Our Lady of Paris! I will never again transgress in this manner, and I will give you a fair statue of silver, like that I gave last year to Our Lady of ècouys. So be it!”
He made the sign of the cross, rose to his feet, replaced his hat, and turned to Tristan. “Make all speed, Compére. Take M. de Châteaupers with you. You will sound the tocsin, crush the people, hang the witch—that is all. You will defray all the charges of the execution and bring me the account. Come, Olivier, I shall not go to bed to-night. Shave me.”
Tristan l’Hermite bowed and left. The King then dismissed Rym and Coppenole with a wave of the hand. “God keep you, my good Flemish friends. Go and take a little rest. The night is far advanced, and we are nearer the morning than the evening.”
They both withdrew. On reaching their apartments under the escort of the captain of the Bastille, Coppenole remarked to Rym, “Hum! I’ve had enough of this coughing King. I have seen Charles of Burgundy drunk, but he was not near so wicked as Louis XI sick.”
“Maître Jacques,” returned Rym, “that is because kings are not half so bloodthirsty in their wine as in their medicine-cups.”