A ripe, warm, royal flavour rewarded him.
"By Heaven!" he cried; "no nobler juice ever rippled from Burgundian
vineyards."
He drained the cup and set it down to fill another from the
companion vessel and to repeat the ceremony of sniffing, tasting and
swallowing. Again the desire of his palate was pleased and pacified.
He reflected as he sipped and swallowed.
"This quintessence of crushed violets ripened no otherwhere than in
the valleys of Bordeaux. Ergo, I am not drunk. I do not think I am
mad, neither, for I know in my heart that I am poor Fran?ois Villon,
penniless Master of Arts, and no will o' the wisp Grand Constable.
Then I am dreaming, fast asleep in the chimney corner of the Fircone
Tavern, having finished that flask I filched, and everything since
then has been and is a dream. The coming of Katherine, a dream. My
fight with Thibaut d'Aussigny, a dream. Then the king--popping up
at the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-Box--a dream. These clothes,
these servants, this garden--dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake
presently and be devilish cold and devilish hungry, and devilish
shabby. But in the meantime, these dream liquors make good
drinking.
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