e of
egg, oil, and vinegar. You will continue your ptisan and we will answer
for your majesty."

A burning candle does not attract one gnat alone. Master Olivier,
perceiving the king to be in a liberal mood, and judging the moment to
be propitious, approached in his turn.

"Sire--"

"What is it now?" said Louis XI. "Sire, your majesty knoweth that Simon
Radin is dead?"

"Well?"

"He was councillor to the king in the matter of the courts of the
treasury."

"Well?"

"Sire, his place is vacant."

As he spoke thus, Master Olivier's haughty face quitted its arrogant
expression for a lowly one. It is the only change which ever takes place
in a courtier's visage. The king looked him well in the face and said in
a dry tone,--"I understand."

He resumed,

"Master Olivier, the Marshal de Boucicaut was wont to say, 'There's no
master save the king, there are no fishes save in the sea.' I see that
you agree with Monsieur de Boucicaut. Now listen to this; we have a good
memory. In '68 we made you valet of our chamber: in '69, guardian of the
fortress of the bridge of Saint-Cloud, at a hundred livres of Tournay in
wages (you wanted them of Paris). In November, '73, by letters given
to Gergeole, we instituted you keeper of the Wood of Vincennes, in
the place of Gilbert Acle, equerry; in '75, gruyer* of the forest of
Rouvray-lez-Saint-Cloud, in the place of Jacques le Maire; in '78, we
graciously settled on you, by letters patent sealed doubly with green
wax, an income of ten livres parisis, for you and your wife, on the
Place of the Merchants, situated at the School Saint-Germain; in '79,
we made you gruyer of the forest of Senart, in place of that poor
Jehan Daiz; then captain of the Chateau of Loches; then governor of
Saint-Quentin; then captain of the bridge of Meulan, of which you cause
yourself to be called comte. Out of the five sols fine paid by every
barber who shaves on a festival day, there are three sols for you and
we have the rest. We have been good enough to change your name of Le
Mauvais (The Evil), which resembled your face too closely. In '76, we
granted you, to the great displeasure of our nobility, armorial
bearings of a thousand colors, which give you the breast of a peacock.
_Pasque-Dieu_! Are not you surfeited? Is not the draught of fishes
sufficiently fine and miraculous? Are you not afraid that one salmon
more will make your boat sink? Pride will be your ruin, gossip. Ruin and
disgrace always pr