The truand gazed at the King, swinging his arms the while with an air of sottish stupidity. His was one of those uncouth heads in which the intellect is about as much at its ease as a light under an extinguisher.
“Were you not going to outrageously attack and plunder your lord the Provost of the Palais?”
“I know they were going to take something from somebody, but that’s all.”
A soldier showed the King a pruning-hook which had been found on the truand.
“Dost thou recognise this weapon?” demanded the King.
“Yes, ’tis my pruning-hook. I am a vine-dresser.”
“And dost thou know this man for thy companion?” added Louis, pointing to the other prisoner.
“No, I do not know him.”
“That will do,” said the King; and motioning to the silent figure standing impassively at the door, whom we have already pointed out to the reader: “Compére Tristan,” he said, “here’s a man for you.”
Tristan l’Hermite bowed, then whispered an order to a couple of archers, who carried off the unlucky truand.
Meanwhile the King had addressed himself to the other prisoner, who was perspiring profusely: “Thy name?”
“Pierre Gringoire, Sire.”
“Thy trade?”
“Philosopher, Sire.”
“How comes it, rascal, that thou hast the presumption to go and beset our friend Monsieur the Provost of the Palais, and what hast thou to say with regard to this rising of the populace?”
“Sire, I was not in it.”
“Go to, ribald; wast thou not taken by the watch in that bad company?”
“No, Sire, there is a misapprehension; ’tis an unlucky mischance. I am a maker of tragedies, Sire. I beseech your Majesty to hear me. I am a poet. It is the craze of men of my profession to go about the streets at night. It was passing by, this evening; ’twas a mere chance. They took me without reason. I am innocent of this civil disturbance. Your Majesty sees that the truand did not know me. I conjure your Majesty—”
“Hold thy tongue!” said the King, between two sips of his tisane; “thou wilt split our head.”
Tristan l’Hermite approached, and pointing to Gringoire: “Sire, shall we hang this one at the same time?”
It was the first word he had spoken. “Bah!” returned the King carelessly, “I see no objection.”
“But I do—a great many,” said Gringoire.
Our philosopher’s countenance at this moment rivalled the hue of the olive. He saw by the cold and indifferent air of the King that he had no resource but in something, excessively pathetic. He therefore threw himself at the feet of Louis XI, and, with gestures of despair, cried: