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Updated: June 22, 2025
A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door. She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice, singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the King's Minstrel. With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast within.
There, too, was Le Brun, the painter, discussing art in a small circle which contained his fellow-workers Verrio and Laguerre, the architects Blondel and Le Notre, and sculptors Girardon, Puget, Desjardins, and Coysevox, whose works had done so much to beautify the new palace of the king.
A sentence, one sentence of all those which Blondel had poured forth not Blondel the austere Syndic, who had set the lads aside as if they had been schoolboys, but Blondel the man, trembling, holding out suppliant hands rang again and again in her ears. "It is health of body, though you be dying as I am, and health of mind, though you be possessed of devils!" Health of body! Health of mind!
The next day I called on Madame Vanloo, who informed me that Madame Blondel had charged her to thank me for having gone away, while her husband wished me to know that he was sorry not to have seen me to express his gratitude. "He seems to have found his wife a maid, but that's no fault of mine; and Manon Baletti is the only person he ought to be grateful to.
On Sunday he would take them all to the theatre; and almost every evening he would go with Messieurs Chebe and Delobelle to a brewery on the Rue Blondel, where he regaled them with beer and pretzels. Beer and pretzels were his only vice.
In the act of ringing he changed his mind, and laying the bell down, he strode himself to the outer door, the house door, and opened it. The man was still in the street. Scarcely showing himself, Blondel caught his eye, signed to him to enter, and held the door while he did so. Claude Mercier for he it was entered awkwardly.
Blondel answered, moving painfully in his chair. "Yet you will give yours for them! You will give yours! And who will be a ducat the better?" "I shall at least die for freedom," the Syndic muttered, gnawing his moustache. "A word!" "For the religion, then." "It is that which men make it!" the scholar retorted.
"No." "Why?" "The substance was exhausted." Blondel gasped. "Why did he not make more?" he cried. His voice was querulous, almost savage. "The experiment," Basterga answered, "of which it was the product was costly." Blondel's face turned purple. "Costly?" he cried. "Costly? When the lives of men hung in the balance."
You think it is natural Blondel should favour such as you?" "It will not be the first time Geneva cloak has covered Genoa velvet!" "Velvet!" Basterga repeated with a sneer. "Rags rather!" And then more quickly, "But that is not all, nor the half.
They knew, however, that men on the prison wall were watching them as they sat singing, and Blondel, with a final strain taken from a ballad of a knight who, having discovered the hiding-place of his lady love, prepared to free her from her oppressors, shouldered his lute, and they started on their homeward journey. There was no delay now.
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