Louis XI. rose and went toward one of the windows that looked on the town. He saw the grand provost, and exclaimed:--
"Ha, ha! here's my crony and his thief. And here comes my little Marie de Saint-Vallier; I'd forgotten all about it. Olivier," he said, addressing the barber, "go and tell Monsieur de Montbazon to serve some good Bourgeuil wine at dinner, and see that the cook doesn't forget the lampreys; Madame le comtesse likes both those things. Can I eat lampreys?" he added, after a pause, looking anxiously at Coyctier.
For all answer the physician began to examine his master's face. The two men were a picture in themselves.
History and romance-writers have consecrated the brown camlet coat, and the breeches of the same stuff, worn by Louis XI. His cap, decorated with leaden medallions, and his collar of the order of Saint-Michel, are not less celebrated; but no writer, no painter has represented the face of that terrible monarch in his last years,--a sickly, hollow, yellow and brown face, all the features of which expressed a sour craftiness, a cold sarcasm. In that mask was the forehead of a great man, a brow furrowed with wrinkles, and weighty with high thoughts; but in his cheeks and on his lips there was something indescribably vulgar and common. Looking at certain details of that countenance you would have thought him a debauched husbandman, or a miserly pedler; and yet, above these vague resemblances and the decrepitude of a dying old man, the king, the man of power, rose supreme. His eyes, of a light yellow, seemed at first sight extinct; but a spark of courage and of anger lurked there, and at the slightest touch it could burst into flames and cast fire about him. The doctor was a stout burgher, with a florid face, dressed in black, peremptory, greedy of gain, and self-important. These two personages were framed, as it were, in that panelled chamber, hung with high-warped tapestries of Flanders, the ceiling of which, made of carved beams, was blackened by smoke. The furniture, the bed, all inlaid with arabesques in pewter, would seem to-day more precious than they were at that period when the arts were beginning to produce their choicest masterpieces.
"Lampreys are not good for you," replied the physician.
That title, recently substituted for the former term of "myrrh- master," is still applied to the faculty in England. The name was at this period given to doctors everywhere.
"Then what may I eat?" asked the king, humbly.
"Salt mackerel. Otherwise, you have so much bile in motion that you may die on All-Souls' Day."
"To-day!" cried the king in terror.
"Compose yourself, sire," replied Coyctier. "I am here. Try not to fret your mind; find some way to amuse yourself."
"Ah!" said the king, "my daughter Marie used to succeed in that difficult business."
As he spoke, Imbert de Bastarnay, sire of Montresor and Bridore, rapped softly on the royal door. On receiving the king's permission he entered and announced the Comte and Comtesse de Saint-Vallier. Louis XI. made a sign. Marie appeared, followed by her old husband, who allowed her to pass in first.
"Good-day, my children," said the king.
"Sire," replied his daughter in a low voice, as she embraced him, "I want to speak to you in secret."
Louis XI. appeared not to have heard her. He turned to the door and called out in a hollow voice, "Hola, Dufou!"
Dufou, seigneur of Montbazon and grand cup-bearer of France, entered in haste.
"Go to the maitre d'hotel, and tell him I must have salt mackerel for dinner. And go to Madame de Beaujeu, and let her know that I wish to dine alone to-day. Do you know, madame," continued the king, pretending to be slightly angry, "that you neglect me? It is almost three years since I have seen you. Come, come here, my pretty," he added, sitting down and holding out his arms to her. "How thin you have grown! Why have you let her grow so thin?" said the king, roughly, addressing the Comte de Poitiers.
The jealous husband cast so frightened a look at his wife that she almost pitied him.
"Happiness, sire!" he stammered.
"Ah! you love each other too much,--is that it?" said the king, holding his daughter between his knees. "I did right to call you Mary- full-of-grace. Coyctier, leave us! Now, then, what do you want of me?" he said to his daughter the moment the doctor had gone. "After sending me your--"
In this danger, Marie boldly put her hand on the king's lips and said in his ear,--
"I always thought you cautious and penetrating."
"Saint-Vallier," said the king, laughing, "I think that Bridore has something to say to you."
The count left the room; but he made a gesture with his shoulders well known to his wife, who could guess the thoughts of the jealous man, and knew she must forestall his cruel designs.
"Tell me, my child, how do you think I am,--hey? Do I seem changed to you?"
"Sire, do you want me to tell you the real truth, or would you rather I deceived you?"
"No," he said, in a low voice, "I want to know truly what to expect."
"In that case, I think you look very ill to-day; but you will not let my truthfulness injure the success of my cause, will you?"
"What is your cause?" asked the king, frowning and passing a hand across his forehead.
"Ah, sire," she replied, "the young man you have had arrested for robbing your silversmith Cornelius, and who is now in the hands of the grand provost, is innocent of the robbery."
"How do you know that?" asked the king. Marie lowered her head and blushed.
"I need not ask if there is love in this business," said the king, raising his daughter's head gently and stroking her chin. "If you don't confess every morning, my daughter, you will go to hell."
"Cannot you oblige me without forcing me to tell my secret thoughts?"
"Where would be the pleasure?" cried the king, seeing only an amusement in this affair.
"Ah! do you want your pleasure to cost me grief?"