ria is no mediocre philosopher.--One word,
my lovely child! say but one word to me, I entreat you. By the way, you
had a droll and peculiar little pout; do you still make it? Do you
know, my dear, that parliament hath full jurisdiction over all places of
asylum, and that you were running a great risk in your little chamber at
Notre-Dame? Alas! the little bird trochylus maketh its nest in the jaws
of the crocodile.--Master, here is the moon re-appearing. If only
they do not perceive us. We are doing a laudable thing in saving
mademoiselle, and yet we should be hung by order of the king if we were
caught. Alas! human actions are taken by two handles. That is branded
with disgrace in one which is crowned in another. He admires Cicero who
blames Catiline. Is it not so, master? What say you to this
philosophy? I possess philosophy by instinct, by nature, _ut apes
geometriam_.--Come! no one answers me. What unpleasant moods you two are
in! I must do all the talking alone. That is what we call a monologue
in tragedy.--_Pasque-Dieu_! I must inform you that I have just seen
the king, Louis XI., and that I have caught this oath from
him,--_Pasque-Dieu_! They are still making a hearty howl in the
city.--'Tis a villanous, malicious old king. He is all swathed in furs.
He still owes me the money for my epithalamium, and he came within a
nick of hanging me this evening, which would have been very inconvenient
to me.--He is niggardly towards men of merit. He ought to read the four
books of Salvien of Cologne, _Adversits Avaritiam_. In truth! 'Tis a
paltry king in his ways with men of letters, and one who commits very
barbarous cruelties. He is a sponge, to soak money raised from the
people. His saving is like the spleen which swelleth with the leanness
of all the other members. Hence complaints against the hardness of the
times become murmurs against the prince. Under this gentle and pious
sire, the gallows crack with the hung, the blocks rot with blood, the
prisons burst like over full bellies. This king hath one hand which
grasps, and one which hangs. He is the procurator of Dame Tax and
Monsieur Gibbet. The great are despoiled of their dignities, and
the little incessantly overwhelmed with fresh oppressions. He is an
exorbitant prince. I love not this monarch. And you, master?"

The man in black let the garrulous poet chatter on. He continued to
struggle against the violent and narrow current, which separates the
prow of the City a