by Hugo, Victor
So saying, the desolate Gringoire kissed the King’s slippers, and Guillaume Rym whispered to Coppenole: ‘He does well to crawl on the ground. Kings are like the Cretan Jupiter, they have ears only in their feet.’ And without concerning himself with Cretan Jupiter the hosier answered with a heavy smile, eyes fixed on Gringoire: ‘Oh! That’s really good! It makes me think I’m hearing Chancellor Hugonet* begging me for mercy.’
When Gringoire finally stopped, quite out of breath, he looked up trembling at the King, who was scratching with his nail a patch on the knee of his hose. Then His Majesty began to drink from the goblet of tisane. For the rest, he did not breathe a word, and the silence was torment for Gringoire. At length the King looked at him. ‘What a dreadful one for bawling!’ he said. Then, turning to Tristan l’Hermite: ‘Bah! let him go!’
Gringoire fell on his backside, quite appalled with joy.
‘Go free?’ grumbled Tristan. ‘Wouldn’t Your Majesty like him to be kept in a cage for a bit?’
‘Compère,’ retorted Louis XI, ‘do you think it’s for birds like him that we have cages made costing 367 limes 8 sols 3 deniers—release the whoremonger right away’ (Louis XI was fond of that word, which with Pasque-Dieu! made up his stock of joviality), ‘and send him out with a drubbing!’
‘Phew!’ exclaimed Gringoire, ‘there’s a great King!’
And for fear of a countermand he rushed to the door which Tristan opened for him with somewhat bad grace. The soldiers came out with him, pushing him before them with hard punches, which Gringoire endured as a true Stoic philosopher.
The King’s good humour, ever since he had been informed of the revolt against the bailiff, came through in everything. His unwonted clemency was a by no means unimportant sign of it. Tristan l’Hermite in his corner had the disgruntled expression of a mastiff which has seen but not had.
The King meanwhile was cheerfully beating out with his fingers on the arm of his chair the Pont-Audemer march. He was a secretive prince, but he was much better at hiding his sorrows than his joys. These outward manifestations of joy at any piece of good news sometimes went to great lengths: thus, on the death of Charles the Bold, to the point of promising silver balustrades to Saint-Martin at Tours; on his accession to the throne, to the point of forgetting to arrange his father’s obsequies.
‘Ha! sire!’ suddenly exclaimed Jacques Coictier, ‘what has become of that stabbing pain for which Your Majesty had me summoned?’
‘Oh!’ said the King, ‘I am really in great pain, Compère. There’s a whistling in my ears, and burning rakes scraping my chest.’
Coictier took the King’s hand, and began to take his pulse with the look of an expert.
‘Look, Coppenole,’ Rym said in an undertone, ‘there he is between Coictier and Tristan. That’s his whole court. A physician for him, an executioner for everyone else.’
As he felt the King’s pulse, Coictier looked more and more alarmed. Louis XI watched him with some anxiety. Coictier’s face was visibly darkening. The good man had no other fields to cultivate but the King’s ill health. He made the most of it.
‘Oh! oh!’ he murmured finally, ‘this is serious indeed.’
‘Is that so?’ said the King anxiously.
‘Pulsus creber, anhelans, crepitans, irregularis [rapid pulse, gasping, rattling, irregular],’ the doctor continued.
‘Pasque-Dieu!’
‘In less than three days it can carry a man off.’
‘Our Lady!’ exclaimed the King. ‘And the remedy, compère?’
‘I’m thinking about it, sire.’
He made Louis XI put his tongue out, shook his head, pulled a face, and in the middle of this performance: ‘By God, sire,’ he said suddenly, ‘I must tell you that there’s a receivership vacant of ecclesiastical revenues due to the Crown, and I have a nephew.’
‘I’il give my receivership to your nephew, Compère Jacques,’ the King replied; ‘but take away this burning in my chest.’
‘Since Your Majesty is so kind, he will not refuse me a little help in the construction of my house in the rue Saint-André-des-Arcs.’
‘Hm!’ said the King.
‘I’ve come to the end of my financial resources,’ the doctor went on, ‘and it would really be a pity if the house did not have a roof. Not for the sake of the house, which is plain and quite unpretentious, but for Jehan Fourbault’s* paintings, which brighten up the wainscotting. There is a Diana flying in the air, but so outstanding, so tender, so delicate, her action so artless, her hair so beautifully dressed, crowned with a crescent, her flesh so white that it leads into temptation those who look at it with too much curiosity. There is also a Ceres. She is another very beautiful divinity. She is sitting on wheatsheaves, and has a handsome garland round her head of ears of corn interwoven with salsify and other flowers. You’ve never seen anything more amorous than her eyes, more rounded than her legs, more noble than her attitude, better draped than her skirt. It is one of the most innocent and perfect beauties ever produced by a painter’s brush.’
‘Hangman!’ grumbled Louis XI, ‘what are you getting at?’
‘I need a roof over those paintings, sire, and although it’s only a trifle, I have no money left.’
‘How much is it, this roof of yours?’
‘Well … a copper roof, figured and gilded, 2,000 livres at most.’
