But I owed you a
good turn and your own words prompted the payment. 'This poor devil
shall taste power,' I said. 'I will make him my Grand Constable--'"
Villon's joy was so great that he was unable to hear the king out,
but interrupted him with enthusiastic promises.
"Sire, I will serve you as never king was served."
Louis went on unheeding, and his quiet, monotonous words fell on the
hot brain of the poet and chilled it.
"I will make him my Grand Constable for a week."
If Louis had jerked a dagger into Villon's side, he could not have
more surely hurt his victim.
"A week, sire?" Villon gasped, almost unable to realize the meaning
of the king's words.
Louis turned upon him and snarled at him:
"Good Lord, did your vanity credit a permanent appointment? Come,
friend, come, that would be pushing the joke too far!"
All the sunlight seemed to have gone out of the world, all the scent
out of the roses. Villon could only repeat to himself: "A week!" and
stare vacantly at the king. The king emphasized his offer, lingering
over it lovingly.
"Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days." He paused for
an instant as he counted.
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