“Would you have her pay you with one on the nose?”

“Comrades! Maître Simon Sanguin, the elector of the Nation of Picardy, with his wife on the saddle behind him.”

“Post equitem sedet atra cura.”¹¹

“Good-day to you, Monsieur the Elector!”

“Good-night to you, Madame the Electress!”

“Lucky dogs to be able to see all that!” sighed Joannes de Molendino, still perched among the acanthus leaves of his capital.

Meanwhile the bookseller of the University, Maître Andry Musnier, leaned over and whispered to the Court furrier, Maître Gilles Lecornu:

“I tell you, monsieur, ’tis the end of the world. Never has there been such unbridled license among the scholars. It all comes of these accursed inventions—they ruin everything—the artillery, the culverine, the blunderbuss, and above all, printing, that second pestilence brought us from Germany. No more manuscripts—no more books! Printing gives the death-blow to bookselling. It is the beginning of the end.”

“I, too, am well aware of it by the increasing preference for velvet stuffs,” said the furrier.

At that moment it struck twelve.

A long-drawn “Ah!” went up from the crowd.

The scholars held their peace. There ensued a general stir and upheaval, a great shuffling of feet and movement of heads, much coughing and blowing of noses; everyone resettled himself, rose on tip-toe, placed himself in the most favourable position obtainable. Then deep silence, every neck outstretched, every mouth agape, every eye fixed on the marble table. Nothing appeared; only the four sergeants were still at their posts, stiff and motionless as four painted statues. Next, all eyes turned towards the platform reserved for the Flemish envoys. The door remained closed and the platform empty. Since daybreak the multitude had been waiting for three things—the hour of noon, the Flemish ambassadors, and the Mystery-Play. Noon alone had kept the appointment. It was too bad. They waited one, two, three, five minutes—a quarter of an hour—nothing happened. Then anger followed on the heels of impatience; indignant words flew hither and thither, though in suppressed tones as yet. “The Mystery, the Mystery!” they murmured sullenly. The temper of the crowd began to rise rapidly. The warning growls of the gathering storm rumbled overhead. It was Jehan du Moulin who struck out the first flash.

“Let’s have the Mystery, and the devil take the Flemings!” he cried at the pitch of his voice, coiling himself about his pillar like a serpent.

The multitude clapped its approval.

“The Mystery, the Mystery!” they repeated, “and to the devil with all Flanders!”

“Give us the Mystery at once,” continued the scholar, “or it’s my advice we hang the provost of the Palais by way of both Comedy and Morality.”

“Well said!” shouted the crowd, “and let’s begin the hanging by stringing up his sergeants.”