“Sire, a man who pretended to be a Fleming has got the better of me—­” began Cornelius.

“He must be crafty indeed, that fellow!” exclaimed Louis, wagging his head.

“Oh, yes!” replied the silversmith, bitterly.  “But methinks he’d have snared you yourself.  How could I distrust a beggar recommended to me by Oosterlinck, one hundred thousand francs of whose money I hold in my hands.  I will wager the Jew’s letter and seal were forged!  In short, sire, I found myself this morning robbed of those jewels you admired so much.  They have been ravished from me, sire!  To steal the jewels of the Elector of Bavaria! those scoundrels respect nothing! they’ll steal your kingdom if you don’t take care.  As soon as I missed the jewels I went up to the room of that apprentice, who is, assuredly, a past-master in thieving.  This time we don’t lack proof.  He had forced the lock of his door.  But when he got back to his room, the moon was down and he couldn’t find all the screws.  Happily, I felt one under my feet when I entered the room.  He was sound asleep, the beggar, tired out.  Just fancy, gentlemen, he got down into my strong-room by the chimney.  To-morrow, or to-night, rather, I’ll roast him alive.  He had a silk ladder, and his clothes were covered with marks of his clambering over the roof and down the chimney.  He meant to stay with me, and ruin me, night after night, the bold wretch!  But where are the jewels?  The country-folks coming into town early saw him on the roof.  He must have had accomplices, who waited for him by that embankment you have been making.  Ah, sire, you are the accomplice of fellows who come in boats; crack! they get off with everything, and leave no traces!  But we hold this fellow as a key, the bold scoundrel! ah! a fine morsel he’ll be for the gallows.  With a little bit of questioning beforehand, we shall know all.  Why, the glory of your reign is concerned in it! there ought not to be robbers in the land under so great a king.”

The king was not listening.  He had fallen into one of those gloomy meditations which became so frequent during the last years of his life.  A deep silence reigned.

“This is your business,” he said at length to Tristan; “take you hold of it.”

He rose, walked a few steps away, and the courtiers left him alone.  Presently he saw Cornelius, mounted on his mule, riding away in company with the grand provost.

“Where are those thousand gold crowns?” he called to him.

“Ah! sire, you are too great a king! there is no sum that can pay for your justice.”

Louis XI. smiled.  The courtiers envied the frank speech and privileges of the old silversmith, who promptly disappeared down the avenue of young mulberries which led from Tours to Plessis.