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"Oh, the poor fool!" murmured Coictier. The archdeacon went on, appearing to reply now only to his thoughts, "But no, I am still crawling; I am scratching my face and knees against the pebbles of the subterranean pathway. I catch a glimpse, I do not contemplate! I do not read, I spell out!" "And when you know how to read!" demanded the stranger, "will you make gold?"
"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.
It had even required all the thousand reasons which he had for handling tenderly Doctor Jacques Coictier, the all-powerful physician of King Louis XI., to induce him to receive the latter thus accompanied. Hence, there was nothing very cordial in his manner when Jacques Coictier said to him,
In the midst of his revery there came a knock at his door. "Who's there?" cried the learned man, in the gracious tone of a famished dog, disturbed over his bone. A voice without replied, "Your friend, Jacques Coictier." He went to open the door. It was, in fact, the king's physician; a person about fifty years of age, whose harsh physiognomy was modified only by a crafty eye.
"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?" "Why a roof of copper, embellished and gilt, two thousand livres at the most." "Ah, assassin!" cried the king, "He never draws out one of my teeth which is not a diamond." "Am I to have my roof?" said Coictier. "Yes; and go to the devil, but cure me."
I do not believe in Astrology." "Indeed!" said the man, with surprise. Coictier gave a forced laugh. "You see that he is mad," he said, in a low tone, to Gossip Tourangeau. "He does not believe in astrology." "The idea of imagining," pursued Dom Claude, "that every ray of a star is a thread which is fastened to the head of a man!" "And what then, do you believe in?" exclaimed Gossip Tourangeau.
"In truth, Monsieur le Docteur Coictier, I felt great joy on learning of the bishopric given your nephew, my reverend seigneur Pierre Verse. Is he not Bishop of Amiens?" "Yes, monsieur Archdeacon; it is a grace and mercy of God." "Do you know that you made a great figure on Christmas Day at the bead of your company of the chamber of accounts, Monsieur President?" "Vice-President, Dom Claude.
Within this maze was the celebrated Jardin Dedalus that Louis XI gave to Coictier, and above it rose the observatory of the savant like a signal tower of the Romans. This centered upon what is now the Place des Vosges, formerly the Place Royale. To-day, how changed is all this "intermediate, indeterminate" region! How changed, indeed! There is nothing vague and indeterminate about it to-day.
"But, sire, have you not more need of the one than of the other?" "Of the servant than the courtier? Aye, aye, that is well said, very well said. You are less a fool than I thought. But I must finish or Coictier, my doctor he thinks me less strong than I am will be scolding me.
With an effort he struggled on his elbow, pushing himself upright. "See! it was all a jest. I am strong stronger than for years. Coictier says so; but he says, too, that I should rest, so I will lie back again. Yes, yes, a jest and yet not all a jest." From under his drooped lids he looked up at Commines, watching him narrowly in the grey light. "Charles, what did Charles say?
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