight sous, three deniers apiece? Release him

at once, the wanton (Louis XI. was fond of this word which

formed, with _Pasque-Dieu_, the foundation of his joviality), and

put him out with a buffet.”

“Ugh!” cried Gringoire, “what a great king is here!”

And for fear of a counter order, he rushed towards the door,

which Tristan opened for him with a very bad grace. The soldiers

left the room with him, pushing him before them with stout

thwacks, which Gringoire bore like a true stoical philosopher.

The king’s good humor since the revolt against the bailiff had

been announced to him, made itself apparent in every way. This

unwonted clemency was no small sign of it. Tristan l’Hermite in

his corner wore the surly look of a dog who has had a bone

snatched away from him.

Meanwhile, the king thrummed gayly with his fingers on the arm of

his chair, the March of Pont-Audemer. He was a dissembling

prince, but one who understood far better how to hide his

troubles than his joys. These external manifestations of joy at

any good news sometimes proceeded to very great lengths thus, on

the death, of Charles the Bold, to the point of vowing silver

balustrades to Saint Martin of Tours; on his advent to the

throne, so far as forgetting to order his father’s obsequies.

“Hé! sire!” suddenly exclaimed Jacques Coictier, “what has become

of the acute attack of illness for which your majesty had me

summoned?”

“Oh!” said the king, “I really suffer greatly, my gossip. There

is a hissing in my ear and fiery rakes rack my chest.”

Coictier took the king’s hand, and begun to feel of his pulse

with a knowing air.

“Look, Coppenole,” said Rym, in a low voice. “Behold him between

Coictier and Tristan. They are his whole court. A physician for

himself, a headsman for others.”

As he felt the king’s pulse, Coictier assumed an air of greater

and greater alarm. Louis XI. watched him with some anxiety.

Coictier grew visibly more gloomy. The brave man had no other

farm than the king’s bad health. He speculated on it to the best

of his ability.

“Oh! oh!” he murmured at length, “this is serious indeed.”

“Is it not?” said the king, uneasily.

“_Pulsus creber, anhelans, crepitans, irregularis_,” continued

the leech.

“_Pasque-Dieu!_”

“This may carry off its man in less than three days.”

“Our Lady!” exclaimed the king. “And the remedy, gossip?”

“I am meditating upon that, sire.”

He made Louis XI. put out his tongue, shook his head, made a

grimace, and in the very midst of these affectations,—

“Pardieu, sire,” he suddenly said, “I must tell you that there is

a receivership of the royal prerogatives vacant, and that I have

a nephew.”

“I give the receivership to your nephew, Gossip Jacques,” replied

the king; “but draw this fire from my breast.”

“Since your majesty is so clement,” replied the leech, “you will

not refuse to aid me a little in building my house, Rue

Saint-André-des-Arcs.”

“Heugh!” said the king.

“I am at the end of my finances,” pursued the doctor; “and it

would really be a pity that the house should not have a roof; not

on account of the house, which is simple and thoroughly

_bourgeois_, but because of the paintings of Jehan Fourbault,

which adorn its wainscoating. There is a Diana flying in the air,

but so excellent, so tender, so delicate, of so ingenuous an

action, her hair so well coiffed and adorned with a crescent, her

flesh so white, that she leads into temptation those who regard

her too curiously. There is also a Ceres. She is another very

fair divinity. She is seated on sheaves of wheat and crowned with

a gallant garland of wheat ears interlaced with salsify and other

flowers. Never were seen more amorous eyes, more rounded limbs, a

nobler air, or a more gracefully flowing skirt. She is one of the

most innocent and most perfect beauties whom the brush has ever

produced.”

“Executioner!” grumbled Louis XI., “what are you driving at?”

“I must have a roof for these paintings, sire, and, although ’tis

but a small matter, I have no more money.”

“How much doth your roof cost?”

“Why a roof of copper, embellished and gilt, two thousand livres

at the most.”

“Ah, assassin!” cried the king, “He never draws out one of my

teeth which is not a diamond.”

