“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-L? 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-L?.
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!”19
Then, made young by fury, he began to pace the floor with hasty strides. He laughed no longer; he was terrible to behold; he came and went; the fox was turned to a hy?na. He seemed to have lost all power of speech; his lips moved, and his fleshless hands were clinched. All at once he raised his head, his hollow eye seemed filled with light, and his voice flashed forth like a clarion:— “Do your work well, Tristan! Do your work well with these scoundrels! Go, Tristan my friend; kill! kill!”
This outburst over, he sat down again, and said with cold and concentrated wrath,— “Here, Tristan! There are with us in this Bastille Viscount de Cifs fifty lances, making three hundred horse: take them. There is also M. de Chateaupers’ company of archers of our ordnance: take them. You are provost-marshal; you have your own men: take them. At the Hotel Saint-Pol you will find forty archers of the Dauphin’s new guard: take them. And with all these soldiers you will hasten to Notre-Dame. Ah, you commoners of Paris, so you would attack the Crown of France, the sanctity of Notre-Dame, and the peace of this republic! Exterminate them, Tristan! exterminate them! and let not one escape but for Montfaucon.”
Tristan bowed. “It is well, Sire.”
After a pause he added, “And what shall I do with the witch?”
This question gave the king food for thought.
“Ah,” said he, “the witch! D‘Estouteville, what was the people’s pleasure in regard to her?”
“Sire,” replied the provost of Paris, “I fancy that as the people desire to wrest her from her shelter in Notre-Dame, it is her lack of punishment that offends them, and they propose to hang her.”
The king seemed to muse deeply; then, addressing Tristan l‘Hermite: “Very well, compere; exterminate the people, and hang the witch!”
“That’s it,” whispered Rym to Coppenole, “punish the people for their purpose, and then fulfil that purpose.”
“It is well, Sire,” answered Tristan. “If the witch be still in Notre-Dame, shall we disregard the sanctuary, and take her thence?”