The reader has not, perhaps, forgotten that one moment before catchingsight of the nocturnal band of vagabonds, Quasimodo, as he inspectedParis from the heights of his bell tower, perceived only one lightburning, which gleamed like a star from a window on the topmost storyof a lofty edifice beside the Porte Saint-Antoine. This edifice was theBastille. That star was the candle of Louis XI. King Louis XI. had, infact, been two days in Paris. He was to take his departure on the nextday but one for his citadel of Montilz-les-Tours. He made but seldom andbrief appearance in his good city of Paris, since there he did not feelabout him enough pitfalls, gibbets, and Scotch archers.
He had come, that day, to sleep at the Bastille. The great chamber fivetoises* square, which he had at the Louvre, with its huge chimney-pieceloaded with twelve great beasts and thirteen great prophets, and hisgrand bed, eleven feet by twelve, pleased him but little. He felthimself lost amid all this grandeur. This good bourgeois king preferredthe Bastille with a tiny chamber and couch. And then, the Bastille wasstronger than the Louvre.
* An ancient long measure in France, containing six feetand nearly five inches English measure.
This little chamber, which the king reserved for himself in the famousstate prison, was also tolerably spacious and occupied the topmoststory of a turret rising from the donjon keep. It was circular in form,carpeted with mats of shining straw, ceiled with beams, enriched withfleurs-de-lis of gilded metal with interjoists in color; wainscoatedwith rich woods sown with rosettes of white metal, and with otherspainted a fine, bright green, made of orpiment and fine indigo.
There was only one window, a long pointed casement, latticed with brasswire and bars of iron, further darkened by fine colored panes with thearms of the king and of the queen, each pane being worth two and twentysols.
There was but one entrance, a modern door, with a fiat arch, garnishedwith a piece of tapestry on the inside, and on the outside by one ofthose porches of Irish wood, frail edifices of cabinet-work curiouslywrought, numbers of which were still to be seen in old houses a hundredand fifty years ago. "Although they disfigure and embarrass the places,"says Sauvel in despair, "our old people are still unwilling to get ridof them, and keep them in spite of everybody."
In this chamber, nothing was to be found of what furnishes ordinaryapartments, neither benches, nor trestles, nor forms, nor commonstools in the form of a chest, nor fine stools sustained by pillars andcounter-pillars, at four sols a piece. Only one easy arm-chair, verymagnificent, was to be seen; the wood was painted with roses on a redground, the seat was of ruby Cordovan leather, ornamented with longsilken fringes, and studded with a thousand golden nails. The lonelinessof this chair made it apparent that only one person had a right to sitdown 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 thistable 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 andyellow damask, without either tinsel or lace; having only an ordinaryfringe. This bed, famous for having borne the sleep or the sleeplessnessof Louis XI., was still to be seen two hundred years ago, at thehouse of a councillor of state, where it was seen by old Madame Pilou,celebrated in _Cyrus_ under the name "Arricidie" and of "la MoraleVivante".
Such was the chamber which was called "the retreat where Monsieur Louisde France says his prayers."
At the moment when we have introduced the reader into it, this retreatwas very dark. The curfew bell had sounded an hour before; night wascome, and there was only one flickering wax candle set on the table tolight five persons variously grouped in the chamber.
The first on which the light fell was a seigneur superbly clad inbreeches and jerkin of scarlet striped with silver, and a loose coatwith half sleeves of cloth of gold with black figures. This splendidcostume, on which the light played, seemed glazed with flame on everyfold. The man who wore it had his armorial bearings embroidered on hisbreast in vivid colors; a chevron accompanied by a deer passant. Theshield was flanked, on the right by an olive branch, on the left by adeer'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 acount's coronet. He had a forbidding air, a proud mien, and a headheld high. At the first glance one read arrogance on his visage; at thesecond, craft.
He was standing bareheaded, a long roll of parchment in his hand, behindthe arm-chair in which was seated, his body ungracefully doubled up, hisknees crossed, his elbow on the table, a very badly accoutred personage.Let the reader imagine in fact, on the rich seat of Cordova leather, twocrooked knees, two thin thighs, poorly clad in black worsted tricot, abody enveloped in a cloak of fustian, with fur trimming of which moreleather than hair was visible; lastly, to crown all, a greasy old hat ofthe worst sort of black cloth, bordered with a circular string of leadenfigures. This, in company with a dirty skull-cap, which hardly allowed ahair to escape, was all that distinguished the seated personage. He heldhis head so bent upon his breast, that nothing was to be seen of hisface thus thrown into shadow, except the tip of his nose, upon whichfell a ray of light, and which must have been long. From the thinness ofhis 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 Flemishstyle were conversing, who were not sufficiently lost in the shadow toprevent any one who had been present at the performance of Gringoire'smystery 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 mixedup in the secret politics of Louis XI. Finally, quite at the end ofthe room, near the door, in the dark, stood, motionless as a statue, avigorous man with thickset limbs, a military harness, with a surcoatof armorial bearings, whose square face pierced with staring eyes, slitwith an immense mouth, his ears concealed by two large screens of flathair, 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 longmemorial to which his majesty seemed to be listening attentively. Thetwo Flemings were whispering together.
"Cross of God!" grumbled Coppenole, "I am tired of standing; is there nochair here?"
Rym replied by a negative gesture, accompanied by a discreet smile.
