"One hundred and sixty-eight heavenly
hours. It's the chance of a lifetime. The world was made in seven
days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendour, seven days of
love."
Villon gave a groan of despair for his golden hopes.
"And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the
brothel!"
Louis' malign smile deepened. He came closer to the poet and tapped
him on the chest with his lean forefinger. He was enjoying himself
immensely.
"No, no, not exactly." he hummed. "You don't taste the full force of
the joke yet. In a week's time you will build me a big gibbet in the
Place de Greve, and there your last task as Grand Constable will be
to hang Master Fran?ois Villon."
If the world had been colourless and scentless before, it was now no
better than a hideous heap of ashes. If Villon had run up a heavy
reckoning with the king at the Fircone Tavern, must he wipe out the
score with his life-blood? Villon fell at the king's feet with
extended hands and agonized, beseeching eyes.
"Sire, sire, have pity!"
The king looked down on him in disdain.
"Are you so fond of life? Are you so poor a thing that you prize
your garret and your kennel, your tavern and your brothel so
highly?"
Villon bowed his head.
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