“Am I to have my roof?” said Coictier.

“Yes; and go to the devil, but cure me.”

Jacques Coictier bowed low and said,—

“Sire, it is a repellent which will save you. We will apply to

your loins the great defensive composed of cerate, Armenian bole,

white of egg, oil, and vinegar. You will continue your ptisan and

we will answer for your majesty.”

A burning candle does not attract one gnat alone. Master Olivier,

perceiving the king to be in a liberal mood, and judging the

moment to be propitious, approached in his turn.

“Sire—”

“What is it now?” said Louis XI. “Sire, your majesty knoweth that

Simon Radin is dead?”

“Well?”

“He was councillor to the king in the matter of the courts of the

treasury.”

“Well?”

“Sire, his place is vacant.”

As he spoke thus, Master Olivier’s haughty face quitted its

arrogant expression for a lowly one. It is the only change which

ever takes place in a courtier’s visage. The king looked him well

in the face and said in a dry tone,—“I understand.”

He resumed,—

“Master Olivier, the Marshal de Boucicaut was wont to say,

‘There’s no master save the king, there are no fishes save in the

sea.’ I see that you agree with Monsieur de Boucicaut. Now listen

to this; we have a good memory. In ’68 we made you valet of our

chamber: in ’69, guardian of the fortress of the bridge of

Saint-Cloud, at a hundred livres of Tournay in wages (you wanted

them of Paris). In November, ’73, by letters given to Gergeole,

we instituted you keeper of the Wood of Vincennes, in the place

of Gilbert Acle, equerry; in ’75, gruyer[67] of the forest of

Rouvray-lez-Saint-Cloud, in the place of Jacques le Maire; in

’78, we graciously settled on you, by letters patent sealed

doubly with green wax, an income of ten livres parisis, for you

and your wife, on the Place of the Merchants, situated at the

School Saint-Germain; in ’79, we made you gruyer of the forest of

Senart, in place of that poor Jehan Daiz; then captain of the

Château of Loches; then governor of Saint-Quentin; then captain

of the bridge of Meulan, of which you cause yourself to be called

comte. Out of the five sols fine paid by every barber who shaves

on a festival day, there are three sols for you and we have the

rest. We have been good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais

(The Evil), which resembled your face too closely. In ’76, we

granted you, to the great displeasure of our nobility, armorial

bearings of a thousand colors, which give you the breast of a

peacock. _Pasque-Dieu!_ Are not you surfeited? Is not the draught

of fishes sufficiently fine and miraculous? Are you not afraid

that one salmon more will make your boat sink? Pride will be your

ruin, gossip. Ruin and disgrace always press hard on the heels of

pride. Consider this and hold your tongue.”

These words, uttered with severity, made Master Olivier’s face

revert to its insolence.

“Good!” he muttered, almost aloud, “’tis easy to see that the

king is ill to-day; he giveth all to the leech.”

Louis XI. far from being irritated by this petulant insult,

resumed with some gentleness, “Stay, I was forgetting that I made

you my ambassador to Madame Marie, at Ghent. Yes, gentlemen,”

added the king turning to the Flemings, “this man hath been an

ambassador. There, my gossip,” he pursued, addressing Master

Olivier, “let us not get angry; we are old friends. ’Tis very

late. We have terminated our labors. Shave me.”

Our readers have not, without doubt, waited until the present

moment to recognize in Master Olivier that terrible Figaro whom

Providence, the great maker of dramas, mingled so artistically in

the long and bloody comedy of the reign of Louis XI. We will not

here undertake to develop that singular figure. This barber of

the king had three names. At court he was politely called Olivier

le Daim (the Deer); among the people Olivier the Devil. His real

name was Olivier le Mauvais.

Accordingly, Olivier le Mauvais remained motionless, sulking at

the king, and glancing askance at Jacques Coictier.

“Yes, yes, the physician!” he said between his teeth.

