“Ah, surely not,” said he; “thou wilt not be so easily shattered, eh, my good Bastille?”
And turning abruptly to the undaunted Fleming: “Have you ever seen a revolt, Maître Jacques?”
“Sire, I have made one,” answered the hosier.
“How do you set about it,” said the King, “to make a revolt?”
“Oh,” answered Coppenole, “it is no very difficult matter. There are a hundred ways. First of all, there must be dissatisfaction in the town—that’s nothing uncommon. And next, there is the character of the inhabitants. Those of Ghent are prone to revolt. They ever love the son of the prince, but never the prince himself. Well, one fine morning, we will suppose, some one enters my shop and says to me: ‘Father Coppenole, it is thus and thus—the Lady of Flanders wants to save her favourites, the chief provost has doubled the toll on green food, or something of the kind—what you will.’ I throw down my work, run out of my shop into the street, and cry, ‘á sac!’ There is sure to be some empty cask about. I get upon it, and say in a loud voice the first thing that comes into my head—what’s uppermost in my heart—and when one is of the people, Sire, one has always something in one’s heart. Then a crowd gets together; they shout, they ring the tocsin, the people arm themselves by disarming the soldiers, the market people join the rest, and off they march. And so it will always be, so long as there are lords in the manors, citizens in the cities, and peasants in the country.”
“And against whom do you rise thus?” asked the King; “against your provosts? against your lords?”
“Sometimes; it all depends. Against the duke too, on occasion.”
Louis returned to his chair. “Ah! here,” he said with a smile, “they have not got further than the provosts!”
At the same instant Olivier le Daim entered the apartment. He was followed by two pages bearing the toilet necessaries of the King; but what struck Louis was to see him also accompanied by the Provost of Paris and the commander of the watch, who both appeared full of consternation. There was consternation, too, in the manner of the rancorous barber, but with an underlying satisfaction.
He was the first to speak. “Sire, I crave pardon of your Majesty for the calamitous news I bring.”
The King turned sharply round, tearing the mat under the feet of his chair. “What’s that?”
“Sire,” replied Olivier, with the malevolent look of one who rejoices that he has to deal a violent blow, “it is not against the Provost of the Palais that this rising is directed.”
“Against whom, then?”
“Against you, Sire.”
The aged King sprang to his feet, erect as a young man.
“Explain thyself, Olivier! explain thyself! And look well to thy head, my Gossip; for I swear to thee by the cross of Saint-Lô, that if thou speakest false in this matter, the sword that cut the throat of M. de Luxembourg is not so notched but it will manage to saw thine too.”
It was a formidable oath. Never but twice in his life had Louis sworn by the cross of Saint-Lô.
Olivier opened his mouth to answer. “Sire—”
“Down on thy knees!” interrupted the King vehemently. “Tristan, stand guard over this man!”