who were walking up and down the adjoining hall.  These two Tourainean seigneurs looked at the captain of the Scottish guard, who was sleeping in his chair, according to his usual custom.  The king himself appeared to be dozing.  His head had drooped upon his breast; his cap, pulled forward on his forehead, hid his eyes.  Thus seated in his high chair, surmounted by the royal crown, he seemed crouched together like a man who had fallen asleep in the midst of some deep meditation.

At this moment Tristan and his cortege crossed the canal by the bridge of Sainte-Anne, about two hundred feet from the entrance to Plessis.

“Who is that?” said the king.

The two courtiers questioned each other with a look of surprise.

“He is dreaming,” said Coyctier, in a low voice.

“Pasques-Dieu!” cried Louis XI., “do you think me mad?  People are crossing the bridge.  It is true I am near the chimney, and I may hear sounds more easily than you.  That effect of nature might be utilized,” he added thoughtfully.

“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 touch it could burst into flames and cast fire about him.  The doctor was a stout burgher, with a florid face, dressed in black, peremptory, greedy of gain, and self-important.  These two personages were framed, as it were, in that panelled chamber, hung with high-warped tapestries of Flanders, the ceiling of which, made of carved beams, was blackened by smoke.  The furniture, the bed, all inlaid with arabesques in pewter, would seem to-day more precious than they were at that period when the arts were beginning to produce their choicest masterpieces.