That same jealousy which a husband cherisheth for the honor of his wife, the resentment which the son hath for the love of his father, a good vassal should feel for the glory of his king; he should pine away for the zeal of this house, for the aggrandizement of his service.
Every other passion which should transport him would be but madness.
These, sire, are my maxims of state: then do not judge me to be a seditious and thieving rascal because my garment is worn at the elbows.
If you will grant me mercy, sire, I will wear it out on the knees in praying to God for you night and morning!
Alas! I am not extremely rich, ‘tis true.
I am even rather poor.
But not vicious on that account.
It is not my fault.
Every one knoweth that great wealth is not to be drawn from literature, and that those who are best posted in good books do not always have a great fire in winter.
The advocate’s trade taketh all the grain, and leaveth only straw to the other scientific professions.
There are forty very excellent proverbs anent the hole-ridden cloak of the philosopher.
Oh, sire! clemency is the only light which can enlighten the interior of so great a soul.
Clemency beareth the torch before all the other virtues.
Without it they are but blind men groping after God in the dark.
Compassion, which is the same thing as clemency, causeth the love of subjects, which is the most powerful bodyguard to a prince.
What matters it to your majesty, who dazzles all faces, if there is one poor man more on earth, a poor innocent philosopher spluttering amid the shadows of calamity, with an empty pocket which resounds against his hollow belly?
Moreover, sire, I am a man of letters.
Great kings make a pearl for their crowns by protecting letters.
Hercules did not disdain the title of Musagetes.
Mathias Corvin favored Jean de Monroyal, the ornament of mathematics.
Now, ‘tis an ill way to protect letters to hang men of letters.
What a stain on Alexander if he had hung Aristoteles!
This act would not be a little patch on the face of his reputation to embellish it, but a very malignant ulcer to disfigure it.
Sire!
I made a very proper epithalamium for Mademoiselle of Flanders and Monseigneur the very august Dauphin.
That is not a firebrand of rebellion.
Your majesty sees that I am not a scribbler of no reputation, that I have studied excellently well, and that I possess much natural eloquence.
Have mercy upon me, sire!
In so doing you will perform a gallant deed to our Lady, and I swear to you that I am greatly terrified at the idea of being hanged!”
So saying, the unhappy Gringoire kissed the king’s slippers, and Guillaume Rym said to Coppenole in a low tone:
“He doth well to drag himself on the earth.
Kings are like the Jupiter of Crete, they have ears only in their feet.”
And without troubling himself about the Jupiter of Crete, the hosier replied with a heavy smile, and his eyes fixed on Gringoire:
“Oh! that’s it exactly!
I seem to hear Chancellor Hugonet craving mercy of me.”
When Gringoire paused at last, quite out of breath, he raised his head tremblingly towards the king, who was engaged in scratching a spot on the knee of his breeches with his finger-nail; then his majesty began to drink from the goblet of ptisan.
But he uttered not a word, and this silence tortured Gringoire.
At last the king looked at him.
“Here is a terrible bawler!” said, he. Then, turning to Tristan l’Hermite, “Bali! let him go!”
Gringoire fell backwards, quite thunderstruck with joy.
“At liberty!” growled Tristan “Doth not your majesty wish to have him detained a little while in a cage?”
“Gossip,” retorted Louis XI., “think you that ‘tis for birds of this feather that we cause to be made cages at three hundred and sixty-seven livres, eight sous, three deniers apiece?
Release him at once, the wanton (Louis XI. was fond of this word which formed, with Pasque-Dieu, the foundation of his joviality), and put him out with a buffet.”
“Ugh!” cried Gringoire, “what a great king is here!”
And for fear of a counter order, he rushed towards the door, which Tristan opened for him with a very bad grace.
The soldiers left the room with him, pushing him before them with stout thwacks, which Gringoire bore like a true stoical philosopher.
The king’s good humor since the revolt against the bailiff had been announced to him, made itself apparent in every way.
This unwonted clemency was no small sign of it.
Tristan l’Hermite in his corner wore the surly look of a dog who has had a bone snatched away from him.
Meanwhile, the king thrummed gayly with his fingers on the arm of his chair, the March of Pont-Audemer.