The Hunchback of Notre Dame (57 page)

As he felt the king’s pulse, Coictier assumed a look of more and more alarm. Louis XI watched him with some anxiety. Coictier’s face darkened visibly. The king’s feeble health was the worthy man’s only source of income, and he made the most of it.

“Oh, oh!” he muttered at last. “This is serious enough.”

“Is it not?” said the frightened king.

“Pulsus creber, anhelans, crepitans, irregularis
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added the physician.

“By the Rood!”

“This might take a man off in less than three days.”

“By‘r Lady!” cried the king. “And the remedy, good compère?”

“I must reflect, Sire.”

He examined the king’s tongue, shook his head, made a wry face, and in the midst of these affectations said suddenly,—

“Zounds, Sire, I must tell you that there is a receivership of episcopal revenues vacant, and that I have a nephew.”

“I give my receivership to your nephew, Compere Jacques,” replied the king; “but cool this fire in my breast.”

“Since your Majesty is so graciously inclined,” rejoined the doctor, “you will not refuse me a little help towards building my house in the Rue Saint-André des Arcs.”

“Hey!” said the king.

“I have come to the end of my means,” continued the doctor, “and it would really be a pity that my house should have no roof; not for the sake of the house, which is very plain and ordinary, but for the paintings by Jehan Fourbault, which enliven the walls. There is a Diana flying in the air, so excellently done, so delicate, so dainty, so natural in action, the head so nicely coifed and crowned with a crescent, the flesh so white, that she leads into temptation all those who study her too curiously. There is also a Ceres. She, too, is a very lovely divinity. She is seated upon sheaves of grain, and crowned with a gay garland of wheat-ears intertwined with purple goat‘s-beard and other flowers. Nothing was ever seen more amorous than her eyes, rounder than her legs, nobler than her mien or more graceful than her draperies. She is one of the most innocent and perfect beauties ever produced by mortal brush.”

“Wretch!” groaned Louis XI; “what are you driving at?”

“I must have a roof over these paintings, Sire; and although it will cost but a trifle, I have no more money.”

“How much will your roof cost?”

“Why, a roof of copper, embellished and gilded, two thousand pounds, at the utmost.”

“Ah, the assassin!” cried the king; “he never draws me a tooth that is not priceless.”

“Am I to have my roof?” said Coictier.

“Yes; and go to the devil! but cure me first.”

Jacques Coictier bowed low and said,—

“Sire, a repellant alone can save you. We will apply to your loins the great specific, composed of cerate, Armenian bole, white of egg, vinegar, and oil. You will continue your tisane, and we will answer for your Majesty.”

A lighted candle attracts more than one moth. Master Olivier, seeing the king so liberally inclined, and thinking the moment opportune, advanced in his turn: “Sire!”

“What is it now?” said Louis XI.

“Sire, your Majesty knows that Master Simon Radin is dead?”

“Well?”

“He was King’s Councillor for the Treasury.”

“Well?”

“Sire, his post is vacant.”

As he said this, the haughty face of Master Olivier lost its arrogant look, and assumed a mean and groveling expression. This is the only change of which a courtier’s features are capable. The king looked him full in the face, and said dryly, “I understand.”

He added,—

“Master Olivier, Marshal Boucicaut once said, ‘There are no good gifts save those from the king, no good fishing save in the sea.’ I see that you are quite of his opinion. Now, hear this; we have an excellent memory. In ‘68, we made you groom of our chamber; in ’69, keeper of the castle of the Pont Saint-Cloud, at a salary of one hundred pounds Tours (you wished them to be Paris pounds); in November, ‘73, by letters given at Gergeole, we appointed you keeper of the woods at Vincennes, in place of Gilbert Acle, esquire; in ’75, warden of the forest of Rouvray-lez-Saint-Cloud, in the place of Jacques le Maire; in ‘78, we graciously settled upon you, by letters-patent sealed with green wax, a rental of ten Paris pounds, for yourself and your wife, to be derived from the Place-aux-Marchands, situated in the Saint-Germain School; in ’79, warden of the forest of Senart, in place of that poor Jehan Daiz; then, captain of the Château de Loches; then, governor of Saint-Quentin; then, captain of the Pont de Meulan, of which you style yourself count; of the five pence fine paid by every barber who shall shave a customer upon a holiday, three pence go to you, and we take the remainder. We were pleased to change your name of Le Mauvais,
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which too strongly resembled your face. In ‘74, we granted you, to the great displeasure of our nobles, armorial bearings of countless hues, which make your breast shimmer like that of a peacock. By the Rood! are you not sated yet? Is not the draught of fishes fine enough, and miraculous enough; and do you not fear lest another salmon should sink your boat? Pride will be your ruin, my friend. Pride is always hard pressed by ruin and shame. Consider this, and be silent.”

