Notre Dame de Paris - Bartleby.com

anxiety, while the physician’s countenance waxed gloomier every instant. The good man had no other
means of subsistence but the King’s bad health; he accordingly made the most of it.
“Oh, oh!” he muttered at last, “this is indeed serious.”
“Yes, is it not?” said the King, anxiously.
“Pulsus creber, anhelans, crepitans, irregularis,” 90 continued the physician.
“Pasque-Dieu!” exclaimed his Majesty.
“This might carry off a man in less than three days.”
“Notre Dame!” cried the King. “And the remedy, Gossip?”
“I am thinking of one, Sire.”
He made Louis put out his tongue; then shook his head, pulled a long face, and in the midst of these
antics—“Pardieu! Sire,” he remarked suddenly, “I must inform you that there is a receivership of
episcopal revenues vacant, and that I have a nephew.”
“I give the receivership to thy nephew, Gossip Jacques; but take this fire from my breast.”
“Since your Majesty is so gracious,” the physician went on, “you will not refuse to assist me a little
towards the building of my house in the Rue Saint-Andry des Arcs?”
“H’m!” said the King.
“I am at the end of my money,” continued the doctor, “and it would indeed be a pity that the house
should be left without a roof—not for the sake of the house itself, which is plain and homely, but for the
paintings of Jehan Fourbault which adorn the wainscoting. There is a Diana among them, flying in the
air; but so excellently limned, so tender, so delicate, the attitude so artless, the hair so admirably
arranged and crowned by a crescent, the flesh so white, that she leads those into temptation who regard
her too closely. Then there is also another, a Ceres—another most admirable divinity—seated on sheaves
of corn, and crowned with a garland of wheat-ears intertwined with salsify and other flowers. Never
were more amorous eyes, or shapelier limbs, or a nobler mien, or more graceful folds of drapery. It is
one of the most innocent and perfect beauties that ever brush produced.”
“Tormentor!” growled Louis, “to what does all this tend?”
“I require a roof over these paintings, Sire, and, although it be but a trifle, I have no money left.”
“What will it cost, this roof of thine?”
“Oh, well; a roof of copper-gilt and with mythological figures, two thousand livres at most.”
“Ha! the assassin!” screamed the King. “He never draws me a tooth but he makes a diamond out of
it!”
“Am I to have my roof?” said Coictier.
“Yes!—and go to the devil; but cure me first.”