‘Ah! murderer!’ cried the King. ‘He never pulls a tooth from me but it turns out to be a diamond.’
‘Do I get my roof?’ said Coictier.
‘Yes! and go to the devil, but cure me.’
Jacques Coictier bowed deeply and said: ‘Sire, what will save you is a repercussive. We shall apply to the small of your back the great defensive, consisting of cerate, bole armenie, white of egg, oil, and vinegar. You will continue with your tisane, and we shall answer for Your Majesty.’
A shining candle does not attract just one moth. Maître Olivier, seeing the king in generous mood and thinking the moment favourable, came up in his turn: ‘Sire …’
‘What is it now?’ said Louis XI.
‘Sire, Your Majesty knows that Simon Radin is dead?’
‘Well?’
‘The fact is that he was King’s counsellor for the jurisdiction of the treasury.’
‘Well?’
‘Sire, his place is vacant.’
As he spoke, Maître Olivier’s haughty face dropped its arrogant expression for a servile one. It is the only change a courtier’s face can register. The King looked him straight in the eye and said drily: ‘I understand.’
He went on:
‘Maître Olivier, Marshal de Boucicaut* used to say: “The only good gift comes from the King, the only good fishing from the sea.” I see that you are of Monsieur de Boucicaut’s opinion. Now listen to this. We have a good memory. In ‘68 we made you Groom of the Bedchamber; in ‘69 Warden of the castle of the bridge of Saint-Cloud at a salary of 100 livres tournois (you wanted livres parisis). In November ’73, by letters given at Gergeole, we appointed you Keeper of the Forest of Vincennes, in place of Gilbert Acle, squire; in ’75, Verderer of the Forest of Rouvray-lez-Saint-Cloud, in place of Jacques le Maire; in ’78 we graciously settled on you, by letters patent sealed on double label of green wax, an annuity of 10 livres parisis, for you and your wife, on the Place aux Marchands, situated at the École Saint-Germain; in ’79 we made you Verderer of the Forest of Senart, in place of poor Jehan Daiz; then Captain of the castle at Loches; then Governor of Saint-Quentin; then Captain of the Bridge of Meulan, of which you call yourself count. From the fine of 5 sols paid by every barber who shaves on a feast day, 3 sols go to you, and we have what’s left. We were kind enough to change your name from le Mauvais [the bad], which is too much like your appearance. In ’74 we granted you, to the great displeasure of our nobility, a coat of arms of countless colours which makes your chest look like a peacock’s. Pasque-Dieu! haven’t you had your fill? Isn’t the draught of fishes fine and miraculous enough? And aren’
t you afraid that one extra salmon might capsize your boat? Pride will destroy you, compère. Pride always has ruin and shame hot on its heels. Think about all that and hold your tongue.’
These words, uttered with severity, brought back the insolent look to the resentful features of Maître Olivier. ‘Right,’ he murmured almost aloud, ‘it is obvious that the King is unwell today. He gives everything to his doctor.’
Louis XI, far from being annoyed at this outburst, went on quite mildly: ‘Oh yes, I was forgetting that I made you my ambassador at Ghent to Madame Marie. Yes, gentlemen,’ the King added, turning to the Flemings, ‘this man has been an ambassador. There now, compère,’ he continued, addressing Maître Olivier, ‘let’s not fall out; we are old friends. It’s very late now. We have finished our work. Shave me.’
Our readers have certainly not waited until now to recognize in ‘Maître Olivier’ that terrible Figaro whom Providence, that great dramatist, involved so artistically in the long bloody play of Louis XI. This is not the place to undertake the development of this strange character. This royal barber had three names. At court he was politely called Olivier le Daim; among the people, Olivier the Devil. His real name was Olivier le Mauvais [the Bad].
So Olivier the Bad stayed motionless, sulking at the King and looking askance at Jacques Coictier: ‘Yes, yes! the doctor!’ he said between his teeth.
‘Oh! yes, the doctor,’ Louis XI went on, strangely goodhumoured, ‘the doctor enjoys even more credit than you. It’s perfectly simple. He has a hold on our entire body, and you hold us only by the chin. Come, my poor barber, things will even out. What would you say then, and what would become of your office, if I were a king like King Chilperic, whose habit it was to hold his beard in his hand? Come along, compère, see to your duties, shave me. Go and fetch what you need.’
Olivier, seeing that the King had decided to treat everything as a joke, and there was no way even to make him lose his temper, went out grumbling to carry out his orders.
The King stood up, went over to the window, and suddenly opened it in extraordinary agitation: ‘Oh! yes!’ he cried, clapping his hands, ‘there’s a red glow in the sky over the Cité. It’s the bailiff burning. It can’t be anything else. Ah! my good people! So you’re helping me at last to bring down the lordships!’
Then, turning to the Flemings: ‘Messieurs, come and look at this. Isn’t that a fire glowing?’
The two men from Ghent came up.
‘A great fire,’ said Guillaume Rym.
‘Oh!’ Coppenole added, ‘that reminds me of when the lord of Hymbercourt’s house was burned down. It must be a really big revolt over there.’
