The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [233]
“I must reflect, Sire.”
He examined the king’s tongue, shook his head, made a wry face, and in the midst of these affectations said suddenly,—
“Zounds, Sire, I must tell you that there is a receivership of episcopal revenues vacant, and that I have a nephew.”
“I give my receivership to your nephew, Compere Jacques,” replied the king; “but cool this fire in my breast.”
“Since your Majesty is so graciously inclined,” rejoined the doctor, “you will not refuse me a little help towards building my house in the Rue Saint-André des Arcs.”
“Hey!” said the king.
“I have come to the end of my means,” continued the doctor, “and it would really be a pity that my house should have no roof; not for the sake of the house, which is very plain and ordinary, but for the paintings by Jehan Fourbault, which enliven the walls. There is a Diana flying in the air, so excellently done, so delicate, so dainty, so natural in action, the head so nicely coifed and crowned with a crescent, the flesh so white, that she leads into temptation all those who study her too curiously. There is also a Ceres. She, too, is a very lovely divinity. She is seated upon sheaves of grain, and crowned with a gay garland of wheat-ears intertwined with purple goat‘s-beard and other flowers. Nothing was ever seen more amorous than her eyes, rounder than her legs, nobler than her mien or more graceful than her draperies. She is one of the most innocent and perfect beauties ever produced by mortal brush.”
“Wretch!” groaned Louis XI; “what are you driving at?”
“I must have a roof over these paintings, Sire; and although it will cost but a trifle, I have no more money.”
“How much will your roof cost?”
“Why, a roof of copper, embellished and gilded, two thousand pounds, at the utmost.”
“Ah, the assassin!” cried the king; “he never draws me a tooth that is not priceless.”
“Am I to have my roof?” said Coictier.
“Yes; and go to the devil! but cure me first.”
Jacques Coictier bowed low and said,—
“Sire, a repellant alone can save you. We will apply to your loins the great specific, composed of cerate, Armenian bole, white of egg, vinegar, and oil. You will continue your tisane, and we will answer for your Majesty.”
A lighted candle attracts more than one moth. Master Olivier, seeing the king so liberally inclined, and thinking the moment opportune, advanced in his turn: “Sire!”
“What is it now?” said Louis XI.
“Sire, your Majesty knows that Master Simon Radin is dead?”
“Well?”
“He was King’s Councillor for the Treasury.”
“Well?”
“Sire, his post is vacant.”
As he said this, the haughty face of Master Olivier lost its arrogant look, and assumed a mean and groveling expression. This is the only change of which a courtier’s features are capable. The king looked him full in the face, and said dryly, “I understand.”
He added,—
“Master Olivier, Marshal Boucicaut once said, ‘There are no good gifts save those from the king, no good fishing save in the sea.’ I see that you are quite of his opinion. Now, hear this; we have an excellent memory. In ‘68, we made you groom of our chamber; in ’69, keeper of the castle of the Pont Saint-Cloud, at a salary of one hundred pounds Tours (you wished them to be Paris pounds); in November, ‘73, by letters given at Gergeole, we appointed you keeper of the woods at Vincennes, in place of Gilbert Acle, esquire; in ’75, warden of the forest of Rouvray-lez-Saint-Cloud, in the place of Jacques le Maire; in ‘78, we graciously settled upon you, by letters-patent sealed with green wax, a rental of ten Paris pounds, for yourself and your wife, to be derived from the Place-aux-Marchands, situated in the Saint-Germain School; in ’79, warden of the forest of Senart, in place of that poor Jehan Daiz; then, captain of the Château de Loches; then, governor of Saint-Quentin; then, captain of the Pont de Meulan, of which you style yourself count; of the five pence fine paid by every barber who shall shave a customer upon a holiday, three pence go to you, and we take the remainder. We were