"
He was about to fill himself another cup when a shadow fell at his
feet, the shadow of Olivier le Dain standing before him with his air
of emphasized respect, which was beginning to pall upon the
transfigured poet.
"Your dignity will forgive me, but it is the king's wish you should
pass judgment on certain prisoners."
Villon stared at him.
"I? And here?"
"Such is the king's pleasure."
"What prisoners?"
"Certain rogues and vagabonds, mankind and womankind, taken brawling
in the Fircone Tavern last night."
Villon stroked his chin thoughtfully. An idea seemed to take command
of his confused mind. Here was a chance to learn something of the
reality that lay at the core of all this mystery of roses and wine
and fine raiment. He leaned forward curiously and almost whispered
to the attendant barber,
"Tell me, is Master Fran?ois Villon, Master of Arts, rhymer at his
best, vagabond at his worst, ne'er-do-well at all seasons, and
scapegrace in all moods, among them?"
Olivier smiled complacently as those in office are accustomed to
smile at the humours of great men.
"Your dignity is pleased to jest. Shall I send you the prisoners?"
Villon caught at the offer sharply.
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