"Always delighted to see dear Louis. He and I are very good friends.
People say hard things of him, but believe me, they don't know him."
He was trying his best to piece together the disordered fragments of
his memory and to explain to himself how it came to pass that he was
on terms of friendship with the king. His head was dizzy and heavy
and he felt like a man in a dark room who was groping to find the
door handle. The voice of the barber interrupted these mental
struggles.
"May we take our leave, monseigneur?"
Villon's face lighted. He felt that it would be pleasanter for him
to be alone while he was attempting to regain control of his
faculties, more especially as he noted that the pages had placed
their golden cups and flagons on the marble table and that his
instinct assured him that these precious vessels sheltered no less
precious wine.
"You may, you may," he assented, and then as the barber made to
depart, Villon's mood changed and he caught him by the sleeve and
drew him confidentially toward him.
"Stay one moment," he murmured. "You know this plaguy memory of
mine--what a forgetful fellow I am.
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