"Croix-Dieu!" resumed Coppenole, thoroughly unhappy at being obliged tolower his voice thus, "I should like to sit down on the floor, with mylegs 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 themantles 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 thecollar of Saint-Michael could be seen gleaming on his neck. The candlefully illuminated his gaunt and morose profile. He tore the papers fromthe 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? Twochaplains at ten livres a month each, and, a chapel clerk at one hundredsols! A valet-de-chambre at ninety livres a year. Four head cooks atsix 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! Twoscullions at eight livres! A groom of the stables and his two aids atfour and twenty livres a month! A porter, a pastry-cook, a baker, twocarters, each sixty livres a year! And the farrier six score livres! Andthe master of the chamber of our funds, twelve hundred livres! And thecomptroller five hundred. And how do I know wh
at else? 'Tis ruinous. Thewages of our servants are putting France to the pillage! All the ingotsof the Louvre will melt before such a fire of expenses! We shall have tosell our plate! And next year, if God and our Lady (here he raised hishat) 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 thetable. He coughed and continued,--
"Master Olivier, the princes who reign over great lordships, like kingsand emperors, should not allow sumptuousness in their houses; forthe 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 notexceed six and thirty thousand livres, did it attain in '80, forty-threethousand 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! Doubledin four years! Monstrous!"
He paused breathless, then resumed energetically,--
"I behold around me only people who fatten on my leanness! you suckcrowns from me at every pore."
All remained silent. This was one of those fits of wrath which areallowed to take their course. He continued,--
"'Tis like that request in Latin from the gentlemen of France, thatwe should re-establish what they call the grand charges of the Crown!Charges in very deed! Charges which crush! Ah! gentlemen! you say thatwe are not a king to reign _dapifero nullo, buticulario nullo_! We willlet you see, _pasque-Dieu_! whether we are not a king!"
Here he smiled, in the consciousness of his power; this softened his badhumor, and he turned towards the Flemings,--
"Do you see, Gossip Guillaume? the grand warden of the keys, the grandbutler, the grand chamberlain, the grand seneschal are not worth thesmallest valet. Remember this, Gossip Coppenole. They serve no purpose,as they stand thus useless round the king; they produce upon me theeffect of the four Evangelists who surround the face of the big clock ofthe palace, and which Philippe Brille has just set in order afresh. Theyare gilt, but they do not indicate the hour; and the hands can get onwithout them."
He remained in thought for a moment, then added, shaking his agedhead,--
"Ho! ho! by our Lady, I am not Philippe Brille, and I shall not gild thegreat vassals anew. Continue, Olivier."
The person whom he designated by this name, took the papers into hishands again, and began to read aloud,--
"To Adam Tenon, clerk of the warden of the seals of the provostship ofParis; for the silver, making, and engraving of said seals, which havebeen made new because the others preceding, by reason of their antiquityand their worn condition, could no longer be successfully used, twelvelivres parisis.
"To Guillaume Frere, the sum of four livres, four sols parisis, for histrouble and salary, for having nourished and fed the doves in the twodove-cots of the Hotel des Tournelles, during the months of January,February, and March of this year; and for this he hath given sevensextiers 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 heraised 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-sixproclamations. Account to be regulated.
"For having searched and ransacked in certain places, in Paris as wellas elsewhere, for money said to be there concealed; but nothing hathbeen found: forty-five livres parisis."
"Bury a crown to unearth a sou!" said the king.
"For having set in the Hotel des Tournelles six panes of white glassin the place where the iron cage is, thirteen sols; for having madeand delivered by command of the king, on the day of the musters, fourshields with the escutcheons of the said seigneur, encircled withgarlands of roses all about, six livres; for two new sleeves to theking's old doublet, twenty sols; for a box of grease to grease the bootsof the king, fifteen deniers; a stable newly made to lodge the king'sblack pigs, thirty livres parisis; many partitions, planks, andtrap-doors, for the safekeeping of the lions at Saint-Paul, twenty-twolivres."
"These be dear beasts," said Louis XI. "It matters not; it is a finemagnificence in a king. There is a great red lion whom I love for hispleasant ways. Have you seen him, Master Guillaume? Princes must havethese terrific animals; for we kings must have lions for our dogs andtigers for our cats. The great befits a crown. In the days of the pagansof Jupiter, when the people offered the temples a hundred oxen and ahundred sheep, the emperors gave a hundred lions and a hundred eagles.This was wild and very fine. The kings of France have always hadroarings round their throne. Nevertheless, people must do me thisjustice, that I spend still less money on it than they did, and that Ipossess a greater modesty of lions, bears, elephants, and leopards.--Goon, Master Olivier. We wished to say thus much to our Flemish friends."
Guillaume Rym bowed low, while Coppenole, with his surly mien, had theair of one of the bears of which his majesty was speaking. The king paidno heed. He had just dipped his lips into the goblet, and he spat outthe beverage, saying: "Foh! what a disagreeable potion!" The man who wasreading continued:--
"For feeding a rascally footpad, locked up these six months in thelittle cell of the flayer, until it should be determined what to do withhim, 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 thegallows. Resume."
Olivier made a mark with his thumb against the article of the "rascallyfoot soldier," and passed on.
