by Victor Hugo
"Here's a mighty deal of iron," said the king, "to restrain the lightness of one mind!"
"... The whole amounts to three hundred and seventeen pounds five pence and seven farthings."
"By the Rood!" exclaimed the king.
At this oath, which was Louis XI's favorite imprecation, some one seemed to waken within the cage: chains rattled loudly against the wood-work, and a faint voice, which appeared to issue from the tomb, cried: "Sire! Sire! Pardon!" But no one could see the person uttering these words.
"Three hundred and seventeen pounds five pence and seven farthings!" repeated Louis XI.
The piteous voice which issued from the cage had chilled the blood of all present, even that of Master Olivier himself. The king alone appeared as if he had not heard it. At his command Master Olivier resumed his reading, and his Majesty calmly continued his inspection of the cage.
"Moreover, there has been paid to a mason who made the holes to receive the window-bars, and the floor of the room in which the cage stands, forasmuch as the floor could not have borne this cage by reason of its weight, twenty-seven pounds and fourteen Paris pence--"
The voice again began its moan:--
"Mercy, Sire! I swear that it was my lord Cardinal of Angers, and not I, who plotted the treason."
"The mason charges well!" said the king. "Go on, Olivier!"
Olivier continued:--
"To a joiner, for window-frames, bedstead, close stool, and other items, twenty pounds two Paris pence--"
The voice continued likewise:--
"Alas! Sire! will you not hear me? I protest that it was not I who wrote that thing to my lord of Guyenne, but his highness Cardinal Balue!"
"The joiner is dear," observed the king. "Is that all?"
"No, Sire. To a glazier, for the window-panes in said chamber, forty-six pence eight Paris farthings."
"Have mercy, Sire! Is it not enough that all my worldly goods were given to my judges, my silver plate to M. de Torcy, my books to Master Pierre Doriolle, my tapestries to the Governor of Roussil lon? I am innocent. For fourteen years I have shivered in an iron cage. Have mercy, Sire! You will find your reward in heaven."
"Master Olivier," said the king, "what is the sum total?"
"Three hundred and sixty-seven pounds eight pence three Paris farthings."
"By'r Lady!" cried the king. "What an extravagant cage!"
He snatched the scroll from Master Olivier's hands, and began to reckon up the items himself upon his fingers, looking by turns at the paper and the cage. Meantime, the prisoner's sobs were plainly to be heard. It was a doleful sound in the darkness, and the by-standers paled as they gazed into one another's faces.
"Fourteen years, Sire! full fourteen years! ever since the month of April, 1469. In the name of the Blessed Mother of God, Sire, hear me! You have enjoyed the warmth of the sun all these years. Shall I, poor wretch, never again behold the light of day? Pity me, Sire! Be merciful. Clemency is a goodly and a royal virtue, which turns aside the stream of wrath. Does your Majesty believe that it will greatly content a king in the hour of his death, to reflect that he has never let any offence go unpunished? Moreover, Sire, I never did betray your Majesty; it was my lord of Angers. And I wear about my leg a very heavy chain, and a great ball of iron at the end of it, far heavier than is reasonable. Ah, Sire, have pity upon me!"
"Olivier," said the king, shaking his head, "I observe that these fellows charge me twenty pence the hogshead for plaster, which is worth only twelve. Have this account corrected."
He turned his back on the cage, and prepared to leave the room. The miserable prisoner guessed by the receding torches and noise that the king was departing.
"Sire! Sire!" he cried in tones of despair.
The door closed. He saw nothing more, he heard nothing save the harsh voice of the jailor singing in his ears the song:--
"Master Jean Balue,
Has quite lost view
Of his bishoprics cherished.
My lord of Verdun
Has not a single one;
Every one hath perished."
The king silently reascended to his retreat, and his train followed him, terrified by the prisoner's last groans. 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?"
"Zounds, Sire, yes!" replied the governor, lost in amaze at such a question.
"Who, then?"
"The Bishop of Verdun."
