Louis watched her as she went, watched her until she was
out of sight, and then turned sharply upon his servant.
"Well, goodman barber, what of Fran?ois Villon?"
"A pot of drugged wine last night sent him to sleep in a prison.
This morning he woke in a palace, lapped in the linen of a royal
bed. He has been washed and barbered, sumptuously dressed and rarely
perfumed. He is so changed that his dearest friend would not know
him again. He does not seem to know himself. He carries himself as
if he had been a courtier all his days."
The king chuckled.
"I have little doubt that when the jackass wore the lion's skin he
thought himself the lion. But is he not amazed?"
"Too much amazed, sire, to betray amazement. His attendants assure
him, with the gravest faces, that he is the Grand Constable of
France. I believe he thinks himself in a dream, and, finding the
dream delicate, accepts it."
"Remember," said Louis, "to keep to the tale. This fellow came here
from Provence last night. None must know who he is save you and I
and Tristan. Blow it about to all the court that he is the Count of
Montcorbier, the favourite of our brother of Provence, and now my
friend and counsellor.
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