"To Henriet Cousin, master executor of the high works of justice inParis, the sum of sixty sols parisis, to him assessed and ordained bymonseigneur the provost of Paris, for having bought, by order of thesaid sieur the provost, a great broad sword, serving to execute anddecapitate persons who are by justice condemned for their demerits,and he hath caused the same to be garnished with a sheath and with allthings thereto appertaining; and hath likewise caused to be repointedand set in order the old sword, which had become broken and notched inexecuting justice on Messire Louis de Luxembourg, as will more fullyappear."
The king interrupted: "That suffices. I allow the sum with great goodwill. Those are expenses which I do not begrudge. I have never regrettedthat money. Continue."
"For having made over a great cage..."
"Ah!" said the king, grasping the arms of his chair in both hands, "Iknew 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 thecost 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 tothe sort of mute who stood before the door to precede him, to the twoFlemings to follow him, and quitted the room.
The royal company was recruited, at the door of the retreat, by men ofarms, 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 thewalls. The captain of the Bastille marched at their head, and caused thewickets to be opened before the bent and aged king, who coughed as hewalked.
At each wicket, all heads were obliged to stoop, except that of the oldman bent double with age. "Hum," said he between his gums, for he hadno longer any teeth, "we are already quite prepared for the door of thesepulchre. For a low door, a bent passer."
At length, after having passed a final wicket, so loaded with locks thata quarter of an hour was required to open it, they entered a vast andlofty vaulted hall, in the centre of which they could distinguish by thelight of the torches, a huge cubic mass of masonry, iron, and wood. Theinterior was hollow. It was one of those famous
cages of prisoners ofstate, which were called "the little daughters of the king." In itswalls there were two or three little windows so closely trellised withstout iron bars; that the glass was not visible. The door was a largeflat slab of stone, as on tombs; the sort of door which serves forentrance only. Only here, the occupant was alive.
The king began to walk slowly round the little edifice, examining itcarefully, while Master Olivier, who followed him, read aloud the note.
"For having made a great cage of wood of solid beams, timbers andwall-plates, measuring nine feet in length by eight in breadth, and ofthe height of seven feet between the partitions, smoothed and clampedwith great bolts of iron, which has been placed in a chamber situated inone of the towers of the Bastille Saint-Antoine, in which cage is placedand detained, by command of the king our lord, a prisoner who formerlyinhabited an old, decrepit, and ruined cage. There have been employedin making the said new cage, ninety-six horizontal beams, and fifty-twoupright joists, ten wall plates three toises long; there have beenoccupied nineteen carpenters to hew, work, and fit all the said wood inthe courtyard of the Bastille during twenty days."
"Very fine heart of oak," said the king, striking the woodwork with hisfist.
"There have been used in this cage," continued the other, "two hundredand twenty great bolts of iron, of nine feet, and of eight, the rest ofmedium length, with the rowels, caps and counterbands appertaining tothe said bolts; weighing, the said iron in all, three thousand, sevenhundred and thirty-five pounds; beside eight great squares of iron,serving to attach the said cage in place with clamps and nails weighingin all two hundred and eighteen pounds, not reckoning the iron of thetrellises for the windows of the chamber wherein the cage hath beenplaced, 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 aspirit."
"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 seemedto 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 thetomb was uplifted. "Sire! sire! mercy!" The one who spoke thus could notbe seen.
"Three hundred and seventeen livres, five sols, seven deniers," repeatedLouis XI. The lamentable voice which had proceeded from the cage hadfrozen all present, even Master Olivier himself. The king alone worethe air of not having heard. At his order, Master Olivier resumed hisreading, and his majesty coldly continued his inspection of the cage.
"In addition to this there hath been paid to a mason who hath made theholes wherein to place the gratings of the windows, and the floor ofthe chamber where the cage is, because that floor could not supportthis cage by reason of its weight, twenty-seven livres fourteen solsparisis."
The voice began to moan again.
"Mercy, sire! I swear to you that 'twas Monsieur the Cardinal d'Angersand not I, who was guilty of treason."
"The mason is bold!" said the king. "Continue, Olivier." Oliviercontinued,--
"To a joiner for window frames, bedstead, hollow stool, and otherthings, twenty livres, two sols parisis."
The voice also continued.
"Alas, sire! will you not listen to me? I protest to you that 'twasnot I who wrote the matter to Monseigneur do Guyenne, but Monsieur leCardinal Balue."
"The joiner is dear," quoth the king. "Is that all?"
"No, sire. To a glazier, for the windows of the said chamber, forty-sixsols, eight deniers parisis."
"Have mercy, sire! Is it not enough to have given all my goods to myjudges, my plate to Monsieur de Torcy, my library to Master PierreDoriolle, 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 ithimself upon his fingers, examining the paper and the cage alternately.Meanwhile, the prisoner could be heard sobbing. This was lugubrious inthe 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! Duringall this time you have enjoyed the heat of the sun. Shall I, frailcreature, never more behold the day? Mercy, sire! Be pitiful! Clemencyis a fine, royal virtue, which turns aside the currents of wrath. Doesyour majesty believe that in the hour of death it will be a greatcause 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 atthe end, much heavier than it should be in reason. Eh! sire! Have pityon me!"
"Olivier," cried the king, throwing back his head, "I observe that theycharge me twenty sols a hogshead for plaster, while it is worth buttwelve. You will refer back this account."
He turned his back on the cage, and set out to leave the room. Themiserable prisoner divined from the removal of the torches and thenoise, 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 thehoarse voice of the turnkey, singing in his ears this ditty,--
"_Maitre Jean Balue, A perdu la vue De ses eveches. Monsieur de Verdun. N'en a plus pas un; Tous sont depeches_."*
* Master Jean Balue has lost sight of his bishoprics.Monsieur of Verdun has no longer one; all have been killed off.
