"If Fran?ois Villon were the king of France," he muttered. "How that
mad ballad maker glowed last night. Fools are proverbially
fortunate, and a mad man may save Paris for me as a mad maid saved
France for my sire."
A heavy tread behind him stirred him from his meditations. Turning,
he beheld the companion of his adventure of the previous evening.
"Well, Tristan?" he questioned apprehensively, for Tristan had the
evil smile on his face which he always wore when he had news of any
disagreeable kind to impart.
"The bird has flown, sire," he said. "Thibaut d'Aussigny's wound was
much slighter than we thought last night. After we carried him to
his house, he made his escape thence in disguise, and has, as I
believe, fled from Paris to join the Duke of Burgundy."
The king shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"I wish the duke joy of him," he said. "He is more dangerous to my
enemy when he is on my enemy's side. Where are the rascals of last
night?"
"The tavern rabble are in custody of Messire Noel."
"And my rival for royalty?"
"Barber Olivier has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue out
of hand.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95