esty, 'twas Monsieur d' Angers; and I have on my foot a very heavy chain, and a great ball of iron at the end, much heavier than it should be in reason. Eh! sire! Have pity on me!"
"Olivier," cried the king, throwing back his head, "I observe that they charge me twenty sols a hogshead for plaster, while it is worth but twelve. You will refer back this account."
He turned his back on the cage, and set out to leave the room. The miserable prisoner divined from the removal of the torches and the noise, that the king was taking his departure.
"Sire! sire!" he cried in despair.
The door closed again. He no longer saw anything, and heard only the hoarse voice of the turnkey, singing in his ears this ditty,—
"Maître Jean Balue,
A perdu la vue
De ses évêchés.
Monsieur de Verdun.
N'en a plus pas un; Tous sont dépêchés."[1]
The king reascended in silence to his retreat, and his suite followed him, terrified by the last groans of the condemned man. All at once his majesty turned to the Governor of the Bastille,—
"By the way," said he, "was there not some one in that cage?"
"Pardieu, yes sire!" replied the governor, astounded by the question.
"And who was it?"
"Monsieur the Bishop of Verdun."
The king knew this better than any one else. But it was a mania of his.
"Ah!" said he, with the innocent air of thinking of it for the first time, "Giiillaume de Haraiicourt, the friend of Monsieur the Cardinal Balue. A good devil of a bishop!"
- ↑ Master Jean Balue has lost sight of his bishoprics. Monsieur of Verdun has no longer one; all have been killed off.
