Behind Olivier came a little cluster of
pages, and behind them again the king could see a shining figure in
cloth of gold.
"Here comes my mountebank," he said to himself, "as pompous as if he
were born to the purple." He moved swiftly to the door of the tower
and entered it, disappearing as the little procession descended the
steps into the Rose Garden. There was a little grating in the door
of the tower, a little grating with a sliding shutter, and through
this grating the king now peered with infinite entertainment at the
progress of the comedy himself had planned. Olivier had spoken truly
when he said that Master Villon had been greatly changed. The
barber's own handiwork had so cleansed and shaved his countenance,
had so trimmed and readjusted his locks that his face now shone as
different from the face of the tavern-haunter as the face of the
moon shines from the face of a lantern. He was as sumptuously
attired as if he were a prince of the blood royal: the noonday sun
seemed to take fresh lustre from his suit of cloth of gold, the air
to be enriched by his perfume, the world to be vastly the better for
his furs and jewels.
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