"
But the poet seemed weary after so much heat. He pushed the girl
away and drooped on his hogshead. The rogues rattled away to their
table again, and Villon was left alone with Louis, who questioned
him drily: "You call yourself a patriot, I suppose?"
Villon had recovered sufficient energy to drain a mug of wine. He
turned to the king, passing his hand over his forehead. "By no such
high-sounding title," he answered. "I am but a poor devil with a
heart too big for his body and a hope too large for his hoop. Had I
been begotten in a brocaded bed, I might have led armies and served
France; have loved ladies without fear of cudgellings, and told
kings truths without dread of the halter, while as it is, I consort
with sharps and wantons, and make my complaint to a dull little
buzzard like you, old noodle! Oh,'tis a fool's play and it were well
to be out of it."
"You won't have long to worry," Tristan muttered to himself under
his breath, and found great comfort in the thought. Louis merely
said: "You are sententious!"
Villon took him up swiftly. "The quintessence of envy, no less. I
have great thoughts, great desires, great ambitions, great
appetites, what you will.
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