‘Do you think so, Maître Coppenole?’ And Louis XI looked almost as delighted as the hosier. ‘It will be hard to resist it, will it not?’
‘By the Rood sire! Your Majesty would get quite a few companies of soldiers mauled doing it!’
‘Ah! I would! That’s different,’ replied the King. ‘If I wanted …’
The hosier boldly answered: ‘If this revolt is what I assume, you would want in vain, sire.’
‘Compère,’ said Louis XI, ‘two companies of my men-at-arms and a volley from the serpentines would make short work of a mob of the common people.’
The hosier, despite the signals that Guillaume Rym was sending him, appeared determined to stand up to the King.
‘Sire, the Swiss were commoners too. Monsieur the Duke of Burgundy was a great noble, and he despised such rabble. At the battle of Grandson,* sire, he cried: “Gunners! fire on those knaves!” and swore by Saint George. But the avoyer Scharnachtal* rushed on the fine duke with his club and his people, and when they clashed with these peasants in their buffalo skins, the shining Burgundian army shattered like a pane of glass hit by a stone. A good many knights were killed there by knaves; and Monsieur de Château-Guyon, the greatest lord in Burgundy, was found dead with his great grey horse in a little marshy field.’
‘My friend,’ the King retorted, ‘you are speaking of a battle. Here it is an insurrection. And I can put an end to it whenever I choose to put on a frown.’
The other replied with indifference: ‘That may be so, sire. In that case it is because the people’s hour has not come.’
Guillaume Rym thought he should intervene: ‘Maître Coppenole, you are talking to a mighty king.’
‘I know,’ the hosier answered gravely.
‘Let him have his say, Monsieur Rym, my friend,’ said the King. ‘I like such plain speaking. My father Charles VII used to say that truth was ailing. For my part, I used to think that truth was dead, and had not found a confessor. Maître Coppenole is putting me right.’
Then, laying his hand familiarly on Coppenole’s shoulder: ‘You were saying then, Maître Jacques?’
‘I say, sire, that you may be right, that the hour of the people has not yet come in your kingdom.’
Louis XI gave him a penetrating look. ‘And when will that hour come, Maître?’
‘You’ll hear it strike.’
‘From which clock, if you please?’
Coppenole, with his calm, homely composure, brought the King over to the window. ‘Listen, sire! Here we have a keep, a tower with an alarm bell, cannon, citizens, soldiers. When the alarm bell booms, when the cannons roar, when the keep tumbles down with a great crash, when citizens and soldiers yell and kill each other, that will be the hour striking.’
Louis’s face became sombre and thoughtful. He remained silent for a moment. Then he gently patted the thick wall of the keep, like someone stroking a charger’s crupper. ‘Oh! no!’ he said. ‘You won’t tumble down so easily, will you, my good Bastille?’*
And turning with an abrupt gesture to the bold Fleming: ‘Have you ever seen a revolt, Maître Jacques?’
‘I have made them,’ said the hosier.
‘How,’ said the King, ‘do you go about making a revolt?’
‘Ah!’ Coppenole answered; ‘it’s not very difficult. There are lots of ways. First of all people in the town must be dissatisfied. That’s nothing unusual. And then there’s the character of the inhabitants. Those of Ghent are easily brought to revolt. They always like the prince’s son, never the prince. Very well! One morning, let us suppose, someone comes into my shop and says: “The Lady of Flanders wants to save her ministers, the high bailiff is doubling the tax on vegetables, or something. Whatever you like. I stop work, go out of my hosier’s shop into the street, and shout “Pillage!” There’s always some broken cask lying around. I get up on it, and say out loud the first thing that occurs to me, what I have at heart; and when you’re one of the people, sire, you’ve always got something at heart. Then they gather together, shout, the tocsin is sounded, the people get arms by disarming the soldiers, the folk from the market join in, and you’re off! And it will always be like that, so long as there are lords in the lordships, townsfolk in the towns, and country folk in the country.’
‘And whom do you rebel against like that?’ asked the king. ‘Against your bailiffs? Against your lords?’
‘Sometimes, It all depends. Against the duke too, sometimes.’
Louis XI went back to his seat, and said with a smile: ‘Ah! here they’ve only got as far as bailiffs!’
At that moment Olivier le Daim came back. He was followed by two pages carrying the King’s toilet articles and clothes; but what struck Louis XI was the fact that he was also accompanied by the Provost of Paris and the captain of the watch, who appeared quite dismayed. The resentful barber too wore a look of dismay, but with underlying satisfaction. He it was who spoke up: ‘Sire, I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for the calamitous news I bring.’
The King turned round so sharply that he scraped the floor matting with the legs of his chair. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Sire,’ continued Olivier le Daim with the malicious expression of a man delighted at having to strike a violent blow, ‘it is not at the bailiff of the Palais that this popular uprising is directed.’
‘At w
hom then?’
‘At you, sire.’
The old king stood up, straight and upright as a young man. ‘Explain yourself, Olivier! explain yourself! And keep a good hold on your head, my compère, for I swear to you by the cross of Saint-Lô* that if you lie to us now, the sword which cut off Monsieur de Luxembourg’s head is not so chipped that it can’t saw yours off as well!’