“Ah, yes, the physician!” retorted Louis XI., with singular good

humor; “the physician has more credit than you. ’Tis very simple;

he has taken hold upon us by the whole body, and you hold us only

by the chin. Come, my poor barber, all will come right. What

would you say and what would become of your office if I were a

king like Chilperic, whose gesture consisted in holding his beard

in one hand? Come, gossip mine, fulfil your office, shave me. Go

get what you need therefor.”

Olivier perceiving that the king had made up his mind to laugh,

and that there was no way of even annoying him, went off

grumbling to execute his orders.

The king rose, approached the window, and suddenly opening it

with extraordinary agitation,—

“Oh! yes!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands, “yonder is a redness

in the sky over the City. ’Tis the bailiff burning. It can be

nothing else but that. Ah! my good people! here you are aiding me

at last in tearing down the rights of lordship!”

Then turning towards the Flemings: “Come, look at this,

gentlemen. Is it not a fire which gloweth yonder?”

The two men of Ghent drew near.

“A great fire,” said Guillaume Rym.

“Oh!” exclaimed Coppenole, whose eyes suddenly flashed, “that

reminds me of the burning of the house of the Seigneur

d’Hymbercourt. There must be a goodly revolt yonder.”

“You think so, Master Coppenole?” And Louis XI.’s glance was

almost as joyous as that of the hosier. “Will it not be difficult

to resist?”

“Cross of God! Sire! Your majesty will damage many companies of

men of war thereon.”

“Ah! I! ’tis different,” returned the king. “If I willed.”

The hosier replied hardily,—

“If this revolt be what I suppose, sire, you might will in vain.”

“Gossip,” said Louis XI., “with the two companies of my

unattached troops and one discharge of a serpentine, short work

is made of a populace of louts.”

The hosier, in spite of the signs made to him by Guillaume Rym,

appeared determined to hold his own against the king.

“Sire, the Swiss were also louts. Monsieur the Duke of Burgundy

was a great gentleman, and he turned up his nose at that rabble

rout. At the battle of Grandson, sire, he cried: ‘Men of the

cannon! Fire on the villains!’ and he swore by Saint-George. But

Advoyer Scharnachtal hurled himself on the handsome duke with his

battle-club and his people, and when the glittering Burgundian

army came in contact with these peasants in bull hides, it flew

in pieces like a pane of glass at the blow of a pebble. Many

lords were then slain by low-born knaves; and Monsieur de

Château-Guyon, the greatest seigneur in Burgundy, was found dead,

with his gray horse, in a little marsh meadow.”

“Friend,” returned the king, “you are speaking of a battle. The

question here is of a mutiny. And I will gain the upper hand of

it as soon as it shall please me to frown.”

The other replied indifferently,—

“That may be, sire; in that case, ’tis because the people’s hour

hath not yet come.”

Guillaume Rym considered it incumbent on him to intervene,—

“Master Coppenole, you are speaking to a puissant king.”

“I know it,” replied the hosier, gravely.

“Let him speak, Monsieur Rym, my friend,” said the king; “I love

this frankness of speech. My father, Charles the Seventh, was

accustomed to say that the truth was ailing; I thought her dead,

and that she had found no confessor. Master Coppenole undeceiveth

me.”

Then, laying his hand familiarly on Coppenole’s shoulder,—

“You were saying, Master Jacques?”

“I say, sire, that you may possibly be in the right, that the

hour of the people may not yet have come with you.”

Louis XI. gazed at him with his penetrating eye,—

“And when will that hour come, master?”

“You will hear it strike.”

“On what clock, if you please?”

Coppenole, with his tranquil and rustic countenance, made the

king approach the window.

“Listen, sire! There is here a donjon keep, a belfry, cannons,

_bourgeois_, soldiers; when the belfry shall hum, when the

cannons shall roar, when the donjon shall fall in ruins amid

great noise, when _bourgeois_ and soldiers shall howl and slay

each other, the hour will strike.”