The king was better aware of this than any one else; but this was his way.
"Ah!" said he, with an innocent semblance of thinking of it for the first time, "Guillaume de Harancourt, the friend of Cardinal Balue,--a merry devil of a bishop!"
A few moments later the door of the retreat was reopened, then closed again upon the five persons whom we saw there at the beginning of this chapter, and who resumed their places, their low-voiced conversation, and their former attitudes.
During the king's absence a number of dispatches had been laid on the table, and he now broke the seals. Then he rapidly read them one after the other, motioned to Master Olivier, who seemed to perform the office of his minister, to take a pen, and without imparting the contents of the dispatches to him, began to dictate answers in an undertone, the latter writing them down, kneeling uncomfortably at the table.
Guillaume Rym watched him.
The king spoke so low that the Flemings caught but a few detached and scarcely intelligible fragments, such as:--
"... keep up fertile places by commerce and sterile ones by manufacturers. Show the English lords our four bombards, the London, Brabant, Bourg-en-Bresse, and Saint-Omer.... Artillery occasions war to be more wisely waged at the present time.... To Monsieur de Bressuire, our friend.... Armies cannot be maintained without tribute," etc.
Once he raised his voice:--
"By the Rood! the King of Sicily seals his letters with yellow wax, like a king of France. We may be wrong to allow him this privilege. My fair cousin of Burgundy gave no armorial bearings upon a field gules. The greatness of a house is ensured by holding its prerogatives intact. Note that, gossip Olivier."
Again:--
"Oho!" said he, "an important message this! What would our brother the emperor have?" And running his eye over the missive, he interrupted his reading with constant exclamations: "Surely the Germans are so great and powerful that 't is scarcely credible. But we are not unmindful of the old proverb: The finest county is Flanders; the fairest duchy, Milan; the most beauteous kingdom, France. Is it not so, Sir Flemings?"
This time Coppenole bowed with Guillaume Rym. The hosier's patriotism was tickled.
The last dispatch made Louis XI frown.
"What's this?" he exclaimed. "Complaints and requisitions against our garrisons in Picardy! Olivier, write with speed to Marshal de Rouault: That discipline is relaxed. That the men-at-arms of the ordnance, the nobles of the ban, the free-archers, and the Swiss guards do infinite injury to the peasants. That the soldiers, not content with the goods which they find in the houses of the tillers of the soil, constrain them, by heavy blows of bludgeons and sticks, to seek throughout the town for wine, fish, spices, and other articles of luxury. That the king is well aware of all this. That we intend to preserve our people from all unseemly acts, larceny, and pillage. That this is our sovereign will, by Our Lady! That, moreover, it likes us not that any minstrel, barber, or serving man at arms should go arrayed like a prince, in velvet, silken cloth, and rings of gold. That these vanities are hateful in the sight of God. That we content ourselves--we who are a gentleman of high degree--with one cloth doublet at sixteen pence the Paris ell. That soldiers' servants may well come down to that also. We command and order these things. To Monsieur de Rouault, our friend. Good!"
He dictated this letter in a loud voice, in a firm tone, and by fits and starts. Just as he ended it, the door opened and admitted a new personage, who rushed into the room in extreme alarm, shouting,--
> "Sire! Sire! the people of Paris have risen in revolt!"
The grave face of Louis XI was convulsed; but every visible sign of emotion passed away like a flash of lightning. He restrained himself, and said with calm severity,--
"Compere Jacques, you enter somewhat abruptly!"
"Sire! Sire! there is a revolt!" replied the breathless Jacques.
The king, who had risen, took him roughly by the arm, and whispered in his ear in a manner 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 to tell him in a low voice a very incoherent tale, to which the king listened with perfect composure, while Guillaume Rym drew Coppenole's attention to the new-comer's face and dress, his furred hood (caputia fourrata), his short cloak (epitogia curta), and his black velvet gown, which bespoke a president of the Court of Accounts.
