by Hugo, Victor
‘The joiner is expensive,’ observed the King. ‘Is that all?’
‘No, sire—to a glazier, for the windows of the said room, 46 sols 8 deniers parisis.’
‘Have mercy, sire! Is it not enough that all my property has been given to my judges, my plate to Monsieur de Torcy, my library to Maître Pierre Doriolle, my tapestry to the governor of Roussillon? I am innocent. I have been shivering now for fourteen years in an iron cage. Have mercy, sire! You will be repaid in heaven.’
‘Maître Olivier,’ said the King, ‘the total?’
‘367 livres 8 sols 3 deniers parisis.’
‘By Our Lady!’ cried the King, ‘that’s an outrageous cage!’
He snatched the register from Maître Olivier’s hands, and began counting up for himself on his fingers, studying in turn the paper and the cage. Meanwhile they could hear the prisoner sobbing. This sounded most doleful in the dark, and their faces paled as they looked at one another.
‘Fourteen years, sire! It’s fourteen years now! Since April 1469. In the name of the Holy Mother of God, sire, listen to me! All that time you have enjoyed the warmth of the sun. Shall I, wretch that I am, never see daylight again? Mercy, sire! be merciful. Clemency is a fine royal virtue and stems the flow of anger. Does Your Majesty believe that at the hour of death it is a great satisfaction for a king to have let no offence go unpunished? Besides, sire, I did not betray Your Majesty, it was my lord of Angers. And on my foot is a very heavy chain, with a great iron ball at the end of it, much heavier than it need be. Ah! sire! Have pity on me!’
‘Olivier,’ said the King, shaking his head, ‘I notice that I’ve been charged 20 sols a barrel for plaster that is only worth 12. Do this memorandum over again.’
He turned his back on the cage and prepared to leave the room. The wretched prisoner judged that the King was going from the fact that the torches and noise were growing more distant. ‘Sire! sire!’ he cried in despair. The door closed. He saw nothing more, and all he heard was the gaoler’s raucous voice singing in his ear the song:
Maître Jean Balue
Has lost from sight all his sees;
Monsieur of Verdun
Has been left without one;
They’ve all been despatched.
The King went back up to his retreat in silence, and his train followed him, terror-struck at the condemned man’s final groans. Suddenly His Majesty turned to the governor of the Bastille. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘was there not someone in that cage?’
‘By God, sire!’ answered the governor, staggered at the question.
‘Who was it then?’
‘Monsieur the Bishop of Verdun.’
The King knew that better than anyone. But it was an obsession.
‘Ah!’ he said with an innocent look, as if it was the first time he had thought of it, ‘Guillaume de Harancourt,* the friend of Monsieur the Cardinal Balue. A good fellow for a bishop!’
A few moments later the door of the retreat opened and then closed again on the five individuals whom the reader saw there at the beginning of this chapter, and who had now gone back to their places, their subdued conversations, and their attitudes.
During the King’s absence some dispatches had been laid on the table, and he himself broke their seals. Then he began promptly to read them, one after the other, made a sign to ‘Maître Olivier’, who appeared to be acting as his minister, to take up a pen, and without informing him of the contents of the dispatches, began in a low voice to dictate answers to them, which Olivier wrote down, kneeling somewhat uncomfortably in front of the table.
Guillaume Rym watched.
The King spoke so quietly that the Flemings could not hear anything of his dictation except occasional isolated scraps like: ‘… Maintain fertile areas by trade, and infertile ones by manufacture … Show the English lords our four bombards, the London, the Brabant, the Bourg-en-Bresse, the Saint-Omer … Artillery is the reason why war is waged now more judiciously … 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 wrong to permit him to do so. My fair cousin of Burgundy did not grant arms on a field of gules. The greatness of a house is assured by keeping the integrity of its prerogatives. Note that, Compère Olivier.’
Another time: ‘Oh! oh!’ he said, ‘what a big letter! What is our brother the Emperor asking for?’ And running his eyes over the missive, punctuating his reading with interjections: ‘To be sure! The Germanies are so great and powerful that it is scarcely credible! But we haven’t forgotten the old proverb: the fairest county is Flanders; the fairest duchy, Milan; the fairest kingdom, France—is that not so, Messieurs the Flemings?’
This time Coppenole bowed with Guillaume Rym. The hosier’s patriotism was flattered.
