He had got at least an
excellent overword. "A dish of tripe's the best of all." He mouthed
the line with a relish, but his eyes were seeing straws and his
stubbled chin scraped his breast. There came a click at the latch,
but he did not heed it. He would scarcely have heeded a Burgundian
cannon shot; he had drifted into a lumpish doze. And yet the way of
the world depended, for him, upon that lift of a latch.
CHAPTER III
THE COMING OF KATHERINE
The door opened and a woman entered the room, a woman closely
muffled after the fashion adopted by discreet ladies when they
walked abroad in Paris in the fifteenth century. She was followed by
an armed serving-man to whom she turned and spoke in a whisper as
she paused upon the threshold.
"You are sure this is the place?" she asked, and the man answered--
"Sure!"
"Wait outside!" the muffled lady commanded, and the servant with an
obeisance stepped back into the street. The woman looked cautiously
about her, only her bright eye showing over the lifted fold of her
cloak. Villon was hidden from her while he sat; there was no one in
her view save the two men playing cards.
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