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Updated: June 9, 2025
Leave me in peace." The commander made a grimace of disappointment. "Don't lie to me, old spectre!" said he. "My name is Tristan l'Hermite, and I am the king's gossip. Tristan the Hermit, do you hear?" He added, as he glanced at the Place de Greve around him, "'Tis a name which has an echo here."
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.
His costume held a middle place between the splendid robe of a doctor of music of Oxford and the sober black habiliments of a doctor of divinity of Cambridge. He wore the dress of a gentleman under a long godebert, which is a mantle trimmed with the fur of the Norwegian hare. He was half Gothic and half modern, wearing a wig like Lamoignon, and sleeves like Tristan l'Hermite.
"That will do," said the king, making a sign with his finger to the silent personage who stood motionless beside the door, to whom we have already called the reader's attention. "Gossip Tristan, here is a man for you." Tristan l'Hermite bowed. He gave an order in a low voice to two archers, who led away the poor vagabond.
When she became silent Tristan l'Hermite frowned, but it was to conceal a tear which welled up in his tiger's eye. He conquered this weakness, however, and said in a curt tone, "The king wills it." Then he bent down to the ear of Rennet Cousin, and said to him in a very low tone, "Make an end of it quickly!" Possibly, the redoubtable provost felt his heart also failing him.
One instant afterwards, Tristan l'Hermite, to whom Oliver had given the hint, stepped forward before the King and the Duke, and said, in his blunt manner, "So please your Majesty and your Grace, this piece of game is mine, and I claim him he is marked with my stamp the fleur de lis is branded on his shoulder, as all men may see.
The dwelling to which the average Anglo-Saxon will most promptly direct his steps, and the only one I have space to mention, is the so-called Maison de Tristan l'Hermite, a gentleman whom the readers of "Quentin Durward" will not have forgotten, the hangman-in-ordinary to the great King Louis XI. Unfortunately the house of Tristan is not the house of Tristan at all; this illusion has been cruelly dispelled.
The inhabitants of Tours blamed Tristan l'Hermite secretly for unseemly haste. Guilty or not guilty, the young Touraineans were looked upon as victims, and Cornelius as an executioner.
You have only to choose your attendants, whom the Duke's commands limit to six." "Then," said the King, looking around him, and thinking for a moment "I desire the attendance of Oliver le Dain, of a private of my Life Guard called Balafre, who may be unarmed if you will of Tristan l'Hermite, with two of his people and my right royal and trusty philosopher, Martius Galeotti."
The young man saw the black face of Tristan l'Hermite above him, and recognized his sardonic smile; then, on the steps of the corkscrew staircase, he saw Cornelius, his sister, and behind them the provost guard.
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