One last despatch made Louis XI frown: ‘What’s this?’ he exclaimed. ‘Complaints and grievances against our garrisons in Picardy! Olivier, write without delay to Monsieur the maréchal de Rouault.—That discipline is growing slack.—That the men-at-arms of the ordinances, the nobles of the ban, the free archers, the Swiss are causing endless trouble to the inhabitants.—That the soldiers, not satisfied with the property they find in the farmworkers’ houses, force them, by beating them with staves and spears, to go into town and look for wine, fish, spices and other extravagances.—That Monsieur the King knows this.—That we intend to keep our people from harassment, theft, and pillage.—That such is our will, by Our Lady!—That furthermore it is not our pleasure that any minstrel, barber, or servant-at-arms should dress like a prince in velvet, silk and gold rings.—That such vanities are hateful to God.—That we content ourselves, we who are gentlemen, with a doublet of cloth at 16 sols the Paris ell.—That messieurs the camp-followers can very well come down to that too.—Order and command.—To Monsieur de Rouault, our friend.—Right.’ He dictated this letter aloud, in firm tones and in bursts. Just as he was finishing, the door opened and admitted a new personage, who rushed into the room in great alarm, crying: ‘Sire! sire! There is an an uprising of the people in Paris!’
Louis XI’s grave features contracted, but what could be seen of his emotion passed in a flash. He contained himself, and said with calm severity: ‘Compère Jacques, you come in very abruptly!’
‘Sire! sire! There’s a revolt!’ Compère Jacques went on, breathlessly.
The King, who had risen, took him roughly by the arm and said in his ear, so that no one else could hear, with concentrated anger and a sidelong glance at the Flemings: ‘Hold your tongue or keep your voice down!’
The newcomer understood, and began in a low voice to give a most terrified account, to which the King listened quite calmly, while Guillaume Rym pointed out to Coppenole the face and dress of the newcomer, his fur-trimmed hood, caputia fourrata, his short cloak, epitogia curta, his black velvet robe, which indicated a president of the court of accounts.
This personage had scarcely given the King some explanation when Louis XI burst out laughing and exclaimed:
‘Really! Speak more loudly, Compère Coictier! What’s the matter with you that you’re whispering like that? Our Lady knows we have nothing to hide from our good Flemish friends.’
‘But, sire …’
‘Speak up!’
Compère Coictier stayed dumb with surprise.
‘So,’ the King went on, ‘speak, sir. There is a disturbance of the people in our good town of Paris?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘And you say it is directed against the bailiff of the Palais de Justice?’*
‘Apparently so,’ the compère answered, stammering, still quite dazed at the abrupt and inexplicable change which had just taken place in the mind of the King.
‘Where did the watch encounter the mob?’
‘On the way from the Grande-Truanderie to the Pont-aux-Changeurs. I ran into them myself as I was coming
here on Your Majesty’s orders. I heard some of them shouting: “Down with the bailiff of the Palais!”’
‘And what grievance do they have against the bailiff?’
‘Ah!’ said Compère Jacques, ‘that he is their lord.’
‘Really!’
‘Yes, sire. They are rogues from the Court of Miracles. They have been complaining for a long time now about the bailiff, whose vassals they are. They won’t recognize his rights either as justiciary or over the highways.’
‘Well, well!’ the King replied with a smile of satisfaction that he tried in vain to disguise.
‘In all their petitions to Parliament,’ Compère Jacques went on, ‘they claim that they have but two masters, Your Majesty and their God, who is, I believe, the devil.’
‘Ha! ha!’ said the King.
He was rubbing his hands together and laughing with that inward laughter which makes the face beam. He was unable to conceal his delight, though he tried from time to time to compose himself. No one understood it at all, not even ‘Maître Olivier’. The King remained silent for a moment, looking thoughtful, but pleased.
‘Are they in force?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes, indeed, sire,’ Compère Jacques answered.
‘How many?’
‘At least six thousand.’
The King could not stop himself saying: ‘Good!’ He went on: ‘Are they armed?’
‘With scythes, pikes, hackbuts, picks. All sorts of most violent weapons.’
The King appeared quite unperturbed by such a display. Compère Jacques thought he should add: ‘If Your Majesty does not send help to the bailiff quickly, he is a lost man.’
‘We shall send it,’ said the King with a false appearance of seriousness. ‘Right. Certainly we shall send help. Monsieur the Bailiff is our friend. Six thousand! They are determined rascals. Their boldness is quite amazing, and angers us greatly. But we have few people around us tonight—it will be time enough tomorrow morning.’