The king reascended in silence to his retreat, and his suite followedhim, terrified by the last groans of the condemned man. All at once hismajesty 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 firsttime, "Guillaume de Harancourt, the friend of Monsieur the CardinalBalue. A good devil of a bishop!"
At the expiration of a few moments, the door of the retreat had openedagain, then closed upon the five personages whom the reader has seenat the beginning of this chapter, and who resumed their places, theirwhispered conversations, and their attitudes.
During the king's absence, several despatches had been placed on histable, and he broke the seals himself. Then he began to read thempromptly, one after the other, made a sign to Master Olivier whoappeared to exercise the office of minister, to take a pen, and withoutcommunicating to him the contents of the despatches, he began to dictatein a low voice, the replies which the latter wrote, on his knees, in aninconvenient 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 bymanufactures....--To show the English lords our four bombards, London,Brabant, Bourg-en-Bresse, Saint-Omer....--Artillery is the cause ofwar being made more judiciously now....--To Monsieur de Bressuire, ourfriend....--Armies cannot be maintained without tribute, etc."
Once he raised his voice,--
"_Pasque Dieu_! Monsieur the King of Sicily seals his letters withyellow wax, like a king of France. Perhaps we are in the wrong to permithim so to do. My fair cousin of Burgundy granted no armorial bearingswith a field of gules. The grandeur of houses is assured by theintegrity of prerogatives. Note this, friend Olivier."
/>
Again,--
"Oh! oh!" said he, "What a long message! What doth our brother theemperor claim?" And running his eye over the missive and breakinghis reading with interjection: "Surely! the Germans are so great andpowerful, that it is hardly credible--But let us not forget the oldproverb: 'The finest county is Flanders; the finest duchy, Milan; thefinest kingdom, France.' Is it not so, Messieurs Flemings?"
This time Coppenole bowed in company with Guillaume Rym. The hosier'spatriotism was tickled.
The last despatch made Louis XI. frown.
"What is this?" he said, "Complaints and fault finding against ourgarrisons in Picardy! Olivier, write with diligence to M. the Marshalde Rouault:--That discipline is relaxed. That the gendarmes of theunattached troops, the feudal nobles, the free archers, and the Swissinflict infinite evils on the rustics.--That the military, not contentwith what they find in the houses of the rustics, constrain them withviolent blows of cudgel or of lash to go and get wine, spices, and otherunreasonable things in the town.--That monsieur the king knows this.That we undertake to guard our people against inconveniences, larceniesand pillage.--That such is our will, by our Lady!--That in addition, itsuits us not that any fiddler, barber, or any soldier varlet should beclad like a prince, in velvet, cloth of silk, and rings of gold.--Thatthese vanities are hateful to God.--That we, who are gentlemen,content ourselves with a doublet of cloth at sixteen sols the ell, ofParis.--That messieurs the camp-followers can very well come downto that, also.--Command and ordain.--To Monsieur de Rouault, ourfriend.--Good."
He dictated this letter aloud, in a firm tone, and in jerks. At themoment when he finished it, the door opened and gave passage to anew personage, who precipitated himself into the chamber, crying inaffright,--
"Sire! sire! there is a sedition of the populace in Paris!" Louis XI.'sgrave face contracted; but all that was visible of his emotion passedaway like a flash of lightning. He controlled himself and said withtranquil 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 inhis ear, in such a manner as to be heard by him alone, with concentratedrage 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 veryterrified account, to which the king listened calmly, while GuillaumeRym called Coppenole's attention to the face and dress of the newarrival, to his furred cowl, (_caputia fourrata_), his short cape,(_epitogia curta_), his robe of black velvet, which bespoke a presidentof the court of accounts.
Hardly had this personage given the king some explanations, when LouisXI. exclaimed, bursting into a laugh,--
"In truth? Speak aloud, Gossip Coictier! What call is there for youto talk so low? Our Lady knoweth that we conceal nothing from our goodfriends the Flemings."
"But sire..."
"Speak loud!"
Gossip Coictier was struck dumb with surprise.
"So," resumed the king,--"speak sir,--there is a commotion among thelouts in our good city of Paris?"
"Yes, sire."
"And which is moving you say, against monsieur the bailiff of thePalais-de-Justice?"
"So it appears," said the gossip, who still stammered, utterly astoundedby the abrupt and inexplicable change which had just taken place in theking's thoughts.
Louis XI. continued: "Where did the watch meet the rabble?"
"Marching from the Grand Truanderie, towards the Pont-aux-Changeurs. Imet 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 beencomplaining this long while, of the bailiff, whose vassals they are.They do not wish to recognize him either as judge or as voyer?"*
* One in charge of the highways.
"Yes, certainly!" retorted the king with a smile of satis-faction whichhe strove in vain to disguise.
"In all their petitions to the Parliament, they claim to have but twomasters. 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 thecountenance beam; he was unable to dissimulate his joy, although heendeavored at moments to compose himself. No one understood it in theleast, not even Master Olivier. He remained silent for a moment, with athoughtful 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 violentweapons."
The king did not appear in the least disturbed by this list. Jacquesconsidered it his duty to add,--
"If your majesty does not send prompt succor to the bailiff, he islost."
