Some distance behind them, two men clad in Flemish fashion chatted together in low tones. They were not so entirely in the shadow but that any one who had been present at the performance of Gringoire’s play could recognize them as two of the chief Flemish envoys, Guillaume Rym, the wise pensionary of Ghent, and Jacques Coppenole, the popular hosier. It will be remembered that these two men were connected with Louis XI’s secret policy.
Lastly, at the farther end of the room, near the door, stood in the gloom, motionless as a statue, a sturdy man with thickset limbs, in military trappings, his doublet embroidered with armorial bearings, whose square face, with its goggle eyes, immense mouth, and ears hidden under two broad pent-houses of straight, lank hair, partook at once of the character of the dog and the tiger.
All were uncovered save the king.
The gentleman nearest to the king was reading a lengthy document, to which his Majesty seemed listening most attentively. The two Flemings whispered together.
“Zounds!” grumbled Coppenole, “I am weary with standing; is there no chair here?”
Rym replied by a shake of the head, accompanied by a prudent smile.
“Zounds!” resumed Coppenole, utterly miserable at being obliged to lower his voice; “I long to sit down on the floor with my legs crossed, in true hosier style, as I do in my own shop at home.”
“Beware how you do so, Master Jacques.”
“Bless me! Master Guillaume! must we be on our feet forever here?”
“Or on our knees,” said Rym.
At this moment the king spoke. They were silent.
“Fifty pence for the coats of our lackeys, and twelve pounds for the cloaks of the clerks of our crown. That’s it! Pour out gold by the ton! Are you mad, Olivier?”
So saying, the old man lifted his head. The golden shells of the collar of Saint Michel glistened about his neck. The light of the candle fell full upon his thin, peevish profile. He snatched the paper from his companion’s hands.
“You will ruin us!” he cried, running his hollow eye over the scroll. “What is all this? What need have we for so vast an establishment? Two chaplains at ten pounds a month each, and an assistant at one hundred pence! A valet at ninety pounds a year! Four head cooks at six-score pounds a year each; a roaster, a soup-maker, a sauce-maker, an under cook, a keeper of the stores, two stewards’ assistants, at ten pounds a month each! Two scullions at eight pounds! A groom and his two helpers at twenty-four pounds a month! A porter, a pastry-cook, a baker, two wagoners, each sixty pounds a year! And the farrier, six-score pounds! And the master of our exchequer chamber, twelve hundred pounds! And the comptroller five hundred! And I know not how many more! ‘Tis sheer madness! Our servants’ wages plunder France! All the treasures of the Louvre will melt away before such a wasting fire of expense! We will sell our plate! And next year, if God and Our Lady [here he raised his hat] grant us life, we will take our tisanes from a pewter pot!”
With these words he cast a glance at the silver goblet which sparkled on the table. He coughed, and continued,— “Master Olivier, princes who reign over great domains, such as kings and emperors, should never suffer extravagant living in their houses; for thence the fire spreads to the provinces. Therefore, Master Olivier, forget this not. Our expenses increase yearly. The thing displeases us. What, by the Rood! until ‘79 they never exceeded thirty-six thousand pounds; in ’80 they amounted to forty-three thousand six hundred and nineteen pounds,—I have the figures in my head; in ‘81 they were sixty-six thousand six hundred and eighty pounds; and this year, by my faith! they will come to eighty thousand pounds! Doubled in four years! monstrous!”
He paused for lack of breath; then he went on angrily,— “I see around me none but people fattening on my leanness! You suck crowns from me at every pore!”
All were silent. His rage must be allowed free vent. He continued: — “It is like that petition in Latin from the nobles of France, that we would re-establish what they call the charges on the crown! Charges, indeed! crushing charges! Ah, gentlemen! you say that we are not a king to reign dapifero nullo,dv buticulario nullo! We will show you, by the Rood! whether we be a king or no!”
Here he smiled with a sense of his power; his bad humor moderated, and he turned towards the Flemings: “Mark you, gossip Guillaume, the head baker, the chief cellarer, the lord chamberlain, the lord seneschal, are not worth so much as the meanest lackey; remember that, gossip Coppenole. They are good for nothing. As they thus hang uselessly around the king, they remind me of the four Evangelists about the dial of the great clock on the Palace, which Philippe Brille has just done up as good as new. They are gilded over, but they do not mark the hour, and the hands go on as well without them.”