These words, uttered in a severe tone, restored its former insolence to Master Olivier’s face.

“Good!” he muttered almost audibly; “it is plain that the king is ailing today; he gives the doctor everything.”

Louis XI, far from being irritated by this offense, replied with much gentleness. “Stay; I forgot that I had also made you my ambassador to Mistress Marie at Ghent. Yes, gentlemen,” added the king, turning to the Flemings, “this fellow has been an ambassador. There, my compère,” he continued, addressing Master Olivier, “let us not quarrel; we are old friends. It is very late; we have finished our work. Shave me.”

Our readers have doubtless ere now recognized in Master Olivier the terrible Figaro whom Providence, the greatest of all dramatists, so artistically added to the long and bloody comedy of Louis XI’s reign. This is not the place for us to attempt any portrait of this strange figure. The royal barber went by three names. At court he was politely termed Olivier Ie Daim; by the people, Olivier le Diable: his real name was Olivier le Mauvais.

Olivier le Mauvais, then, stood motionless, casting sulky glances at the king, and scowling at Jacques Coictier.

“Yes, yes; the doctor!” he muttered.

“Well, yes, the doctor!” rejoined Louis XI, with rare good-nature; “the doctor has more influence than you. That is natural enough; he has a hold upon our whole body, while you only take us by the chin. There, my poor barber, cheer up. Why, what would you say, and what would become of your office, if I were such a king as King Chilpêric, whose favorite trick it was to pull his beard through his hand? Come, gossip, look to your work; shave me! Go, fetch the necessary tools.”

Olivier, seeing that the king was in a jesting mood, and that it was impossible to put him out of temper, left the room to obey his orders, grumbling as he went.

The king rose, stepped to the window, and suddenly opening it with strange agitation, clapped his hands, exclaiming,—

“Oh, yes, there is a red glow in the sky over the City! The provost is burning; it can be nothing else. Ah, my good people! ‘tis thus at last you help me to crush their lordships!”

Then turning to the Flemings: “Gentlemen, come and look. Is not that a fire which flares so high?”

The two men of Ghent approached.

“A great fire,” said Guillaume Rym.

“Oh,” added Coppenole, whose eyes flashed, “that reminds me of the burning of the lord of Hymbercourt’s house! There must be a fine riot yonder!”

“Do you think so, Master Coppenole?” And the face of Louis XI was almost as full of joy as that of the hosier. “’T will be hard to suppress it, eh?”

“By the Mass, Sire! your Majesty will make great gaps in many a company of troops in doing it.”

“Oh, I! that’s quite another thing,” rejoined the king. “If I chose—”

The hosier answered boldly,—

“If this rebellion be what I suppose, you may choose to no purpose, Sire.”

“Friend,” said Louis XI, “two companies of my ordnance and the discharge of a serpentine would win an easy victory over the groundlings.”

The hosier, in spite of the signs made to him by Guillaume Rym, seemed determined to oppose the king.

“Sire, the Swiss were groundlings too. My lord duke of Burgundy was a great gentleman, and he despised that vulgar mob. At the battle of Grandson he cried, ‘Gunners, fire upon those low-lived villains!’ and he swore by Saint George. But magistrate Schar nachtal fell upon the proud duke with his club and his people, and at the onslaught of the peasants with their bull-hides, the brilliant Burgundian army was broken like a pane of glass by a stone. Many knights were killed that day by base clowns; and my lord of Château-Guyon, the grandest noble in Burgundy, was found dead beside his great grey charger in a small marshy meadow.”

“Friend,” replied the king, “you talk of battles. This is only a mutiny; and I will quell it with a single frown whenever it pleases me.”

The other answered indifferently,—

“That may be, Sire. In that case it will merely be because the people’s hour has not yet come.”

Guillaume Rym felt obliged to interfere:—

“Master Coppenole, you are speaking to a powerful king.”

“I know it,” gravely answered the hosier.