Compère Jacques protested: ‘Straight away, sire! There’ll be time for them to sack the bailiff’s residence twenty times over, violate his authority, and hang the bailiff. For God’s sake, sire! send help before morning!’
The King looked straight at him: ‘I said tomorrow morning.’
It was one of those looks which brook no reply.
After a silence, Louis XI again spoke up. ‘Compère Jacques, you should know. What was …’; he corrected himself: ‘What is the bailiff’s feudal jurisdiction?’
‘Sire, the bailiff of the Palais has the rue de la Calandre up to the rue de l’Herberie, the Place Saint-Michel and the places commonly called les Mureaux, situated near the church of Notre-Dame-des-Champs’ (here Louis XI raised the brim of his hat), ‘which mansions are thirteen in number, plus the Court of Miracles, plus the leper-house called the Banlieue, plus the whole of the highway beginning at the leper-house and ending at the Porte Saint-Jacques. In all these different places he enjoys rights over thoroughfares, high, middle, and low justice, and is fully lord.’
‘Is he indeed?’ said the King, scratching his left ear with his right hand. ‘That makes quite a fair portion of my town! Ah! Monsieur the Bailiff was king of all that!’
This time he did not correct himself. He continued, musing and as though talking to himself: ‘Very nice. Monsieur the Bailiff! You had your teeth into a very decent bit of our Paris!’
Suddenly he exploded: ‘Pasque-Dieu! Who are all these people who claim to have rights over highways, to be justiciaries, lords and masters in our domain? Who set up their tolls all over the countryside, their justice and their executioner at every crossroads among our people? So that as the Greek believed he had as many gods as he had fountains, and the Persian as many as he could see stars, the Frenchman reckons he has as many kings as he can see gibbets! By God! That’s all wrong, and such confusion displeases me. I’d very much like to know if it is God’s grace that there should be in Paris anyone else with highway rights but the King, any other justice than our Parliament, any other emperor than us in this empire! By the faith of my soul! The day must surely come when in France there will be only one king, one lord, one judge, one headsman, just as in paradise there is only one God!’
He raised his cap again, and went on still musing, with the look and tone of a huntsman urging on and launching his pack: ‘Good! my people! Boldly done! Smash these false lords! Do your job! Go on! go on! Plunder them, hang them, sack them! Ha! You want to be kings, my lords? Go to it! My people! Go!’
Here he abruptly broke off, bit his lip, as if to retrieve an idea that had escaped him, fixed his piercing gaze in turn on each of the five persons around him, and suddenly grasping his hat in both hands and looking directly at it, he said: ‘Oh! I’d burn you if you knew what I have in my head!’
Then, looking around him again as intently and anxiously as a fox returning stealthily to its earth: ‘No matter! We’ll help Monsieur the Bailiff. Unfortunately we have only a small force here at the moment against such numbers of the people. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Order will be restored in the Cité and anyone caught will be hanged without more ado.’
‘That reminds me, sire!’ said Compère Coictier, ‘I forgot to say in my initial confusion that the watch picked up two stragglers from the band. If Your Majesty wishes to see these men, they are here.’
‘If I wish to see them!’ cried the King. ‘What! Pasque-Dieu! you forgot something like that! Hurry, quick, you, Olivier! go and fetch them.’
Maître Olivier went out and came back a moment later with the two prisoners, surrounded by archers of the ordinance. The first had a big, stupid face, drunk and dumbfounded. He was dressed in rags, and was walking with one knee bent and the foot dragging. The second was a pale, smiling figure already known to the reader.
The King studied them for a moment without saying a word, then, abruptly addressing the first one:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Gieffroy Pincebourde.’
‘Your trade?’
‘Truand.’
‘What were you going to do in this damnable sedition?’
The truand looked at the King, swinging his arms with a dazed expression. He had one of those ill-adapted heads in which intelligence is about as comfortable as light under a snuffer.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘People were going, I went.’
‘Were you not going to assault and pillage quite outrageously your lord the bailiff of the Palais?’
‘I know they were going to take something from somebody’s house. That’s all.’
A soldier showed the King a pruning hook which had been found on the truand.
‘Do you recognize this weapon?’ the King asked.
‘Yes, it’s my pruning hook. I’m a vine-dresser.’
‘And do you recognize this man as your companion?’ Louis XI added, pointing to the other prisoner.
‘No, I don’t know him.’
‘That’s enough,’ said the King, beckoning to the silent individual standing motionless by the door, to whom we have already drawn the reader’s attention.
‘Compère Tristan, here’s a man for you.’