Louis’s face grew sombre and dreamy. He remained silent for a

moment, then he gently patted with his hand the thick wall of the

donjon, as one strokes the haunches of a steed.

“Oh! no!” said he. “You will not crumble so easily, will you, my

good Bastille?”

And turning with an abrupt gesture towards the sturdy Fleming,—

“Have you never seen a revolt, Master Jacques?”

“I have made them,” said the hosier.

“How do you set to work to make a revolt?” said the king.

“Ah!” replied Coppenole, “’tis not very difficult. There are a

hundred ways. In the first place, there must be discontent in the

city. The thing is not uncommon. And then, the character of the

inhabitants. Those of Ghent are easy to stir into revolt. They

always love the prince’s son; the prince, never. Well! One

morning, I will suppose, some one enters my shop, and says to me:

‘Father Coppenole, there is this and there is that, the

Demoiselle of Flanders wishes to save her ministers, the grand

bailiff is doubling the impost on shagreen, or something

else,’—what you will. I leave my work as it stands, I come out of

my hosier’s stall, and I shout: ‘To the sack?’ There is always

some smashed cask at hand. I mount it, and I say aloud, in the

first words that occur to me, what I have on my heart; and when

one is of the people, sire, one always has something on the

heart. Then people troop up, they shout, they ring the alarm

bell, they arm the louts with what they take from the soldiers,

the market people join in, and they set out. And it will always

be thus, so long as there are lords in the seignories,

_bourgeois_ in the bourgs, and peasants in the country.”

“And against whom do you thus rebel?” inquired the king; “against

your bailiffs? against your lords?”

“Sometimes; that depends. Against the duke, also, sometimes.”

Louis XI. returned and seated himself, saying, with a smile,—

“Ah! here they have only got as far as the bailiffs.”

At that instant Olivier le Daim returned. He was followed by two

pages, who bore the king’s toilet articles; but what struck Louis

XI. was that he was also accompanied by the provost of Paris and

the chevalier of the watch, who appeared to be in consternation.

The spiteful barber also wore an air of consternation, which was

one of contentment beneath, however. It was he who spoke first.

“Sire, I ask your majesty’s pardon for the calamitous news which

I bring.”

The king turned quickly and grazed the mat on the floor with the

feet of his chair,—

“What does this mean?”

“Sire,” resumed Olivier le Daim, with the malicious air of a man

who rejoices that he is about to deal a violent blow, “’tis not

against the bailiff of the courts that this popular sedition is

directed.”

“Against whom, then?”

“Against you, sire?’

The aged king rose erect and straight as a young man,—

“Explain yourself, Olivier! And guard your head well, gossip; for

I swear to you by the cross of Saint-Lô that, if you lie to us at

this hour, the sword which severed the head of Monsieur de

Luxembourg is not so notched that it cannot yet sever yours!”

The oath was formidable; Louis XI. had only sworn twice in the

course of his life by the cross of Saint-Lô.

Olivier opened his mouth to reply.

“Sire—”

“On your knees!” interrupted the king violently. “Tristan, have

an eye to this man.”

Olivier knelt down and said coldly,—

“Sire, a sorceress was condemned to death by your court of

parliament. She took refuge in Notre-Dame. The people are trying

to take her from thence by main force. Monsieur the provost and

monsieur the chevalier of the watch, who have just come from the

riot, are here to give me the lie if this is not the truth. The

populace is besieging Notre-Dame.”

“Yes, indeed!” said the king in a low voice, all pale and

trembling with wrath. “Notre-Dame! They lay siege to our Lady, my

good mistress in her cathedral!—Rise, Olivier. You are right. I

give you Simon Radin’s charge. You are right. ’Tis I whom they

are attacking. The witch is under the protection of this church,

the church is under my protection. And I thought that they were

acting against the bailiff! ’Tis against myself!”

