"The game makes amends," Louis answered.
"You are winning, sire," Tristan grunted. The king chirruped
merrily.
"My grandsire will be remembered longer than most kings for the sake
of these wasters and winners that they made to soothe his madness."
But even as he spoke his mirth faded, for a turn of Fortune gave
Tristan an opportunity.
"My game, sire!" he said, and swept the stakes into his pocket.
The king fell into a frowning silence as Tristan dealt the cards
again, and scrutinized his new hand with a sombre care, as if the
fate of Empire depended upon it. Scarcely a sound disturbed the
heavy quiet of the room. Master Fran?ois Villon glooming in his
settle corner, sucked a long noiseless draught from his stolen jug
and meditated drearily. Between wine and weariness his head was
beginning to swim. His head felt as heavy as lead and his brain as
light and foolish as a wind-tumbled feather. Two women's faces
danced before his eyes, one proud and beautiful and young, the other
humble and pitiful and old, and he tried his best to shut both of
them out of his senses. Vaguely he tried to shape a ballade, a noble
ballade in honour of all things good to eat.
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