Tristan l’Hermite bowed. He gave an order in an undertone to two archers who took the truand away.
Meanwhile the King had come up to the second prisoner, who was sweating heavily: ‘Your name?’
‘Sire, Pierre Gringoire.’
‘Your trade?’
‘Philosopher, sire.’
‘How can you take the liberty, you rascal, of going to besiege our friend Monsieur the Bailiff of the Palais, and what have you to say about this popular disturbance?’
‘Sire, I was not part of it.’
‘How now! Scoundrel, were you not apprehended by the watch in that bad companty?’
‘No, sire, there’s a mistake. It is fatality. I compose tragedies. Sire, I beseech Your Majesty to hear me. I am a poet. It’s the melancholy lot of men of my profession to walk the streets
at night. I was passing by there this evening. It was pure chance. I was arrested in error. I am innocent of this civil tempest. Your Majesty has seen that the truand did not recognize me. I beg Your Majesty …’
‘Hold your tongue!’ said the King between two sips of tisane. ‘Your babbling makes us tired.’
Tristan l’Hermite came forward, and pointing to Gringoire: ‘Sire, may this one be hanged too?’
‘Hm!’ the King answered casually. ‘I don’t see any objection.’
‘But I do, I see a lot of objections!’ said Gringoire.
Our philosopher at that moment had turned as green as an olive. He saw from the King’s cold and indifferent expression that the only course left to him was something most pathetic, and flung himself at Louis XI’s feet, crying out with a gesture of despair:
‘Sire! Your Majesty will deign to hear me. Sire! do not break out into thunder over such a nonentity as myself. God’s great thunderbolts are not for bombarding lettuces. Sire, you are a most mighty, august monarch, have pity on a poor, honest man, as incapable of stirring up a revolt as an icicle is of striking a spark! Most gracious sire, mildness is a virtue in lions and kings. Alas! severity only strikes terror into people’s minds, the violent gusts of the north wind would never make the traveller lay aside his cloak, the sun’s rays gradually warm him so that he will go about in shirt-sleeves. Sire, you are the sun. I protest to you, my sovereign lord and master, I am not a companion of truands, thieving and disorderly. Revolt and brigandage have no part in Apollo’s company. I am not one for rushing headlong into those clouds which break out in rumbles of sedition. I am Your Majesty’s faithful vassal. The same jealousy that a husband feels for his wife’s honour, a son’s appreciation of his father’s love, a good vassal must feel for the glory -of his king, he must drain himself dry in zeal for his house, in the increase of his service. Any other passion which might transport him would just be frenzy. These, sire, are my maxims of State. So do not judge me guilty of sedition and pillage because my clothes are out at the elbows. If you show me mercy, sire, I shall wear them out at the knees too, praying God night and morning for you! Alas! I am not exceptionally rich, it’s true. In fact I am rather poor. But not vicious on that account. It’s not my fault. Everyone knows that great wealth is not to be gained from literature, and those who are most accomplished at writing good books do not always enjoy much of a fire in winter. The legal profession takes all the wheat for itself and leaves only the chaff for the other learned professions. There are forty most excellent proverbs about the philosopher’s ragged cloak. Oh! sire! clemency is the only virtue which can light up the inside of a great soul. Clemency carries the torch ahead of all the other virtues. Without it they are blind men groping about in their search for God. Mercy, which is the same as clemency, makes for loving subjects, a prince’s most powerful bodyguard. What difference does it make to you, Your Majesty, by whom every eye is dazzled, that there should be one more poor man on earth? A poor innocent philosopher, floundering in the darkness of calamity, with his empty fob ringing upon his hollow belly? Besides, sire, I am a man of letters. Great kings add a jewel to their crown by being patrons of letters. Hercules did not scorn the title of Musagetes.* Matthias Corvinus* showed favour to Jean de Monroyal,* the ornament of mathematics. Now, hanging men of letters is a poor way of being a patron of letters. What a blot on the name of Alexander if he had had Aristotle hanged! Such an act would not just have been a small patch on the face of his reputation to embellish it, but a malignant ulcer to disfigure it. Sire! I composed a most suitable epithalamium for Mademoiselle of Flanders and Monseigneur the most august Dauphin. That doesn’t go with incitement to rebellion. Your Majesty can see that I am no ignorant scribbler, that I am highly educated, and that I have natural eloquence. Grant me mercy, sire. In so doing you will be performing a most noble act for Our Lady, and I swear to you that I am very frightened at the idea of being hanged.’