"We will send," said the king with an air of false seriousness. "It iswell. Assuredly we will send. Monsieur the bailiff is our friend. Sixthousand! They are desperate scamps! Their audacity is marvellous, andwe are greatly enraged at it. But we have only a few people about usto-night. To-morrow morning will be time enough."
Gossip Jacques exclaimed, "Instantly, sire! there will be time to sackthe bailiwick a score of times, to violate the seignory, to hang thebailiff. For God's sake, sire! send before to-morrow morning."
The king looked him full in the face. "I have told you to-morrowmorning."
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 Ruede l'Herberie, the Place Saint-Michel, and the localities vulgarly knownas the Mureaux, situated near the church of Notre-Dame des Champs (hereLouis 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 thePorte 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 kingof all that."
This time he did not correct himself. He continued dreamily, and asthough speaking to himself,--
"Very fine, monsieur the bailiff! You had there between your teeth apretty slice of our Paris."
All at once he broke out explosively, "_Pasque-Dieu_! What people arethose who claim to be voyers, justiciaries, lords and masters in ourdomains? who have their tollgates at the end of every field? theirgallows and their hangman at every cross-road among our people? So thatas 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 manykings as he sees gibbets! Pardieu! 'tis an evil thing, and the confusionof it displeases me. I should greatly like to know whether it be themercy 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 inthis empire! By the faith of my soul! the day must certainly come whenthere shall exist in France but one king, one lord, one judge, oneheadsman, as there is in paradise but one God!"
He lifted his cap again, and continued, still dreamily, with the airand accent of a hunter who is cheering on his pack of hounds: "Good, mypeople! bravely done! break these false lords! do your duty! at them!have at them! pillage them! take them! sack them
!... Ah! you want to bekings, messeigneurs? On, my people on!"
Here he interrupted himself abruptly, bit his lips as though to takeback his thought which had already half escaped, bent his piercing eyesin turn on each of the five persons who surrounded him, and suddenlygrasping 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 thefox re-entering his hole,--
"No matter! we will succor monsieur the bailiff. Unfortunately, we havebut 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 Cityand every one who is caught will be immediately hung."
"By the way, sire," said Gossip Coictier, "I had forgotten that in thefirst agitation, the watch have seized two laggards of the band. If yourmajesty desires to see these men, they are here."
"If I desire to see them!" cried the king. "What! _Pasque-Dieu_! Youforget a thing like that! Run quick, you, Olivier! Go, seek them!"
Master Olivier quitted the room and returned a moment later with the twoprisoners, surrounded by archers of the guard. The first had a coarse,idiotic, drunken and astonished face. He was clothed in rags, and walkedwith one knee bent and dragging his leg. The second had a pallid andsmiling countenance, with which the reader is already acquainted.
The king surveyed them for a moment without uttering a word, thenaddressing the first one abruptly,--
"What's your name?"
"Gieffroy Pincebourde."
"Your trade."
"Outcast."
"What were you going to do in this damnable sedition?" The outcaststared at the king, and swung his arms with a stupid air.
He had one of those awkwardly shaped heads where intelligence is aboutas 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, thebailiff of the palace?"
"I know that they were going to take something from some one. That isall."
A soldier pointed out to the king a billhook which he had seized on theperson 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 thesilent personage who stood motionless beside the door, to whom we havealready 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 wasperspiring 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 concerningthis popular agitation?"
"Sire, I had nothing to do with it."
"Come, now! you wanton wretch, were not you apprehended by the watch inthat 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 melancholyway of men of my profession to roam the streets by night. I was passingthere. It was mere chance. I was unjustly arrested; I am innocentof this civil tempest. Your majesty sees that the vagabond did notrecognize 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 perceivedfrom the king's cold and indifferent mien that there was no otherresource than something very pathetic, and he flung himself at the feetof Louis XI., exclaiming, with gestures of despair:--
"Sire! will your majesty deign to hear me. Sire! break not in thunderover so small a thing as myself. God's great lightning doth not bombarda lettuce. Sire, you are an august and, very puissant monarch; have pityon a poor man who is honest, and who would find it more difficult tostir up a revolt than a cake of ice would to give out a spark! Verygracious sire, kindness is the virtue of a lion and a king. Alas! rigoronly frightens minds; the impetuous gusts of the north wind do not makethe traveller lay aside his cloak; the sun, bestowing his rays little bylittle, 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 andbrigandage belong not to the outfit of Apollo. I am not the man to flingmyself into those clouds which break out into seditious clamor. I amyour majesty's faithful vassal. That same jealousy which a husbandcherisheth for the honor of his wife, the resentment which the son hathfor the love of his father, a good vassal should feel for the gloryof his king; he should pine away for the zeal of this house, forthe aggrandizement of his service. Every other passion which shouldtransport 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 mygarment is worn at the elbows. If you will grant me mercy, sire, I willwear 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. Butnot vicious on that account. It is not my fault. Every one knoweth thatgreat wealth is not to be drawn from literature, and that those who arebest 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 theother scientific professions. There are forty very excellent proverbsanent the hole-ridden cloak of the philosopher. Oh, sire! clemency isthe only light which can enlighten the interior of so great a soul.Clemency beareth the torch before all the other virtues. Without it theyare but blind men groping after God in the dark. Compassion, which isthe same thing as clemency, causeth the love of subjects, which is themost 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 poorinnocent philosopher spluttering amid the shadows of calamity, with anempty pocket which resounds against his hollow belly? Moreover, sire,I am a man of letters. Great kings make a pearl for their crowns byprotecting 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 astain on Alexander if he had hung Aristoteles! This act would not be alittle patch on the face of his reputation to embellish it, but a verymalignant ulcer to disfigure it. Sire! I made a very proper epithalamiumfor Mademoiselle of Flanders and Monseigneur the very august Dauphin.That is not a firebrand of rebellion. Your majesty sees that I am nota scribbler of no reputation, that I have studied excellently well, andthat I possess much natural eloquence. Have mercy upon me, sire! In sodoing you will perform a gallant deed to our Lady, and I swear to youthat I am greatly terrified at the idea of being hanged!"
