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.”