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Teniers could have given but a very imperfect idea of it. Let the reader picture to himself in bacchanal form, Salvator Rosa's battle. There were no longer either scholars or ambassadors or bourgeois or men or women; there was no longer any Clopin Trouillefou, nor Gilles Lecornu, nor Marie Quatrelivres, nor Robin Poussepain. All was universal license.
"Good day, Mister Elector!" "Good night, Madame Electress!" "How happy they are to see all that!" sighed Joannes de Molendino, still perched in the foliage of his capital. Meanwhile, the sworn bookseller of the university, Master Andry Musnier, was inclining his ear to the furrier of the king's robes, Master Gilles Lecornu. "I tell you, sir, that the end of the world has come.
A thousand livres parisi for a mass! and out of the tax on sea fish in the markets of Paris, to boot!" "Peace, old crone," said a tall, grave person, stopping up his nose on the side towards the fishwife; "a mass had to be founded. Would you wish the king to fall ill again?" "Bravely spoken, Sire Gilles Lecornu, master furrier of king's robes!" cried the little student, clinging to the capital.
A shout of laughter from all the students greeted the unlucky name of the poor furrier of the king's robes. "Lecornu! Gilles Lecornu!" said some. "Cornutus et hirsutus, horned and hairy," another went on. "He! of course," continued the small imp on the capital, "What are they laughing at?
An honorable man is Gilles Lecornu, brother of Master Jehan Lecornu, provost of the king's house, son of Master Mahiet Lecornu, first porter of the Bois de Vincennes, all bourgeois of Paris, all married, from father to son." The gayety redoubled.
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