So saying, the unhappy Gringoire kissed the king's slippers, andGuillaume Rym said to Coppenole in a low tone: "He doth well to draghimself on the earth. Kings are like the Jupiter of Crete, they haveears only in their feet." And without troubling himself about theJupiter of Crete, the hosier replied with a heavy smile, and his eyesfixed on Gringoire: "Oh! that's it exactly! I seem to hear ChancellorHugonet craving mercy of me."
When Gringoire paused at last, quite out of breath, he raised his headtremblingly towards the king, who was engaged in scratching a spot onthe knee of his breeches with his fi
nger-nail; then his majesty beganto drink from the goblet of ptisan. But he uttered not a word, and thissilence tortured Gringoire. At last the king looked at him. "Here is aterrible bawler!" said, he. Then, turning to Tristan l'Hermite, "Bali!let him go!"
Gringoire fell backwards, quite thunderstruck with joy.
"At liberty!" growled Tristan "Doth not your majesty wish to have himdetained a little while in a cage?"
"Gossip," retorted Louis XI., "think you that 'tis for birds of thisfeather that we cause to be made cages at three hundred and sixty-sevenlivres, 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 abuffet."
"Ugh!" cried Gringoire, "what a great king is here!"
And for fear of a counter order, he rushed towards the door, whichTristan opened for him with a very bad grace. The soldiers left the roomwith him, pushing him before them with stout thwacks, which Gringoirebore like a true stoical philosopher.
The king's good humor since the revolt against the bailiff had beenannounced to him, made itself apparent in every way. This unwontedclemency was no small sign of it. Tristan l'Hermite in his corner worethe 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 hischair, the March of Pont-Audemer. He was a dissembling prince, but onewho understood far better how to hide his troubles than his joys. Theseexternal manifestations of joy at any good news sometimes proceeded tovery great lengths thus, on the death, of Charles the Bold, to the pointof vowing silver balustrades to Saint Martin of Tours; on his advent tothe throne, so far as forgetting to order his father's obsequies.
"He! sire!" suddenly exclaimed Jacques Coictier, "what has become of theacute attack of illness for which your majesty had me summoned?"
"Oh!" said the king, "I really suffer greatly, my gossip. There is ahissing in my ear and fiery rakes rack my chest."
Coictier took the king's hand, and begun to feel of his pulse with aknowing air.
"Look, Coppenole," said Rym, in a low voice. "Behold him betweenCoictier 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 andgreater alarm. Louis XI. watched him with some anxiety. Coictier grewvisibly more gloomy. The brave man had no other farm than the king's badhealth. 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 theleech.
"_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 isa receivership of the royal prerogatives vacant, and that I have anephew."
"I give the receivership to your nephew, Gossip Jacques," replied theking; "but draw this fire from my breast."
"Since your majesty is so clement," replied the leech, "you willnot refuse to aid me a little in building my house, RueSaint-Andre-des-Arcs."
"Heugh!" said the king.
"I am at the end of my finances," pursued the doctor; "and it wouldreally be a pity that the house should not have a roof; not on accountof the house, which is simple and thoroughly bourgeois, but because ofthe paintings of Jehan Fourbault, which adorn its wainscoating. There isa 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 acrescent, her flesh so white, that she leads into temptation those whoregard her too curiously. There is also a Ceres. She is another veryfair divinity. She is seated on sheaves of wheat and crowned with agallant 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 andmost 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 asmall matter, I have no more money."
"How much doth your roof cost?"
"Why a roof of copper, embellished and gilt, two thousand livres at themost."
"Ah, assassin!" cried the king, "He never draws out one of my teethwhich 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 yourloins the great defensive composed of cerate, Armenian bole, white ofegg, oil, and vinegar. You will continue your ptisan and we will answerfor 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 tobe propitious, approached in his turn.
"Sire--"
"What is it now?" said Louis XI. "Sire, your majesty knoweth that SimonRadin is dead?"
"Well?"
"He was councillor to the king in the matter of the courts of thetreasury."
"Well?"
"Sire, his place is vacant."
As he spoke thus, Master Olivier's haughty face quitted its arrogantexpression for a lowly one. It is the only change which ever takes placein a courtier's visage. The king looked him well in the face and said ina dry tone,--"I understand."
