“Were you not going to outrageously attack and pillage your lord, the bailiff of the palace?”
“I know that they were going to take something from some one.
That is all.”
A soldier pointed out to the king a billhook which he had seized on the person of the vagabond.
“Do you recognize this weapon?” demanded the king.
“Yes; ‘tis my billhook; I am a vine-dresser.”
“And do you recognize this man as your companion?” added Louis XI., pointing to the other prisoner.
“No, I do not know him.”
“That will do,” said the king, making a sign with his finger to the silent personage who stood motionless beside the door, to whom we have already called the reader’s attention.
“Gossip Tristan, here is a man for you.”
Tristan l’Hermite bowed.
He gave an order in a low voice to two archers, who led away the poor vagabond.
In the meantime, the king had approached the second prisoner, who was perspiring in great drops:
“Your name?”
“Sire, Pierre Gringoire.”
“Your trade?”
“Philosopher, sire.”
“How do you permit yourself, knave, to go and besiege our friend, monsieur the bailiff of the palace, and what have you to say concerning this popular agitation?”
“Sire, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Come, now! you wanton wretch, were not you apprehended by the watch in that bad company?”
“No, sire, there is a mistake.
‘Tis a fatality.
I make tragedies.
Sire, I entreat your majesty to listen to me.
I am a poet.
‘Tis the melancholy way of men of my profession to roam the streets by night.
I was passing there.
It was mere chance.
I was unjustly arrested; I am innocent of this civil tempest.
Your majesty sees that the vagabond did not recognize me.
I conjure your majesty—”
“Hold your tongue!” said the king, between two swallows of his ptisan. “You split our head!”
Tristan l’Hermite advanced and pointing to Gringoire,—
“Sire, can this one be hanged also?”
This was the first word that he had uttered.
“Phew!” replied the king, “I see no objection.”
“I see a great many!” said Gringoire.
At that moment, our philosopher was greener than an olive.
He perceived from the king’s cold and indifferent mien that there was no other resource than something very pathetic, and he flung himself at the feet of Louis XI., exclaiming, with gestures of despair:—
“Sire! will your majesty deign to hear me.
Sire! break not in thunder over so small a thing as myself.
God’s great lightning doth not bombard a lettuce.
Sire, you are an august and, very puissant monarch; have pity on a poor man who is honest, and who would find it more difficult to stir up a revolt than a cake of ice would to give out a spark!
Very gracious sire, kindness is the virtue of a lion and a king.
Alas! rigor only frightens minds; the impetuous gusts of the north wind do not make the traveller lay aside his cloak; the sun, bestowing his rays little by little, warms him in such ways that it will make him strip to his shirt.
Sire, you are the sun.
I protest to you, my sovereign lord and master, that I am not an outcast, thief, and disorderly fellow.
Revolt and brigandage belong not to the outfit of Apollo.
I am not the man to fling myself into those clouds which break out into seditious clamor.
I am your majesty’s faithful vassal.