Though it was plain that the tricked-out poet
was in a desperate dilemma he managed to bear himself with a dignity
that consorted royally with his pomp. Olivier bowed low to the
figure in cloth of gold.
"Will your dignity deign to linger awhile in this rose arbour?" he
asked.
The gentleman in cloth of gold looked at him in wonder. In truth,
the gentleman in cloth of gold was in a very bewildered frame of
mind. He had seen but now a clean and smooth-shaven face in the
mirror, with elegantly trimmed hair, and he tried to associate the
image in the mirror with his own familiar face, unwashed, unkempt,
unshaven. He eyed the splendid clothes that covered him and his
memory fumbled in perplexity over the horrors of a dingy, filthy
wardrobe, ragged, wine-stained and ancient. He looked at the solemn
pages who stood about him with golden cups and golden flagons in
their hands, and he tried to remember how he had escaped from the
society of Master Robin Turgis into this gilded environment. His
head ached with the endeavour and he abandoned it. Olivier repeated
his question, and at last Villon found words, though his voice
sounded strange and hollow on his ears, and hard to command.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105