“Besides the above, there has been paid to a mason, for making the holes to fix the window-grating and the flooring of the chamber containing the cage, forasmuch as the floor would not otherwise have supported the said cage by reason of its weight—twenty-seven livres, fourteen sols parisis—”
The voice began its wailing again. “Mercy, Sire! I swear to you it was Monsieur the Cardinal of Angers who committed the treason—not I!”
“The mason’s charge is exorbitant!” said the King. “Go on, Olivier.”
Olivier went on: “To a joiner for window-frames, bed-stead, closet-stool, and other things—twenty livres, two sols parisis—”
The voice also went on: “Woe is me, Sire! will you not hear me? I protest that it was not I who wrote that to the Duke of Guyenne, but Monsieur the Cardinal Balue!”
“The joiner is dear,” observed the King. “Is that all?”
“No, Sire. To a glazier for the windows of the said chamber, forty-six sols, eight deniers parisis.”
“Have mercy, Sire!” cried the voice again. “Is it not enough that all my possessions have been given to my judges —my table service to M. de Torcy, my library to Maître Pierre Doriolle, my tapestries to the Governor of Roussillon? I am innocent. Lo, these fourteen years have I shivered in an iron cage. Have mercy, Sire! and you shall find it in heaven!”
“Maître Olivier,” said the King, “the total?”
“Three hundred and sixty-seven livres, eight sols, three deniers parisis—”
“Notre-Dame!” cried the King. “ ’Tis an outrageous cage!”
He snatched the paper from Olivier’s hand, and began to reckon it up himself on his fingers, examining the schedule and the cage by turns—while the prisoner was heard sobbing within it. It was a dismal scene in the darkness, and the bystanders paled as they looked at one another.
“Fourteen years, Sire! It is fourteen years—since April, 1469. I conjure you in the name of the Holy Mother of God, listen to me, Sire! During all those years you have enjoyed the warmth of the sun; shall I, feeble wretch that I am, never see the light of day again? Mercy, Sire! Show mercy! Clemency is a noble virtue in a King, and turns aside the current of the wrath to come. Think you, your Majesty, that at the hour of death it will be a great satisfaction to a King to know that he has never let an offence go unpunished? Moreover, I never betrayed your Majesty—it was Monsieur of Angers. And I have a very heavy chain on my foot with a huge iron ball attached to it—far heavier than there is any need for. Oh, Sire, have pity on me!”
“Olivier,” said the King, shaking his head, “I observe that they charge me the bushel of plaster at twenty sols, though it is only worth twelve. You will draw up this memorandum afresh.”
He turned his back on the cage, and began to move towards the door of the chamber. The wretched prisoner judged by the withdrawal of the torchlight and by the sounds that the King was preparing to depart.
“Sire! Sire!” he cried in anguish.