"What a man!" said de Daim.

Louis XI. rose and went toward one of the windows that looked on the
town. He saw the grand provost, and exclaimed:--

"Ha, ha! here's my crony and his thief. And here comes my little Marie
de Saint-Vallier; I'd forgotten all about it. Olivier," he said,
addressing the barber, "go and tell Monsieur de Montbazon to serve
some good Bourgeuil wine at dinner, and see that the cook doesn't
forget the lampreys; Madame le comtesse likes both those things. Can I
eat lampreys?" he added, after a pause, looking anxiously at Coyctier.

For all answer the physician began to examine his master's face. The
two men were a picture in themselves.

History and romance-writers have consecrated the brown camlet coat,
and the breeches of the same stuff, worn by Louis XI. His cap,
decorated with leaden medallions, and his collar of the order of
Saint-Michel, are not less celebrated; but no writer, no painter has
represented the face of that terrible monarch in his last years,--a
sickly, hollow, yellow and brown face, all the features of which
expressed a sour craftiness, a cold sarcasm. In that mask was the
forehead of a great man, a brow furrowed with wrinkles, and weighty
with high thoughts; but in his cheeks and on his lips there was
something indescribably vulgar and common. Looking at certain details
of that countenance you would have thought him a debauched husbandman,
or a miserly pedler; and yet, above these vague resemblances and the
decrepitude of a dying old man, the king, the man of power, rose
supreme. His eyes, of a light yellow, seemed at first sight extinct;
but a spark of courage and of anger lurked there, and at the slightest