The Hunchback of Notre Dame - Victor Hugo [234]
These words, uttered in a severe tone, restored its former insolence to Master Olivier’s face.
“Good!” he muttered almost audibly; “it is plain that the king is ailing today; he gives the doctor everything.”
Louis XI, far from being irritated by this offense, replied with much gentleness. “Stay; I forgot that I had also made you my ambassador to Mistress Marie at Ghent. Yes, gentlemen,” added the king, turning to the Flemings, “this fellow has been an ambassador. There, my compère,” he continued, addressing Master Olivier, “let us not quarrel; we are old friends. It is very late; we have finished our work. Shave me.”
Our readers have doubtless ere now recognized in Master Olivier the terrible Figaro whom Providence, the greatest of all dramatists, so artistically added to the long and bloody comedy of Louis XI’s reign. This is not the place for us to attempt any portrait of this strange figure. The royal barber went by three names. At court he was politely termed Olivier Ie Daim; by the people, Olivier le Diable: his real name was Olivier le Mauvais.
Olivier le Mauvais, then, stood motionless, casting sulky glances at the king, and scowling at Jacques Coictier.
“Yes, yes; the doctor!” he muttered.
“Well, yes, the doctor!” rejoined Louis XI, with rare good-nature; “the doctor has more influence than you. That is natural enough; he has a hold upon our whole body, while you only take us by the chin. There, my poor barber, cheer up. Why, what would you say, and what would become of your office, if I were such a king as King Chilpêric, whose favorite trick it was to pull his beard through his hand? Come, gossip, look to your work; shave me! Go, fetch the necessary tools.”
Olivier, seeing that the king was in a jesting mood, and that it was impossible to put him out of temper, left the room to obey his orders, grumbling as he went.
The king rose, stepped to the window, and suddenly opening it with strange agitation, clapped his hands, exclaiming,—
“Oh, yes, there is a red glow in the sky over the City! The provost is burning; it can be nothing else. Ah, my good people! ‘tis thus at last you help me to crush their lordships!”
Then turning to the Flemings: “Gentlemen, come and look. Is not that a fire which flares so high?”
The two men of Ghent approached.
“A great fire,” said Guillaume Rym.
“Oh,” added Coppenole, whose eyes flashed, “that reminds me of the burning of the lord of Hymbercourt’s house! There must be a fine riot yonder!”
“Do you think so, Master Coppenole?” And the face of Louis XI was almost as full of joy as that of the hosier. “’T will be hard to suppress it, eh?”
“By the Mass, Sire! your Majesty will make great gaps in many a company of troops in doing it.”
“Oh, I! that’s quite another thing,” rejoined the king. “If I chose—”
The hosier answered boldly,—
“If this rebellion be what I suppose, you may choose to no purpose, Sire.”
“Friend,” said Louis XI, “two companies of my ordnance and the discharge of a serpentine would win an easy victory over the groundlings.”
The hosier, in spite of the signs made to him by Guillaume Rym, seemed determined to oppose the king.
“Sire, the Swiss were groundlings too. My lord duke of Burgundy was a great gentleman, and he despised that vulgar mob. At the battle of Grandson he cried, ‘Gunners, fire upon those low-lived villains!’ and he swore by Saint George. But magistrate Schar nachtal fell upon the proud duke with his club and his people, and at the onslaught of the peasants with their bull-hides, the brilliant Burgundian army was broken like a