“Let him talk, friend Rym,” said the king. “I like such frankness. My father, Charles VII, said that Truth was sick. I, for my part, thought she had died, without a confessor. Master Coppenole has undeceived me.”

Then, laying his hand familiarly upon Coppenole’s shoulder, he added,—

“You were saying, Master Jacques—”

“I was saying, Sire, that perhaps you were right,—that the people’s hour had not yet come in this land.”

Louis XI looked searchingly at him:—

“And when will that hour come, sirrah?”

“You will hear it strike.”

“By what o‘clock, pray?”

Coppenole, with his homely, peaceful face, drew the king to the window.

“Listen, Sire! Here you have a donjon, a bell-tower, cannon, burghers, soldiers. When the bell rings, when the cannon growl, when the donjon falls with a crash, when burghers and soldiers shout and slay one another, then the hour will strike.”

The king’s face became dark and thoughtful. For an instant he stood silent; then he gently patted the thick donjon wall, as he might have caressed the flank of his favorite horse.

“Oh, no!” he said; “you will not crumble so easily, will you, my good Bastille?”
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Then, turning with an abrupt gesture to the daring Fleming,—

“Did you ever see a revolt, Master Jacques?”

“I made one,” said the hosier.

“And how,” said the king, “do you set to work to make a revolt?”

“Ah!” replied Coppenole, “it is not very difficult. There are a hundred ways of doing it. In the first place, discontent must be rife in the town; that is not an uncommon occurrence. And then you must consider the character of the inhabitants. The men of Ghent are always ready to rebel; they always love the prince’s son, never the prince. Well, I will suppose that one morning somebody comes into my shop and says: Friend Coppenole, this thing or that thing has happened,—the Lady of Flanders is resolved to maintain the Cabinet; the high provost has doubled the tax on vegetables or something else; whatever you please. I drop my work on the spot; I leave my shop, and I run out into the street, crying, ‘Storm and sack!’ There is always some empty hogshead lying about. I mount upon it, and I proclaim aloud, in the first words that come to me; all that distresses me; and when you belong to the people, Sire, there is always something to distress you. Then there is a gathering of the clans; there are shouts; the alarm bell rings; the people disarm the troops and arm themselves; the market-men join in; and so it goes on. And it will always be so, so long as there are nobles in the seigniories, burghers in the towns, and peasants in the country.”

“And against whom do you rebel in this way?” asked the king. “Against your provosts; against your liege-lords?”

“Sometimes; that depends on circumstances. Against the duke, too, at times.”

Louis XI reseated himself, and said with a smile,—

“Ah! here they have got no farther than the provosts.”

At this instant Olivier le Daim returned. He was followed by two pages carrying various articles of the king’s toilet; 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 seemed dismayed. The spiteful barber also looked dismayed, but was inwardly pleased. He was the first to speak:—

“Sire, I crave your pardon for the disastrous news I bring!”

The king turned so quickly that he tore the matting on the floor with the legs of his chair.

“What do you mean?”

“Sire,” replied Olivier le Daim, with the malicious look of a man who rejoices to strike a severe blow, “this rising of the people is not directed against the Provost of the Palace.”

“And against whom, then?”

“Against you, Sire.”

The old king rose to his feet as erect as a young man.

“Explain yourself, Olivier! And look to your head, my friend; for I swear by the cross of Saint-Lô that if you lie to us at this hour, the same sword which cut off the head of my lord Luxembourg is not too dull to chop off yours!”

The oath was a tremendous one; Louis XI had never but twice in his life sworn by the cross of Saint-Lô.

Olivier opened his lips to answer.

“On your knees!” fiercely interrupted the king. “Tristan, watch this man!”

Olivier knelt, and said coldly,—

“Sire, a witch was condemned to death by your parliamentary court. She took refuge in Notre-Dame. The people desire to take her thence by force. The provost and the captain of the watch, who have just come from the scene of the insurrection, are here to contradict me if I speak not truly. The people are besieging Notre-Dame.”

“Indeed!” said the king in a low voice, pale and trembling with rage. “Notre-Dame! So they lay siege to my good mistress, Our Lady, in her own cathedral! Rise, Olivier; you are right. I give you Simon Radin’s office. You are right; it is I whom they attack. The witch is in the safe-keeping of the church; the church is in my safe-keeping; and I was foolish enough to believe that they were assault ing the provost. It is myself!”
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