Then, rendered young by fury, he began to walk up and down with

long strides. He no longer laughed, he was terrible, he went and

came; the fox was changed into a hyæna. He seemed suffocated to

such a degree that he could not speak; his lips moved, and his

fleshless fists were clenched. All at once he raised his head,

his hollow eye appeared full of light, and his voice burst forth

like a clarion: “Down with them, Tristan! A heavy hand for these

rascals! Go, Tristan, my friend! slay! slay!”

This eruption having passed, he returned to his seat, and said

with cold and concentrated wrath,—

“Here, Tristan! There are here with us in the Bastille the fifty

lances of the Vicomte de Gif, which makes three hundred horse:

you will take them. There is also the company of our unattached

archers of Monsieur de Châteaupers: you will take it. You are

provost of the marshals; you have the men of your provostship:

you will take them. At the Hôtel Saint-Pol you will find forty

archers of monsieur the dauphin’s new guard: you will take them.

And, with all these, you will hasten to Notre-Dame. Ah!

messieurs, louts of Paris, do you fling yourselves thus against

the crown of France, the sanctity of Notre-Dame, and the peace of

this commonwealth! Exterminate, Tristan! exterminate! and let not

a single one escape, except it be for Montfaucon.”

Tristan bowed. “’Tis well, sire.”

He added, after a silence, “And what shall I do with the

sorceress?”

This question caused the king to meditate.

“Ah!” said he, “the sorceress! Monsieur d’Estouteville, what did

the people wish to do with her?”

“Sire,” replied the provost of Paris, “I imagine that since the

populace has come to tear her from her asylum in Notre-Dame, ’tis

because that impunity wounds them, and they desire to hang her.”

The king appeared to reflect deeply: then, addressing Tristan

l’Hermite, “Well! gossip, exterminate the people and hang the

sorceress.”

“That’s it,” said Rym in a low tone to Coppenole, “punish the

people for willing a thing, and then do what they wish.”

“Enough, sire,” replied Tristan. “If the sorceress is still in

Notre-Dame, must she be seized in spite of the sanctuary?”

“_Pasque-Dieu!_ the sanctuary!” said the king, scratching his

ear. “But the woman must be hung, nevertheless.”

Here, as though seized with a sudden idea, he flung himself on

his knees before his chair, took off his hat, placed it on the

seat, and gazing devoutly at one of the leaden amulets which

loaded it down, “Oh!” said he, with clasped hands, “our Lady of

Paris, my gracious patroness, pardon me. I will only do it this

once. This criminal must be punished. I assure you, madame the

virgin, my good mistress, that she is a sorceress who is not

worthy of your amiable protection. You know, madame, that many

very pious princes have overstepped the privileges of the

churches for the glory of God and the necessities of the State.

Saint Hugues, bishop of England, permitted King Edward to hang a

witch in his church. Saint-Louis of France, my master,

transgressed, with the same object, the church of Monsieur

Saint-Paul; and Monsieur Alphonse, son of the king of Jerusalem,

the very church of the Holy Sepulchre. Pardon me, then, for this

once. Our Lady of Paris, I will never do so again, and I will

give you a fine statue of silver, like the one which I gave last

year to Our Lady of Écouys. So be it.”

He made the sign of the cross, rose, donned his hat once more,

and said to Tristan,—

“Be diligent, gossip. Take Monsieur Châteaupers with you. You

will cause the tocsin to be sounded. You will crush the populace.

You will seize the witch. ’Tis said. And I mean the business of

the execution to be done by you. You will render me an account of

it. Come, Olivier, I shall not go to bed this night. Shave me.”

Tristan l’Hermite bowed and departed. Then the king, dismissing

Rym and Coppenole with a gesture,—

“God guard you, messieurs, my good friends the Flemings. Go, take

a little repose. The night advances, and we are nearer the

morning than the evening.”

Both retired and gained their apartments under the guidance of

the captain of the Bastille. Coppenole said to Guillaume Rym,—

“Hum! I have had enough of that coughing king! I have seen

Charles of Burgundy drunk, and he was less malignant than Louis

XI. when ailing.”

“Master Jacques,” replied Rym, “’tis because wine renders kings

less cruel than does barley water.”