“Pasques-Dieu! and such treasure!” cried the king.

“Where is it?” asked Cornelius, who, by a singular provision of nature, heard the remarks of the king and his physician, while continuing himself almost torpid with thought and the shock of this singular misfortune.

“Ha!” cried Coyctier, bursting into a diabolical, coarse laugh, “somnambulists never remember on their waking what they have done when asleep.”

“Leave us,” said the king.

When Louis XI. was alone with his silversmith, he looked at him and chuckled coldly.

“Messire Hoogworst,” he said, with a nod, “all treasures buried in France belong to the king.”

“Yes, sire, all is yours; you are the absolute master of our lives and fortunes; but, up to this moment, you have only taken what you need.”

“Listen to me, old crony; if I help you to recover this treasure, you can surely, and without fear, agree to divide it with me.”

“No, sire, I will not divide it; I will give it all to you, at my death.  But what scheme have you for finding it?”

“I shall watch you myself when you are taking your nocturnal tramps.  You might fear any one but me.”

“Ah, sire!” cried Cornelius, flinging himself at the king’s feet, “you are the only man in the kingdom whom I would trust for such a service; and I will try to prove my gratitude for your goodness, by doing my utmost to promote the marriage of the Burgundian heiress with Monseigneur.  She will bring you a noble treasure, not of money, but of lands, which will round out the glory of your crown.”

“There, there, Dutchman, you are trying to hoodwink me,” said the king, with frowning brows, “or else you have already done so.”

“Sire! can you doubt my devotion? you, who are the only man I love!”

“All that is talk,” returned the king, looking the other in the eyes.  “You need not have waited till this moment to do me that service.  You are selling me your influence—­Pasques-Dieu! to me, Louis XI.!  Are you the master, and am I your servant?”

“Ah, sire,” said the old man, “I was waiting to surprise you agreeably with news of the arrangements I had made for you in Ghent; I was awaiting confirmation from Oosterlinck through that apprentice.  What has become of that young man?”

“Enough!” said the king; “this is only one more blunder you have committed.  I do not like persons to meddle in my affairs without my knowledge.  Enough! leave me; I wish to reflect upon all this.”

Maitre Cornelius found the agility of youth to run downstairs to the lower rooms where he was certain to find his sister.

“Ah!  Jeanne, my dearest soul, a hoard is hidden in this house; I have put thirteen hundred thousand crowns and all the jewels somewhere.  I, I, I am the robber!”

Jeanne Hoogworst rose from her stool and stood erect as if the seat she quitted were of red-hot iron.  This shock was so violent for an old maid accustomed for years to reduce herself by voluntary fasts, that she trembled in every limb, and horrible pains were in her back.  She turned pale by degrees, and her face,—­the changes in which were difficult to decipher among its wrinkles,—­became distorted while her brother explained to her the malady of which he was the victim, and the extraordinary situation in which he found himself.