Still, he turned to the door with the best grace in the world （so well had he trained himself） when the usher announced in ringing tones, “The envoys from the Duke of Austria!” Needless to say, the entire audience did the same.
Then entered, two by two, with a gravity in vivid contrast to the lively ecclesiastical escort of the Cardinal, the forty-eight ambassadors of Maximilian of Austria, headed by the reverend father in God, Jehan, Abbot of Saint-Bertin, Chancellor of the Golden Fleece, and Jacques de Goy, Lord of Dauby, high bailiff of Ghent. A profound silence fell upon the assembly, followed by stifled laughter at all the absurd names and all the commonplace titles which each of these personages calmly transmitted to the usher, who instantly hurled names and titles pell-mell, and horribly mangled, at the heads of the crowd. There were Master Loys Roelof, alderman of the city of Louvain; Master Clays d‘Etuelde, alderman of Brussels; Master Paul de Baeurst, Lord of Voirmizelle, president of Flanders; Master Jehan Coleghens, burgomaster of the city of Antwerp; Master George de la Moere, head sheriff of the Court of Law of the town of Ghent; Master Gheldolf van der Hage, head sheriff of the court of equity of the same town; and the Lord of Bier becque, and Jehan Pinnock, and Jehan Dymaerzelle, etc., etc., etc.: bailiffs, aldermen, burgomasters; burgomasters, aldermen, bailiffs; all stiff, starched, and strait-laced, dressed in their Sunday best of velvet and damask, wearing flat black velvet caps on their heads, with large tassels of gold thread from Cyprus; honest Flemish figures after all, severe and dignified faces, of the race of those whom Rembrandt portrayed so gravely and forcibly against the dark background of his “Night Watch,”—personages every one of whom bore it written upon his brow that Maximilian of Austria was right in “confiding fully,” as his proclamation had it, “in their good sense, valor, experience, loyalty, and good qualities.”
But there was one exception. This was a man with a cunning, intelligent, crafty face, the face of a monkey combined with that of a diplomatist, to meet whom the Cardinal stepped forward three paces, bowing low, and yet who bore a name no more high sounding than “Guillaume Rym, councillor and pensionary of the town of Ghent.”
Few persons there knew what Guillaume Rym was,—a rare genius, who in time of revolution would have appeared with renown in the foremost rank, but who in the fifteenth century was reduced to the lowest intrigues, and to “living by sapping and mining,” as the Duke of St. Simon expresses it. However, he was appreciated by the greatest “sapper” in Europe; he planned and plotted with Louis XI on familiar terms, and often laid his hand on the king’s secret necessities.
All these things were utterly unknown to this throng, who marvelled at the politeness shown by the Cardinal to this scurvy Flemish bailiff.
CHAPTER IV
Master Jacques Coppenole
As the pensionary of Ghent and his Eminence were exchanging very low bows, and a few words in still lower voices, a tall, broad-faced, square-shouldered man entered boldly after Guillaume Rym; he reminded one of a dog in pursuit of a fox. His felt hat and leather jerkin looked very shabby in the midst of the velvet and silk which surrounded him. Supposing him to be some groom who had lost his way, the usher stopped him.
“Hey, my friend! there’s no passing here.”
The man in the leather coat shouldered him aside.
“What does the fellow mean?” he said in a tone which made the entire hall aware of this strange colloquy. “Don’t you see that I belong to the party?”
“Your name?” asked the usher.
“Jacques Coppenole.”
“Your titles?”
“Hosier at the sign of the Three Little Chains, at Ghent.”
The usher started back. It was bad enough to have to announce aldermen and burgomasters; but a hosier, that was hard indeed! The Cardinal was on thorns. Every one was looking and listening. For two days his Eminence had been laboring to lick these Flemish bears into some presentable shape, and this outburst was hard upon him. However, Guillaume Rym, with his crafty smile, leaned towards the usher.
“Announce Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk to the aldermen of the town of Ghent,” he whispered softly.
“Usher,” added the Cardinal in a loud voice, “announce Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk to the aldermen of the illustrious town of Ghent.”
This was a mistake. Guillaume Rym, if left to himself, would have evaded the difficulty; but Coppenole had overheard the Cardinal.
“No, by God’s cross!” he cried in his voice of thunder. “Jacques Coppenole, hosier. Do you hear me, usher? Nothing more, nothing less. By God’s cross! a hosier is good enough for me. The arch duke himself has more than once sought his glovet in my hose.”