ircular string of leaden
figures. This, in company with a dirty skull-cap, which hardly allowed a
hair to escape, was all that distinguished the seated personage. He held
his head so bent upon his breast, that nothing was to be seen of his
face thus thrown into shadow, except the tip of his nose, upon which
fell a ray of light, and which must have been long. From the thinness of
his wrinkled hand, one divined that he was an old man. It was Louis XI.
At some distance behind them, two men dressed in garments of Flemish
style were conversing, who were not sufficiently lost in the shadow to
prevent any one who had been present at the performance of Gringoire's
mystery from recognizing in them two of the principal Flemish envoys,
Guillaume Rym, the sagacious pensioner of Ghent, and Jacques Coppenole,
the popular hosier. The reader will remember that these men were mixed
up in the secret politics of Louis XI. Finally, quite at the end of
the room, near the door, in the dark, stood, motionless as a statue, a
vigorous man with thickset limbs, a military harness, with a surcoat
of armorial bearings, whose square face pierced with staring eyes, slit
with an immense mouth, his ears concealed by two large screens of flat
hair, had something about it both of the dog and the tiger.

All were uncovered except the king.

The gentleman who stood near the king was reading him a sort of long
memorial to which his majesty seemed to be listening attentively. The
two Flemings were whispering together.

"Cross of God!" grumbled Coppenole, "I am tired of standing; is there no
chair here?"

Rym replied by a negative gesture, accompanied by a discreet smile.

"Croix-Dieu!" resumed Coppenole, thoroughly unhappy at being obliged to
lower his voice thus, "I should like to sit down on the floor, with my
legs crossed, like a hosier, as I do in my shop."

"Take good care that you do not, Master Jacques."

"Ouais! Master Guillaume! can one only remain here on his feet?"

"Or on his knees," said Rym.

At that moment the king's voice was uplifted. They held their peace.

"Fifty sols for the robes of our valets, and twelve livres for the
mantles of the clerks of our crown! That's it! Pour out gold by the ton!
Are you mad, Olivier?"

As he spoke thus, the old man raised his head. The golden shells of the
collar of Saint-Michael could be seen gleaming on his neck. The candle
fully illuminated his gaunt and morose profile. He tore the papers from