'That will do，'said the King；and motioning to the silent figure standing impassively at the door，whom we have already pointed out to the reader：'Compére Tristan，'he said，'here's a man for you.'
Tristan l'Hermite bowed，then whispered an order to a couple of archers，who carried off the unlucky truand.
Meanwhile the King had addressed himself to the other prisoner，who was perspiring profusely：'Thy name？'
'Pierre Gringoire，Sire.'
'Thy trade？'
'Philosopher，Sire.'
'How comes it，rascal，that thou hast the presumption to go and beset our friend Monsieur the Provost of the Palais，and what hast thou to say with regard to this rising of the populace？'
'Sire，I was not in it.'
'Go to，ribald；wast thou not taken by the watch in that bad company？'
'No，Sire，there is a misapprehension；'tis an unlucky mischance.I am a maker of tragedies，Sire.I beseech your Majesty to hear me.I am a poet.It is the craze of men of my profession to go about the streets at night.It was passing by，this evening；'twas a mere chance.They took me without reason.I am innocent of this civil disturbance.Your Majesty sees that the truand did not know me.I conjure your Majesty—'
'Hold thy tongue！'said the King，between two sips of his tisane；'thou wilt split our head.'
Tristan l'Hermite approached，and pointing to Gringoire：'Sire，shall we hang this one at the same time？'
It was the first word he had spoken.'Bah！'returned the King carelessly，'I see no objection.'
'But I do—a great many，'said Gringoire.
Our philosopher's countenance at this moment rivalled the hue of the olive.He saw by the cold and indifferent air of the King that he had no resource but in something，excessively pathetic.He therefore threw himself at the feet of Louis XI，and，with gestures of despair，cried：
'Sire，will your Majesty deign to listen to me？Sire，break not forth in thunders against so poor a thing as I—the bolts of God strike not the lowly lettuce.Sire，you are an august and mighty monarch；have pity on a poor honest man who would be more incapable of inflaming a revolt than an icicle of producing a spark.Most gracious Sire，magnanimity is the virtue of the lion and of the King.Alas！severity does but exasperate the spirit；the fierce blast of the north wind will not make the traveller lay aside his mantle，but the sun's gentle rays，warming him little by little，cause him at last to strip himself gladly to his shirt.Sire，you are the sun.I protest to you，my sovereign lord and master，that I am no disorderly companion of truands and thieves.Revolt and brigandage go not in the train of Apollo.I am no man to throw myself headlong into those clouds that burst in thunders of sedition.I am a faithful vassal of your Majesty.The same jealousy which the husband has for his wife's honour，the affection with which the son should requite his father's love，a good vassal should feel for the glory of his King，should wear himself out for the upholding of his house，for the furtherance of his service.All other passions that might possess him were mere frenzy.These，Sire，are my maxims of state.Therefore judge me not as sedition-monger and pillager because my coat is out at elbows.Show me mercy，Sire，and I will wear out my knees in praying God for you day and night.Alas！I am not extremely rich，it is true—rather，I am somewhat poor；but for all that，I am not vicious.It is not my fault.Every one knows that great wealth is not to be acquired from belles-lettres，and that the most accomplished writers have not always a great fire to warm them in winter.The advocates alone take all the grain，and leave nothing but the chaff for the other learned professions.There are forty very excellent proverbs upon the philosopher's threadbare coat.Oh，Sire，clemency is the only light that can illumine the interior of a great soul.Clemency bears the torch before all the other virtues.Without her they are blind，groping for God in the darkness.Mercy，which is the same as clemency，produces loving subjects—the most powerful body-guard that can surround a prince.What can it signify to your Majesty，by whom all faces are dazzled，that there should be one more poor man upon earth—a poor，innocent philosopher crawling about in the slough of calamity，his empty purse flapping upon his empty stomach？Besides，Sire，I am a man of letters.Great kings add a jewel to their crown by patronizing learning.Hercules did not disdain the title of Musagetes—leader of the Muses.Mathias Corvinus showed favour to Jean de Monroyal，the ornament of mathematics.Now'tis an ill way of patronizing letters to hang the lettered.What a stain on Alexander had he hanged Aristotle！The act would not have been a beauty-spot upon the cheek of his reputation to embellish it，but a virulent ulcer disfiguring it.Sire，I wrote a very appropriate epithalamium for Mademoiselle of Flanders and Monsieur the most august Dauphin.That was not like a fire-brand of rebellion.Your Majesty can see that I am no dunce；that I have studied excellently，and that I have much natural eloquence.Grant me mercy，Sire！By so doing，you will perform an action agreeable to Our Lady，and I do assure you，Sire，that I am greatly frightened at the thought of being hanged！'
So saying，the desperate Gringoire kissed the King's shoe，whereat Guillaume Rym murmured low to Coppenole：'He does well to crawl upon the floor.Kings are like the Cretan Jupiter—they have ears on their feet only.'And Coppenole，unmoved by the peculiar attributes of the Cretan Jupiter，answered with a slow smile and his eye fixed on Gringoire：'Ah，that's good！I could fancy I hear the Chancellor Hugonet begging mercy of me！'
When Gringoire stopped at length，out of breath，he raised his head tremulously to the King，who was engaged in scratching off a spot on his breeches'knee with his finger-nail，after which his Majesty took another mouthful from the goblet.But he said never a word，and this silence kept Gringoire on the rack.At last the King looked at him.