Chapter 1-The Abbot of Saint-Martin's
The fame of Dom Claude Frollo had spread abroad.To it，just about the time of his refusal to encounter the Lady of Beaujeu，he owed a visit which remained long in his memory.
It happened one evening.Claude had just retired after the evening office to his canonical cell in the cloister of Notre-Dame.Beyond a few glass phials pushed away into a corner and containing some powder which looked suspiciously like an explosive，the cell had nothing noteworthy or mysterious about it.Here and there were some inions on the walls，but they consisted purely of learned axioms or pious extracts from worthy authors.The Archdeacon had just seated himself at a huge oak chest covered with manus，and lighted by a three-armed brass lamp.He leaned his elbow on an open tome：Honorius of Autun's De p estinatione et libero arbitrio，2 while he musingly turned over the leaves of a printed folio he had just brought over，the sole production of the printing-press which stood in his cell.His reverie was broken by a knock at the door.
'Who's there？'called the scholar in the friendly tone of a famished dog disturbed over a bone.
'A friend—Jacques Coictier，'answered a voice outside.
He rose and opened the door.
It was，in fact，the King's physician，a man of some fifty years，the hardness of whose expression was somewhat mitigated by a look of great cunning.He was accompanied by another man.Both wore long，slate-gray，squirrel-lined robes，fastened from top to bottom and belted round the middle，and caps of the same stuff and colour.Their hands disappeared in their sleeves，their feet under their robes，and their eyes under their caps.
'God save me，messire！'said the Archdeacon，as he admitted them；'I was far from expecting so flattering a visit at this late hour.'And while he spoke thus courteously，he glanced suspiciously and shrewdly from the physician to his companion.
'It is never too late to pay a visit to so eminent a scholar as Dom Claude Frollo of Tirechappe，'replied Doctor Coictier，whose Burgundian accent let his sentences trail along with all the majestic effect of a long-trained robe.
The physician and the Archdeacon then embarked upon one of those congratulatory prologues with which，at that period，it was customary to usher in every conversation between scholars，which did not prevent them most cordially detesting one another.For the rest，it is just the same to-day；the mouth of every scholar who compliments another is a vessel full of honeyed gall.
The felicitations addressed by Claude to Jacques Coictier alluded chiefly to the numerous material advantages the worthy physician had succeeded in extracting，in the course of his much-envied career，from each illness of the King—a surer and more profitable kind of alchemy than the pursuit of the philosopher's stone.
'Truly，Doctor Coictier，I was greatly rejoiced to learn of the promotion of your nephew，my reverend Superior，Pierre Versé，to a bishopric.He is made Bishop of Amiens，is he not？'
'Yes，Monsieur the Archdeacon，it is a gracious and merciful gift of the Lord.'
'Let me tell you you made a brave show on Christmas-day at the head of your company of the Chamber of Accountants，Monsieur the President.'
'Vice-President，Dom Claude.Alas！nothing more.'
'How fares it with your superb mansion in the Rue Saint-Andry des Arcs？It is in very truth a Louvre！And I am much taken by the apricot-tree sculptured on the door，with the pleasant play of words inscribed beneath it，'A L'Abri-Cotier.''
'Well，well，M re Claude，all this masons'work costs me dearly.In the same measure as my house rises higher，my funds sink lower.'
'Oho！Have you not your revenues from the jail，and the provostship of the Palais de Justice，and the rents from all the houses，workshops，booths，and market-stalls within the circuit of Paris？That is surely an excellent milch cow.'
'My castellany of Poissy has not brought me in a sou this year.'
'But your toll dues at Triel，Saint-James，and Saint-Germain-en-Laye—they are always profitable？'
'Six times twenty livres only，and not even Paris money at that.'
'But you have your appointment as Councillor to the King—that means a fixed salary surely？'
'Yes，Colleague Claude，but that cursed Manor of Poligny，they make such a coil about，is not worth more to me than sixty gold crowns—taking one year with another.'
The compliments which Dom Claude thus addressed to Jacques Coictier were uttered in that tone of veiled，bitter，sardonic raillery，with that grievous，yet cruel，smile of a superior and unfortunate man，who seeks a moment's distraction in playing on the gross vanity of the vulgarly prosperous man.The other was quite unconscious of it.
'By my soul！'said Claude at last，pressing his hand，'I rejoice to see you in such excellent health.'
'Thank you，M re Claude.'
'Speaking of health，'cried Dom Claude，'how is your royal patient？'
'He does not pay his doctor sufficiently well，'said the physician with a side glance at his companion.
'Do you really think that，friend Coictier？'said the stranger.
These words，uttered in a tone of surprise and reproach，recalled the Archdeacon's attention to the stranger's presence，though，to tell the truth，he had never，from the moment he crossed the threshold，quite turned away from this unknown guest.Indeed，it required the thousand reasons Claude had for humouring the all-powerful physician of Louis XI to make him consent to receive him thus accompanied.Therefore，his expression was none of the friendliest when Jacques Coictier said to him：
'By-the-bye，Dom Claude，I have brought a colleague，who was most desirous of seeing one of whom he has heard so much.'
'Monsieur is a scholar？'asked the Archdeacon，fixing Coictier's companion with a penetrating eye.But from under the brows of the stranger he met a glance not less keen or less suspicious than his own.