He resumed,
"Master Olivier, the Marshal de Boucicaut was wont to say, 'There's nomaster save the king, there are no fishes save in the sea.' I see thatyou agree with Monsieur de Boucicaut. Now listen to this; we have a goodmemory. In '68 we made you valet of our chamber: in '69, guardian of thefortress of the bridge of Saint-Cloud, at a hundred livres of Tournay inwages (you wanted them of Paris). In November, '73, by letters givento Gergeole, we instituted you keeper of the Wood of Vincennes, inthe place of Gilbert Acle, equerry; in '75, gruyer* of the forest ofRouvray-lez-Saint-Cloud, in the place of Jacques le Maire; in '78, wegraciously settled on you, by letters patent sealed doubly with greenwax, an income of ten livres parisis, for you and your wife, on thePlace of the Merchants, situated at the School Saint-Germain; in '79,we made you gruyer of the forest of Senart, in place of that poorJehan Daiz; then captain of the Chateau of Loches; then governor ofSaint-Quentin; then captain of the bridge of Meulan, of which you causeyourself to be called comte. Out of the five sols fine paid by everybarber who shaves on a festival day, there are three sols for you andwe have the rest. We have been good enough to change your name of LeMauvais (The Evil), which resembled your face too closely. In '76, wegranted you, to the great displeasure of our nobility, armorialbearings of a thousand colors, which give you the breast of a peacock._Pasque-Dieu_! Are not you surfeited? Is not the draught of fishessufficiently fine and miraculous? Are you not afraid that one salmonmore will make your boat sink? Pride will be your ruin, gossip. Ruin anddisgrace always press hard on the heels of pride. Consider this and holdyour tongue."
* A lord having a right on the woods of his vassals.
These words, uttered with severity, made Master Olivier's face revert toits insolence.
"Good!" he muttered, almost aloud, "'tis easy to see that the king isill to-day; he giveth all to the leech."
Louis XI. far from being irritated by this petulant insult, resumed withsome gentleness, "Stay, I was forgetting that I made you my ambassadorto Madame Marie, at Ghent. Yes, gentlemen," added the king turning tothe Flemings, "this man hath been an ambassador. There, my gossip," hepursued, addressing Master Olivier, "let us not get angry; we are oldfriends. 'Tis very late. We have terminated our lab
ors. Shave me."
Our readers have not, without doubt, waited until the present moment torecognize in Master Olivier that terrible Figaro whom Providence, thegreat maker of dramas, mingled so artistically in the long and bloodycomedy of the reign of Louis XI. We will not here undertake to developthat singular figure. This barber of the king had three names. At courthe was politely called Olivier le Daim (the Deer); among the peopleOlivier the Devil. His real name was Olivier le Mauvais.
Accordingly, Olivier le Mauvais remained motionless, sulking at theking, 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 takenhold 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 wouldbecome of your office if I were a king like Chilperic, whose gestureconsisted in holding his beard in one hand? Come, gossip mine, fulfilyour office, shave me. Go get what you need therefor."
Olivier perceiving that the king had made up his mind to laugh, and thatthere was no way of even annoying him, went off grumbling to execute hisorders.
The king rose, approached the window, and suddenly opening it withextraordinary agitation,--
"Oh! yes!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands, "yonder is a redness in thesky over the City. 'Tis the bailiff burning. It can be nothing else butthat. Ah! my good people! here you are aiding me at last in tearing downthe rights of lordship!"
Then turning towards the Flemings: "Come, look at this, gentlemen. Is itnot 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 meof the burning of the house of the Seigneur d'Hymbercourt. There must bea goodly revolt yonder."
"You think so, Master Coppenole?" And Louis XI.'s glance was almost asjoyous as that of the hosier. "Will it not be difficult to resist?"
"Cross of God! Sire! Your majesty will damage many companies of men ofwar thereon."
"Ah! I! 'tis different," returned the king. "If I willed." The hosierreplied hardily,--
"If this revolt be what I suppose, sire, you might will in vain."
"Gossip," said Louis XI., "with the two companies of my unattachedtroops and one discharge of a serpentine, short work is made of apopulace of louts."
The hosier, in spite of the signs made to him by Guillaume Rym, appeareddetermined to hold his own against the king.
"Sire, the Swiss were also louts. Monsieur the Duke of Burgundy was agreat gentleman, and he turned up his nose at that rabble rout. At thebattle of Grandson, sire, he cried: 'Men of the cannon! Fire on thevillains!' and he swore by Saint-George. But Advoyer Scharnachtal hurledhimself on the handsome duke with his battle-club and his people, andwhen the glittering Burgundian army came in contact with these peasantsin bull hides, it flew in pieces like a pane of glass at the blow of apebble. Many lords were then slain by low-born knaves; and Monsieur deChateau-Guyon, the greatest seigneur in Burgundy, was found dead, withhis gray horse, in a little marsh meadow."
"Friend," returned the king, "you are speaking of a battle. The questionhere is of a mutiny. And I will gain the upper hand of it as soon as itshall please me to frown."
The other replied indifferently,--
"That may be, sire; in that case, 'tis because the people's hour hathnot 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 thisfrankness of speech. My father, Charles the Seventh, was accustomedto say that the truth was ailing; I thought her dead, and that she hadfound 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 ofthe 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 kingapproach the window.
"Listen, sire! There is here a donjon keep, a belfry, cannons,bourgeois, soldiers; when the belfry shall hum, when the cannonsshall roar, when the donjon shall fall in ruins amid great noise, whenbourgeois and soldiers shall howl and slay each other, the hour willstrike."
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 onestrokes the haunches of a steed.
"Oh! no!" said he. "You will not crumble so easily, will you, my goodBastille?"
