The other was as complete a contrast to his
companion as could be desired by the humorous painter. He was a
plump, spry little fellow, brightly dressed and bubbling over with
merry, roguish spirits, which formed the most fantastic foil to the
lugubriousness of his fellow-worker. Any good citizen of Paris,
arising belated, if any such there may have been, and hurrying to
the walls to know how things went for the king's cause, would have
recognized readily enough in these two strange opposites two of the
most dreaded of the myrmidons of Tristan l'Hermite, no less than his
two chief hangmen, Trois-Echelles and Petit-Jean. Trois-Echelles was
the long, cadaverous hangman; Petit-Jean was the stout, droll
hangman, but when it came to a push and a pinch, both were hangmen
and hung in the same manner, if not with the same manners.
Petit-Jean pulled a flagon of wine from under the platform of the
gallows, lifted it to his lips, drained a mighty draught, sighed
with satisfaction, and held out the bottle to his brother craftsman.
"Drink and be merry."
Trois-Echelles, making gestures of protestation with his head but
taking the bottle with his hand none the less, drew a deep draught
from its throttle and sighed as sadly as his friend sighed gladly.
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