“Hush!... I remember every thing now. My father was a noodle who let France be overrun by the English, and when the Maid of Orleans saved him, gave her up to the English. I hate my father who was false to my mother with Agnes Sorel, and had his legitimate children brought up by his paramour. When he left the kingdom to itself, I and the nobles took it in hand. That you call ‘revolt,’ but I have never stirred up a revolt! That is a lie.” “Listen!” the Doctor broke in; “if you wish to confess, send for your father confessor.” “I am not confessing to you; I am defending myself.” “Who is accusing you, then? Your own bad conscience.” “I have no bad conscience, but I am accused unjustly.” “Who is accusing you? The starling?” “My wife and children accuse me, and don’t wish to see me.” “No; if you have sent them to Amboise, they cannot see you, and, as a matter of fact, they do not wish to.” “To think that I, the son of King Charles VII, must hear this sort of thing from a quack doctor! I have always liked people of low rank; Olivier the barber was my friend.” “And the executioner Tristan was your godfather.” “He was provost-marshal, you dog!” “The tailor became a herald.” “And the quack doctor a chancellor! Put that to my account and praise me, ingrate! for having protected you from the nobles, and for only having regard to merit.” “That is certainly a redeeming feature.” Just then a man appeared in the doorway with his cap in his hand. “Who is there?” cried the King. “Is it a murderer?” “No, it is only the gardener,” the man answered. “Ha! ha! gardener!--your cow has calved, hasn’t she?” “I possess no cow, sire, nor have I ever had one.” The King was beside himself, and flew at Coctier’s throat. “You have lied to me, scoundrel; it is not medicine you were preparing, but poison.” The gardener disappeared. “If I wished to do what I should,” said Coctier, “I would treat you like Charles the Bold did when you cheated him.” “What did he do? What do people say that he did?” “People say that he beat you with a stick.” The King was ashamed, went to bed again, and hid his face in the pillow. The Doctor considered this a favourable moment for preferring a long-denied request. “Will you now liberate the Milanese?” he asked. “No.” “But he cannot sit any more in his iron cage!” “Then let him stand!” “Don’t you know that when one has to die, one good deed atones for a thousand crimes?” “I will not die!” “Yes, sire, you will die soon.” “After you!” “No, before me.” “That is also a lie of yours.” “All have lied to you, liar. And your four thousand victims whom you have had executed....” “They were not victims; they were criminals.” “Those four thousand slaughtered will witness it the judgment seat against you.” “Lengthen my life; then I will reform myself.” “Liberate the Milanese.” “Never!” “Then go to perdition--and quickly. Your pulse is so feeble that your hours are numbered.”