A voice answered from without: “Your friend, Jacques Coictier.” He at once opened the door.
It was indeed the king’s physician,—a person of some fifty years of age, whose harsh expression was only corrected by a crafty look. Another man was with him. Both wore long slate-colored robes furred with minever, belted and clasped, with caps of the same stuff and color. Their hands were hidden in their sleeves, their feet under their gowns, their eyes beneath their bonnets.
“God help me, gentlemen!” said the archdeacon, showing them in; “I did not expect so honorable a visit at such an hour.” And while speaking in this courteous fashion, he cast an anxious and searching glance from the physician to his companion.
“It is never too late to visit so distinguished a scholar as Dom Claude Frollo de Tirechappe,” replied Doctor Coictier, who being a native of Franche-Comté, drawled all his sentences until they dragged as majestically as the long train of a lady’s dress.
Then began between the doctor and the archdeacon one of those congratulatory prefaces with which it was at this period customary to precede every conversation between learned men, and which did not hinder them from hating each other most cordially. However, it is just so today: the lips of every learned man who compliments another scholar are like a cup of honeyed poison.
Claude Frollo’s congratulations to Jacques Coictier dwelt particularly on the numerous worldly advantages which that worthy physician in the course of his much-envied career had contrived to extract from every royal malady,—the result of a better and surer alchemy than the search for the philosopher’s stone.
“Truly, Doctor Coictier, I was delighted to hear of the promotion of your nephew, my reverend lord Pierre Versé. Has he not been made Bishop of Amiens?”
“Yes, archdeacon; by the favor and mercy of God.”
“Do you know that you cut a very fine figure on Christmas Day, at the head of your associates of the Court of Exchequer, Mr. President?”
“Vice-president, Dom Claude. Nothing more, alas!”
“How is your superb house in the Rue Saint-André des Arcs getting on? It’s another Louvre. I particularly admire the apricot-tree carved over the door, and the pleasing pun in the motto, ‘A L’Abri Cotier.”‘bs
“Alas! Master Claude, all that stone-work costs me dear. I am being ruined as fast as the house grows.”
“Pooh! Haven’t you your revenues from the jail and the palace bailiwick, and the rent of all the houses, butchers’ stalls, booths, and shops within the boundary wall? That’s a fine milch-cow for you.”
“My Poissy castellany brought me in nothing this year.”
“But your toll-gates at Triel, Saint-James, and Saint-Germain-en-Laye are still good.”
“A hundred and twenty pounds, and not even Paris pounds at that.”
“But you have your place as Councillor to the King. That’s a permanent thing.”
“Yes, Brother Claude; but that confounded manor of Poligny, which people make such a talk about, doesn’t bring me in sixty crowns, take it one year with another.”
In the compliments paid to Jacques Coictier by Dom Claude there was the sarcastic, sour, slightly mocking tone, the cruel, acid smile of an unfortunate and superior person sporting for a moment, by way of amusement, with the fat prosperity of a vulgar fellow. The other did not observe this.
“By my soul,” said Claude at last, pressing his hand, “I am glad to see you in such robust health!”
“Thank you, Master Claude.”
“By the way,” cried Dom Claude, “how goes it with your royal patient?”
“He does not pay his doctor enough,” answered the physician, casting a side glance at his comrade.
“Do you think so, friend Coictier?” said his comrade.
These words, uttered in tones of surprise and reproach, drew the archdeacon’s attention to the stranger, although, to tell the truth, he had not been wholly unobservant of him for a single instant since he had crossed his threshold. Had there not been a thousand reasons for his conciliating Doctor Jacques Coictier, the all-powerful physician of King Louis XI, he would never have admitted him in such company. Therefore his expression was anything but cordial when Jacques Coictier said,— “By the way, Dom Claude, I bring you a brother worker, who was anxious to see you, being familiar with your fame.”
“A gentleman of science?” inquired the archdeacon, fixing his piercing eye upon Coictier’s companion. The stranger returned his gaze with an equally searching and defiant look.