And then, the character of the inhabitants.
Those of Ghent are easy to stir into revolt.
They always love the prince’s son; the prince, never.
Well!
One morning, I will suppose, some one enters my shop, and says to me:
‘Father Coppenole, there is this and there is that, the Demoiselle of Flanders wishes to save her ministers, the grand bailiff is doubling the impost on shagreen, or something else,’—what you will.
I leave my work as it stands, I come out of my hosier’s stall, and I shout:
‘To the sack?’
There is always some smashed cask at hand.
I mount it, and I say aloud, in the first words that occur to me, what I have on my heart; and when one is of the people, sire, one always has something on the heart: Then people troop up, they shout, they ring the alarm bell, they arm the louts with what they take from the soldiers, the market people join in, and they set out.
And it will always be thus, so long as there are lords in the seignories, bourgeois in the bourgs, and peasants in the country.”
“And against whom do you thus rebel?” inquired the king; “against your bailiffs? against your lords?”
“Sometimes; that depends.
Against the duke, also, sometimes.”
Louis XI. returned and seated himself, saying, with a smile,—
“Ah! here they have only got as far as the bailiffs.”
At that instant Olivier le Daim returned.
He was followed by two pages, who bore the king’s toilet articles; but what struck Louis XI. was that he was also accompanied by the provost of Paris and the chevalier of the watch, who appeared to be in consternation.
The spiteful barber also wore an air of consternation, which was one of contentment beneath, however.
It was he who spoke first.
“Sire, I ask your majesty’s pardon for the calamitous news which I bring.”
The king turned quickly and grazed the mat on the floor with the feet of his chair,—
“What does this mean?”
“Sire,” resumed Olivier le Daim, with the malicious air of a man who rejoices that he is about to deal a violent blow, “‘tis not against the bailiff of the courts that this popular sedition is directed.”
“Against whom, then?”
“Against you, sire?’
The aged king rose erect and straight as a young man,—
“Explain yourself, Olivier!
And guard your head well, gossip; for I swear to you by the cross of Saint-Lo that, if you lie to us at this hour, the sword which severed the head of Monsieur de Luxembourg is not so notched that it cannot yet sever yours!”
The oath was formidable; Louis XI. had only sworn twice in the course of his life by the cross of Saint-Lo.
Olivier opened his mouth to reply. “Sire—”
“On your knees!” interrupted the king violently. “Tristan, have an eye to this man.”
Olivier knelt down and said coldly,—
“Sire, a sorceress was condemned to death by your court of parliament.
She took refuge in Notre-Dame.
The people are trying to take her from thence by main force.
Monsieur the provost and monsieur the chevalier of the watch, who have just come from the riot, are here to give me the lie if this is not the truth.
The populace is besieging Notre-Dame.”
“Yes, indeed!” said the king in a low voice, all pale and trembling with wrath. “Notre-Dame!
They lay siege to our Lady, my good mistress in her cathedral!—Rise, Olivier.
You are right.
I give you Simon Radin’s charge.
You are right.
‘Tis I whom they are attacking.
The witch is under the protection of this church, the church is under my protection.
And I thought that they were acting against the bailiff!
‘Tis against myself!”
Then, rendered young by fury, he began to walk up and down with long strides.
He no longer laughed, he was terrible, he went and came; the fox was changed into a hyaena.
He seemed suffocated to such a degree that he could not speak; his lips moved, and his fleshless fists were clenched.