《BOOK TENTH CHAPTER V.THE RETREAT IN WHICH MONSIEUR LOUIS OF FRANCE SAYS HIS PRAYERS. Page 2》

"'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 do 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!" be 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,--

"~Ma?tre Jean Balue, A perdu la vue De ses évêchés. Monsieur de Verdun. N'en a plus pas un; Tous sont dépêchés~."*

* 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 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?" be 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?"*

* One in charge of the highways.

"Yes, certainly!" retorted the king with a smile of satis- faction 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!"

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