Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STORY OF LOUIS XI, by PAUL FORT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE STORY OF LOUIS XI, by                    
First Line: Louis xi, for trifles fain, I love you, curious man. Dear chafferer in
Last Line: About his tattered hood ran a silver hem of moonlight fair.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; France; Love; Praise; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens


Louis XI, for trifles fain, I love you, curious man. Dear chafferer in
chestnuts, astutely did you plan to pluck the chestnuts of fair Burgundy! You
seemed all friendliness and courtesy. Your hood was hung with images of lead and
copper medals. Watchers would have said your pious thoughts were fixed on things
above. Sudden you stooped, your long arms outward drove. Gently, not even
ruffling your sleek glove, you filched a chestnut, another, half a dozen,
beneath the menacing gauntlet of your cousin.

But if by chance he let his great fists fall upon your back, your scrawny back,
you roared with laughter and his stolen goods restored. 'Twas but an empty
shell. Void were the chestnuts all. Your gentle industry served your fortunes
well.

So I, good singer, sage of little worth, pilfer both heaven and earth, provinces
of my brain, under the hands of the Lord, all light. I deftly pull from his
fingers the roses of the dawn, the rings of the storm, the lilies of starry
nights and gain little ineffable images, a heap of shining things stored up
beneath my skull.

To filch by slow degrees but sure, sweet Louis XI, O man most rare! May God,
good politician, O rare among the Louis, hold you in His good care and as, in
days of old, when you were pleased, your favorite greyhound stretched beneath
your breeches, mildly to judge by that grateful warmth appeased, beneath His
golden slippers in Paradise may you be, blest little King at rest, His most
fervent counsellor.
And, for having praised you, counter to my teachers, and with all candour having
kept your law, when the day of my doom is at hand, when I, in my turn, shall
stand awaiting judgment at the bar above, pluck at God's robe that he place me
in His love.

Here Commences the Story of Louis XI.

When good Pierre Crolavoine and Jean Le Damoisel, followed with furry pace by
all the parliament, in the lurid flaring of two hundred torches, had enriched
the basilique of Saint Denis with one more royal body, when Charles Seventh was
laid beside Charles Sixth and each sad rite was consummated with all due
ceremony.

Then when this was noised abroad, set down in history, honestly cried through
all the provinces, that a prince had perished in the Realm of France, when 'twas
well averred that they had buried him, tranquilly agile the worthy dauphin Louis
slipped back again from exile with the dream of reconciling economy and glory.

Silvering earth with the lustre of all his chivalry, inheritor of Flanders and
heir to Burgundy, called the Terror of the world, Count Charles of Charolais,
preceding his cousin, impetuously towards Paris urged his way.

With more sympathetic grace, at a mournful little pace, the proper lullaby sad
musings to efface, making that journey hard in a manner fair to see, twenty
Burgundians for guard, Louis came back from Burgundy. In panoply of black and
brown, perched on a black and yellow mare, perceiving Rheims upon his road it
was his whim to sojourn there, in honor of that ancient town graciously there
his tour to break and lay his pilgrim's burden down for such a space as it would
take to consecrate a royal heir, letting the folk rich feasts prepare, ambrosial
breakfasts, savory suppers, since Charles's father paid, elate with princely
prodigality, his ancient uncle of Burgundy who followed him, in ducal state, --
white beard and violent in the wind beneath his pennon, and behind a thousand
staunch Burgundian troopers.

Three days from summer's hoard each pelted each with flowers, while Rheimsian
Bacchus poured his fiery-hearted powers. Long they recount those hours 'neath
the ogive and the thatch. And long through fair Champagne, bald of the fur of
hares, the forests of Ardennes, all virgin of wild boars, the vacant field and
fen no sustenance affords to the poachers' sharp-eyed watch.

Nevertheless King Louis, now no more to be Louis as before, a King without a
Kingdom, yet a King I trow, without a weight more royal his good mare's back to
bow, after this brief cessation resumed the rocking gait of his gentle canter
slow, so justly iodine to his silent meditation.

