The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [232]
So saying, the much distressed Gringoire kissed the king’s slippers, and Guillaume Rym whispered to Coppenole, “He does well to crawl upon the floor. Kings are like Jupiter of Crete,—they have no ears but in their feet.” And, regardless of the Cretan Jove, the hosier responded, with a grave smile, his eye fixed on Gringoire: “Oh, ‘tis well done! I fancy I hear Councillor Hugonet begging me for mercy.”
When Gringoire paused at last for lack of breath, he raised his head, trembling, to the king, who was scratching with his nail a spot on the knee of his breeches; then his Majesty drank from the goblet of tisane. He spoke not a word, however, and the silence tortured Gringoire. At last the king looked at him. “What a dreadful bawler!” said he. Then, turning towards Tristan l‘Hermite: “Bah! let him go!”
Gringoire fell backwards, overcome with joy.
“Scot-free!” grumbled Tristan. “Don’t your Majesty want me to cage him for a while?”
“Friend,” rejoined Louis XI, “do you think it is for such birds as these that we have cages made at an expense of three hundred and sixty-seven pounds eight pence three farthings? Let this wanton rascal depart incontinently, and dismiss him with a beating.”
“Oh,” cried Gringoire, “what a noble king!”
And for fear of a contrary order, he hastened towards the door, which Tristan opened for him with a very bad grace. The soldiers followed, driving him before them with sturdy blows, which Gringoire bore like the true Stoic philosopher that he was.
The king’s good humor, since the revolt against the Provost was announced to him, appeared in everything he did. This unusual clemency was no small proof of it. Tristan l‘Hermite, in his corner, wore the surly look of a dog who has seen a bone, but had none.
The king, meantime, merrily drummed the march of Pont-Audemer with his fingers on the arm of his chair. He was a dissembling prince, but more skilled in hiding his troubles than his joy. These outward manifestations of delight at any good news sometimes went to extraordinary lengths,—as on the death of Charles the Bold, when he vowed a silver balustrade to Saint-Martin of Tours; and on his accession to the throne, when he forgot to order his father’s obsequies.
“Ha, Sire!” suddenly exclaimed Jacques Coictier, “what has become of that sharp fit of illness for which your Majesty summoned me?”
“Oh,” said the king, “indeed, I suffer greatly, good compere. I have a ringing in my ears, and cruel pains in my chest.”
Coictier took the king’s hand, and began to feel his pulse with a knowing air.
“See, Coppenole,” said Rym in a low voice; “there he is, between Coictier and Tristan. They make up his entire court,—a doctor for himself, a hangman for the rest of the world!”
As he felt the king’s pulse, Coictier assumed a look of more and more alarm. Louis XI watched him with some anxiety. Coictier’s face darkened visibly. The king’s feeble health was the worthy man’s only source of income, and he made the most of it.
“Oh, oh!” he muttered at last. “This is serious enough.”
“Is it not?” said the frightened king.
“Pulsus creber, anhelans, crepitans, irregularis,”dw added the physician.
“By the Rood!”
“This might take a man off in less than three days.”
“By