Villon was
head-sick and heart-sick with the effort to put so much of the past
together. He felt as if in some strange titanic way he had ruined a
world and was suddenly called upon by Providence to piece the
fragments together and make all whole again. He tapped his forehead
wonderingly.
"Last night I was a red-handed outlaw, sleeping on the straw of a
dungeon. To-day I wake in a royal bed and my varlets call me
monseigneur. There are but three ways of explaining this singular
situation. Either I am drunk or I am mad or I am dreaming. If I am
drunk, I shall never distinguish Bordeaux Wine from Burgundy--a
melancholy dilemma. Let's test it."
The marble table stood but a little way from him. The golden vessels
that stood upon it had served him at that morning meal which was
still an immediate excellent memory, and he remembered how his
attendants had told him that one held wine of Bordeaux and one wine
of Burgundy. He rose and crept across the soft grass to the table
and lifted one of the golden flagons gingerly, sniffed at it
fearfully and poured some of its contents carefully into a golden
goblet. Lifting it cautiously to his lips, he tasted it judiciously.
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