This person had no sooner given the king a few details, than Louis XI cried with a burst of laughter,--
"Indeed! Speak up boldly, Compere Coictier! Why do you talk so low? Our Lady knows that we hide nothing from our good Flemish friends."
"But, Sire--"
"Speak up boldly!"
Compere Coictier was dumb with surprise.
"So," resumed the king,--"speak, sir,--there is a commotion among the common people in our good city of Paris?"
"Yes, Sire."
"And it is directed, you say, against the Provost of the Palace of Justice?"
"It looks that way," said the compere, who still stammered and hesitated, utterly astounded by the sudden and inexplicable change which had been wrought in the king's sentiments.
Louis XI added: "Where did the watch encounter the mob?"
"Moving from the chief haunt of the beggars and vagrants towards the Pont-aux-Changeurs. I met them myself on my way hither to execute your Majesty's orders. I heard certain of the number shouting, 'Down with the Provost of the Palace!'"
"And what is their grievance against the provost?"
"Ah!" said Jacques, "that he is their lord."
"Really!"
"Yes, Sire. They are rascals from the Court of Miracles. They have long complained of the provost, whose vassals they are. They refuse to recognize him either as justiciary or road-surveyor."
"Ay, say you so!" returned the king, with a smile of satisfaction which he vainly strove to disguise.
"In all their petitions to Parliament," added Jacques, "they claim that they have but two masters,--your Majesty and their God, who is, I believe, the devil."
"Hah!" said the king.
He rubbed his hands; he laughed that inward laugh which makes the face radiant; he could not disguise his joy, although he tried at times to compose himself. No one understood his mood, not even Master Olivier. He was silent for a moment, with a pensive but contented air.
"Are they strong in numbers?" he asked suddenly.
"Indeed they are, Sire," replied Compere Jacques.
"How many?"
"At least six thousand."
The king could not help exclaiming, "Good!" He added, "Are they armed?"
"With scythes, pikes, hackbuts, mattocks, and all sorts of danger ous weapons.
The king seemed by no means alarmed at this account. Compere Jacques felt obliged to add,--
"If your Majesty send not promptly to the provost's aid, he is lost."
"We will send," said the king, with an assumed expression of seriousness. "It is well. Certainly we will send. The provost is our friend. Six thousand! They are determined knaves. Their boldness is marvelous, and we are greatly wroth at it; but we have few people about us tonight. It will be time enough in the morning."
Compere Jacques exclaimed, "Straightway, Sire! The provost's house may be sacked twenty times over, the seigniory profaned, and the provost hanged, by then. For the love of God, Sire, send before tomorrow morning!"
The king looked him in the face. "I said tomorrow." It was one of those looks which admit of no reply. After a pause, Louis XI again raised his voice. "Compere Jacques, you must know--What was--" He corrected himself. "What is the Provost's feudal jurisdiction?"
"Sire, the Provost of the Palace has jurisdiction from the Rue de la Calandre to the Rue de l'Herberie, the Place Saint-Michel, and the places commonly called the Mureaux, situated near the church of Notre-Dame des Champs [here the king lifted the brim of his hat], which residences are thirteen in number; besides the Court of Miracles, the lazaretto known as the Banlieue, and all the highway beginning at this lazar-house and ending at the Porte Saint-Jacques. Of these divers places he is road-surveyor, high, low, and middle justiciary, and lord paramount."
"Hey-day!" said the king, scratching his left ear with his right hand; "that is a goodly slice of my city. And so the provost was king of all that?"
This time he did not correct himself. He continued to muse, and as if speaking to himself, said,--
"Have a care, Sir Provost! You had a very pretty piece of our Paris in your grasp. "
All at once he burst forth. "By the Rood! Who are all these people who claim to be commissioners of highways, justiciaries, lords, and masters in our midst; who have their toll-gate in every bit of field, their gibbet and their hangman at every cross-road among our people, in such fashion that, as the Greek believed in as many gods as there were fountains, and the Persian in as many as he saw stars, the Frenchman now counts as many kings as he sees gallows? By the Lord! this thing is evil, and the confusion likes me not. I would fain know whether it be by the grace of God that there are other inspectors of highways in Paris than the king, other justice than that administered by our Parliament, and other emperor than ourselves in this realm! By the faith of my soul! the day must come when France shall know but one king, one lord, one judge, one heads-man, even as there is but one God in paradise!"
