Olivier came close to him and touched him respectfully on the wrist.
"Remember, my lord," he said, very softly, "that you are Fran?ois of
Corbeuil, Lord of Montcorbier, Grand Constable of France, newly come
to Paris from the Court of His Majesty of Provence. Remember this as
if it were written in letters of gold upon tables of iron. Forget
all else. The king commands it."
The words sounded dully enough on Villon's brain, absorbed as he was
in the contemplation of his queen, but at least they served to
convince him of what he had already begun to assure himself, that
for some purpose or other King Louis wished him well and granted him
golden chances.
Fran?ois of Corbeuil, Count of Montcorbier, stood in a very
different relation to the Lady Katherine from that of the lowly poet
and gaolbird who had rhymed and sighed and battled in the Fircone
Tavern last night.
"The king shall be obeyed," he said gravely, and Olivier, turning,
made a sign to Katherine, who descended the steps slowly. As she
reached the last step, Olivier saluted Villon and the lady
profoundly and, mounting the steps, vanished within the palace.
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