Mathias Corvin favored Jean de Monroyal， the ornament of mathematics. Now， 'tis an ill way to protect letters to hang men of letters. What a stain on Alexander if he had hung Aristoteles！ This act would not be a little patch on the face of his reputation to embellish it， but a very malignant ulcer to disfigure it. Sire！ I made a very proper epithalamium for Mademoiselle of Flanders and Monseigneur the very august Dauphin. That is not a firebrand of rebellion. Your majesty sees that I am not a scribbler of no reputation， that I have studied excellently well， and that I possess much natural eloquence. Have mercy upon me， sire！ In so doing you will perform a gallant deed to our Lady， and I swear to you that I am greatly terrified at the idea of being hanged！"So saying， the unhappy Gringoire kissed the king's slippers， and Guillaume Rym said to Coppenole in a low tone： "He doth well to drag himself on the earth. Kings are like the Jupiter of Crete， they have ears only in their feet." And without troubling himself about the Jupiter of Crete， the hosier replied with a heavy smile， and his eyes fixed on Gringoire： "Oh！ that's it exactly！ I seem to hear Chancellor Hugonet craving mercy of me."When Gringoire paused at last， quite out of breath， he raised his head tremblingly towards the king， who was engaged in scratching a spot on the knee of his breeches with his finger-nail； then his majesty began to drink from the goblet of ptisan. But he uttered not a word， and this silence tortured Gringoire. At last the king looked at him. "Here is a terrible bawler！" said， he. Then， turning to Tristan l'Hermite， "Bali！ let him go！"Gringoire fell backwards， quite thunderstruck with joy.
"At liberty！" growled Tristan "Doth not your majesty wish to have him detained a little while in a cage？""Gossip，" retorted Louis XI.， "think you that 'tis for birds of this feather that we cause to be made cages at three hundred and sixty-seven livres， eight sous， three deniers apiece？
Release him at once， the wanton (Louis XI. was fond of this word which formed， with ~Pasque-Dieu~， the foundation of his joviality)， and put him out with a buffet.""Ugh！" cried Gringoire， "what a great king is here！"And for fear of a counter order， he rushed towards the door， which Tristan opened for him with a very bad grace. The soldiers left the room with him， pushing him before them with stout thwacks， which Gringoire bore like a true stoical philosopher.
The king's good humor since the revolt against the bailiff had been announced to him， made itself apparent in every way. This unwonted clemency was no small sign of it. Tristan l'Hermite in his corner wore the surly look of a dog who has had a bone snatched away from him.
Meanwhile， the king thrummed gayly with his fingers on the arm of his chair， the March of Pont-Audemer. He was a dissembling prince， but one who understood far better how to hide his troubles than his joys. These external manifestations of joy at any good news sometimes proceeded to very great lengths thus， on the death， of Charles the Bold， to the point of vowing silver balustrades to Saint Martin of Tours；on his advent to the throne， so far as forgetting to order his father's obsequies.
"Hé！ sire！" suddenly exclaimed Jacques Coictier， "what has become of the acute attack of illness for which your majesty had me summoned？""Oh！" said the king， "I really suffer greatly， my gossip.
There is a hissing in my ear and fiery rakes rack my chest."Coictier took the king's hand， and begun to feel of his pulse with a knowing air.
"Look， Coppenole，" said Rym， in a low voice. "Behold him between Coictier and Tristan. They are his whole court.
A physician for himself， a headsman for others."As he felt the king's pulse， Coictier assumed an air of greater and greater alarm. Louis XI. watched him with some anxiety. Coictier grew visibly more gloomy. The brave man had no other farm than the king's bad health. He speculated on it to the best of his ability.
"Oh！ oh！" he murmured at length， "this is serious indeed.""Is it not？" said the king， uneasily.
"~Pulsus creber， anhelans， crepitans， irregularis~，" continued the leech.
"~Pasque-Dieu~！"
"This may carry off its man in less than three days.""Our Lady！" exclaimed the king. "And the remedy， gossip？""I am meditating upon that， sire."
He made Louis XI. put out his tongue， shook his head， made a grimace， and in the very midst of these affectations，--"Pardieu， sire，" he suddenly said， "I must tell you that there is a receivership of the royal prerogatives vacant， and that I have a nephew.""I give the receivership to your nephew， Gossip Jacques，"replied the king； "but draw this fire from my breast.""Since your majesty is so clement，" replied the leech， "you will not refuse to aid me a little in building my house， Rue Saint-André-des-Arcs.""Heugh！" said the king.
"I am at the end of my finances，" pursued the doctor；and it would really be a pity that the house should not have a roof； not on account of the house， which is simple and thoroughly bourgeois， but because of the paintings of Jehan Fourbault， which adorn its wainscoating. There is a Diana flying in the air， but so excellent， so tender， so delicate， of so ingenuous an action， her hair so well coiffed and adorned with a crescent， her flesh so white， that she leads into temptation those who regard her too curiously. There is also a Ceres.
She is another very fair divinity. She is seated on sheaves of wheat and crowned with a gallant garland of wheat ears interlaced with salsify and other flowers. Never were seen more amorous eyes， more rounded limbs， a nobler air， or a more gracefully flowing skirt. She is one of the most innocent and most perfect beauties whom the brush has ever produced.""Executioner！" grumbled Louis XI.， "what are you driving at？""I must have a roof for these paintings， sire， and， although 'tis but a small matter， I have no more money.""How much doth your roof cost？"