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 hundredways. In the first place, there must be discontent in the city. Thething is not uncommon. And then, the character of the inhabitants. Thoseof Ghent are easy to stir into revolt. They always love the prince'sson; the prince, never. Well! One morning, I will suppose, some oneenters my shop, and says to me: 'Father Coppenole, there is this andthere is that, the Demoiselle of Flanders wishes to save her ministers,the grand bailiff is doubling the impost on shagreen, or somethingelse,'--what you will. I leave my work as it stands, I come out of myhosier's stall, and I shout: 'To the sack?' There is always some smashedcask at hand. I mount it, and I say aloud, in the first words that occurto 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 fromthe soldiers, the market people join in, and they set out. And it willalways be thus, so long as there are lords in the seignories, bourgeoisin the bourgs, and peasants in the country."
"And against whom do you thus rebel?" inquired the king; "against yourbailiffs? 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 thathe was also accompanied by the provost of Paris and the chevalier ofthe watch, who appeared to be in consternation. The spiteful barberalso 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 Ibring."
The king turned quickly and grazed the mat on the floor with the feet ofhis chair,--
"What does this mean?"
"Sire," resumed Olivier le Daim, with the malicious air of a man whorejoices that he is about to deal a violent blow, "'tis not against thebailiff 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 Iswear to you by the cross of Saint-Lo that, if you lie to us at thishour, the sword which severed the head of Monsieur de Luxembourg is notso notched that it cannot yet sever yours!"
The oath was formidable; Louis XI. had only sworn twice in the course ofhis life by the cross of Saint-Lo.
Olivier opened his mouth to reply.
"Sire--"
"On your knees!" interrupt
ed the king violently. "Tristan, have an eyeto 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 fromthence by main force. Monsieur the provost and monsieur the chevalier ofthe watch, who have just come from the riot, are here to give me the lieif this is not the truth. The populace is besieging Notre-Dame."
"Yes, indeed!" said the king in a low voice, all pale and trembling withwrath. "Notre-Dame! They lay siege to our Lady, my good mistress inher cathedral!--Rise, Olivier. You are right. I give you Simon Radin'scharge. You are right. 'Tis I whom they are attacking. The witch isunder the protection of this church, the church is under my protection.And I thought that they were acting against the bailiff! 'Tis againstmyself!"
Then, rendered young by fury, he began to walk up and down with longstrides. He no longer laughed, he was terrible, he went and came; thefox was changed into a hyaena. He seemed suffocated to such a degreethat he could not speak; his lips moved, and his fleshless fists wereclenched. All at once he raised his head, his hollow eye appeared fullof 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 coldand concentrated wrath,--
"Here, Tristan! There are here with us in the Bastille the fifty lancesof the Vicomte de Gif, which makes three hundred horse: you will takethem. There is also the company of our unattached archers of Monsieur deChateaupers: you will take it. You are provost of the marshals; you havethe men of your provostship: you will take them. At the Hotel Saint-Polyou will find forty archers of monsieur the dauphin's new guard: youwill take them. And, with all these, you will hasten to Notre-Dame.Ah! messieurs, louts of Paris, do you fling yourselves thus againstthe crown of France, the sanctity of Notre-Dame, and the peace of thiscommonwealth! Exterminate, Tristan! exterminate! and let not a singleone 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 thepeople wish to do with her?"
"Sire," replied the provost of Paris, "I imagine that since the populacehas come to tear her from her asylum in Notre-Dame, 'tis because thatimpunity 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 forwilling a thing, and then do what they wish."
"Enough, sire," replied Tristan. "If the sorceress is still inNotre-Dame, must she be seized in spite of the sanctuary?"
"_Pasque-Dieu_! the sanctuary!" said the king, scratching his ear. "Butthe woman must be hung, nevertheless."
Here, as though seized with a sudden idea, he flung himself on his kneesbefore his chair, took off his hat, placed it on the seat, and gazingdevoutly at one of the leaden amulets which loaded it down, "Oh!" saidhe, 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 asorceress who is not worthy of your amiable protection. You know,madame, that many very pious princes have overstepped the privilegesof the churches for the glory of God and the necessities of the State.Saint Hugues, bishop of England, permitted King Edward to hang a witchin his church. Saint-Louis of France, my master, transgressed, with thesame 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 soagain, and I will give you a fine statue of silver, like the one which Igave last year to Our Lady of Ecouys. So be it."
He made the sign of the cross, rose, donned his hat once more, and saidto Tristan,--
"Be diligent, gossip. Take Monsieur Chateaupers with you. You will causethe tocsin to be sounded. You will crush the populace. You will seizethe witch. 'Tis said. And I mean the business of the execution to bedone by you. You will render me an account of it. Come, Olivier, I shallnot go to bed this night. Shave me."
Tristan l'Hermite bowed and departed. Then the king, dismissing Rym andCoppenole with a gesture,--
"God guard you, messieurs, my good friends the Flemings. Go, take alittle repose. The night advances, and we are nearer the morning thanthe evening."
Both retired and gained their apartments under the guidance of thecaptain of the Bastille. Coppenole said to Guillaume Rym,--
"Hum! I have had enough of that coughing king! I have seen Charles ofBurgundy drunk, and he was less malignant than Louis XI. when ailing."
"Master Jacques," replied Rym, "'tis because wine renders kings lesscruel than does barley water."
CHAPTER VI. LITTLE SWORD IN POCKET.