"My lord," he said, dapperly, "here are the names of these night
birds."
Villon took the paper and looked straightly into the young man's
eyes.
"Have we ever met before?" he asked.
Noel le Jolys made a deprecatory gesture.
"Alas! no," he said. "Your lordship has swept into court like an
unheralded comet. You shall tell us tales of Provence to please our
ladies."
Still gravely looking at him, Villon questioned him again.
"Messire Noel, if you and I had a mind to pluck the same rose from
this garden, which of us would win?"
The affable fribble's intelligence appeared to be baffled.
"I do not understand you," he protested.
Villon shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind," he said, seating
himself again on the marble seat and looking at the familiar names
on the piece of paper.
"Send me hither Ren? de Montigny."
He was fairly convinced by this time that he was not wandering in
the labyrinths of a dream, that he really was awake, but that for
some reason which he was unable to fathom, he had been thus
strangely transmuted into the semblance of splendour and authority.
"The popinjay fails to recognize me," he said to himself; "so may my
bullies," and as he thought, Ren? de Montigny was pushed forward by
a couple of soldiers and stood sullenly defiant before him.
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