He again raised his cap, and went on, still meditating, with the look and tone of a hunter loosing and urging on his pack of dogs: "Good! my people! bravely done! destroy these false lords! do your work. At them, boys! at them! Plunder them, capture them, strip them! Ah, you would fain be kings, gentlemen? On, my people, on!"
Here he stopped abruptly, bit his lip, as if to recall a thought which had half escaped him, bent his piercing eye in turn upon each of the five persons who stood around him, and all at once, seizing his hat in both hands, and staring steadily at it, he thus addressed it: "Oh, I would burn you if you knew my secret thoughts!"
Then again casting about him the attentive, anxious glance of a fox returning by stealth to his earth, he added,--
"It matters not; we will succor the provost. Unfortunately, we have but few troops here to send forth at this moment against so large a populace. We must needs wait until tomorrow. Order shall be restored in the City, and all who are taken shall be strung up on the spot."
"By-the-bye, Sire!" said Compere Coictier, "I forgot it in my first dismay,--the watch has caught two stragglers of the band. If it please your Majesty to see these men, they are here."
"If it please me to see them!" cried the king. "Now, by the Rood! do you forget such things! Run quickly, you, Olivier! go and fetch them."
Master Olivier went out, and returned a moment after with the two prisoners, surrounded by archers of the ordnance. The first had a fat, stupid face, with a drunken and astonished stare. He was dressed in rags, and bent his knee and dragged his foot as he walked. The second was a pale, smiling fellow, whom the reader already knows.
The king studied them for an instant without speaking, then abruptly addressed the first:--
"Your name?"
"Gieffroy Pincebourde."
"Your business?"
"A Vagabond."
"What part did you mean to play in this damnable revolt?"
The Vagabond looked at the king, swinging his arms with a dull look. His was one of those misshapen heads, where the understanding flourishes as ill as the flame beneath an extinguisher.
&nb
sp; "I don't know," he said. "The others went, so I went too."
"Did you not intend outrageously to attack and plunder your lord the Provost of the Palace?"
"I know that they were going to take something from some one. That's all I know."
A soldier showed the king a pruning-hook, which had been found upon the fellow.
"Do you recognize this weapon?" asked the king.
"Yes, it is my pruning-hook; I am a vine-dresser."
"And do you acknowledge this man as your companion?" added Louis XI, pointing to the other prisoner.
"No. I do not know him."
"Enough," said the king. And beckoning to the silent, motionless person at the door, whom we have already pointed out to our readers: --
"Friend 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 Vagrant.
Meantime, the king approached the second prisoner, who was in a profuse perspiration. "Your name?"
"Sire, Pierre Gringoire."
"Your trade?"
"A philosopher, Sire!"
"How dared you, varlet, go and beset our friend the Provost of the Palace, and what have you to say about this uprising of the people?"
"Sire, I had naught to do with it."
"Come, come, rascal! were you not taken by the watch in this evil company?"
"No, Sire; there is a mistake. It was an accident. I write tragedies. Sire, I entreat your Majesty to hear me. I am a poet. It is the melancholy whim of people of my profession to roam the streets after dark. I passed this way tonight. It was a mere chance. I was wrongfully arrested; I am innocent of this civil storm. Your Majesty sees that the Vagabond did not recognize me. I conjure your Majesty--"
"Silence!" said the king, betwixt two gulps of his tisane. "You stun me."
Tristan l'Hermite stepped forward, and pointing at Gringoire, said,--
"Sire, may we hang this one too?"
It was the first time that he had spoken.
"Pooh!" negligently answered the king. "I see no reason to the contrary."
"But I see a great many!" said Gringoire.