-- King without a Kingdom, true King, though, none the less. . . . A doleful
destiny! he thought with heaviness.
-- In his own land to seem a little exiled King. . . . Ah, bitter is my cup!
Such was his sombre dream.
-- Behind, my uncle fell, my cousin bold before. . . . Portable prison cell. . .
.
-- My wits are growing dull, I ween. By the Risen Christ, if in my domain my
kinsmen have a conquering mien and for the scepter seem full fain. Reflect, good
dauphin Louis . . . no, Louis Eleventh! I mistake. For whom does yonder barley
grow? Whose thirst will those fat melons slake? -- That of their owners. -- If I
take and hang them? -- Straight their crops revert to the King! So Gallic laws
assert. -- Where sprouts the grain? Good uncle, say! -- Fair nephew, where but
in the earth? -- And the melons grow in heaven, eh? -- No, similarly. -- That
thing of mirth, a King without a Kingdom! Fie! What man presumed to say it? I?
Not more dull, your Lordship, than was my sire, the late Charles Seventh, (may
God above embrace him in eternal love and pardon the son that stirred his ire,
yet no gall in the royal goblet mixed that he poured not himself in the cup of
Charles Sixth) who said to you, "Brother, what manner of thing should you say
that I am?" "You are the King!" -- but he who suavely thus replied either had
some after-thought or lied.

And suddenly, more light, loosing his bridle rein to a rattling pace that
rendered sore profane more than one gentle Knight who dallied in the race left
to his own devices, slow ambling to refresh his tongue with generous, juicy
slices of melons, fresh-cut from the vine beneath a burning sun: "Bah, if a dupe
I be I conquer Paris still, if Uncle Burgundy, complacent, pays the bill, and
gives me all Gaul free!" Then stroking his palfry (his mare you opine), "My
cousin may shine for his King in the tourney. What matter to me! But three
Kings? Two too many!" Such were the thoughts that day of dauphin Louis, nay, of
the King I wish to say.

A sunken road in bright sunlight. The
King makes a grimace. Behind him, his valet savours a delicious melon.

-- "By the Risen Christ, 'it is hot! Philippe Pot, a slice.' . . . Come hither,
gentle spirit, talk with your King. Although you spring from humble stock I know
your merit. I love you, Philippe Pot, you love to whisper low. -- What do you
think of that ancient fox who follows my journey's course?
-- That he is old, and too old a fox has only half his force.
-- And of that gallant crimson lion who goes in front of me?
-- He has pride to sell. . . .
-- 'Tis sold!
-- And therewith the taint of treachery.
-- That I'll repay, believe me, giving him guile for guile. Paris is weary of
wars. I think 'twill scarcely smile upon my martial cousin.
-- Paris? Ah, who can say what it loved yesteryear? What it will love to-day . .
.
-- Well said! I shall Paris's proxy be and love what it will love tomorrow. You,
I love you, Philippe Pot. Since from no books you borrow your wit, you talk
well. By the Risen Christ, a scorching heat! Philippe Pot, a slice. . . .
Attend! and retain. Draw near, 'tis a mystery nefarious, a clanking skeleton
grim, the lid of whose coffin should be clapped well on! It concerns our cousin.
Know that a secret here is hid -- where are you looking? -- here! 'Tis this. It
doth appear Charles the Terrible should be changed to Charles the Temerarious! .
." So saying, he tapped his brow, sooth to say, with the slice of melon.

And this gesture, soon made current with commentaries gay, thanks to that
babbler arrant, Philippe Pot, who looked so sage, gained more than his madness
stark for good Charles the Sixth had won, more than the Maid, Jeanne D'Arc,
accomplished for his son, as much, should we wish indeed to pry through
history's page and read of times afar, as, in a later age, with victories or
without, the paleness of a plume for King Henry of Navarre, the eclat of a jet-
black steed with a stratagem blond to pair, -- this gesture debonair put
prejudice to rout, dispelled suspicion's gloom till the chronicler attests even
Burgundian breasts bore witness to the fame of this Louix Rex, so like the rest,
eleventh monarch to bear that name.

Red and gold in the night before them Paris glowed.

-- Look more closely, uncle dear, if that enfant terrible of yours makes no
sign, the sign is good.

But this crimson and this gold were the blossoms of a fete, the banners and the
flames, 'mid the rocket's soaring fire, were the flaring torches gold, the
banners and the flowers that Paris, that good city, waved towards her royal
sire.

-- Did you ever taste, good uncle, a sweeter summer night?
-- An odor honey-sweet blown from the stars there came. Through skies o'erlaid
with gold the blue stars took their flight. And they, the stars, were a swarm of
bright bees flying fleet with blue, adoring wings round a lily's golden flame.

-- Ah, gentle presages of the summer night! From a height of the moon, dear
uncle, bright beams of hope are sent. . . .

-- Why, hoity toity, nephew! Hope did I hear you say? Does aught obstruct your
way? Are you not quite content?

Softly the King of France began to whistle a non-committal air, -- while Luna
about his tattered hood ran a silver hem of moonlight fair.





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