"Don't jest, master poet," he said, "but ply your suit with proud
Kate, for I swear if you fail, you shall hang to-morrow. Now leave
me, for I must work while you play," and he bent over a chart and
seemed to forget all else in his profound contemplation.
Villon looked at him for a moment in silence and then went out of
the room and descended the steps, opened the little door, and passed
into the garden. The summer sun was dying in a splendid riot of
colour among the rose trees. Its last rays, falling on the face of
the god Pan, illuminated his fantastic features and seemed to lend
them the life of an ironic leer. The warm air was rich with the
blended odours of a thousand blossoms, and from the palace, faint
and far off, came the sound of joyous voices. It was almost the
moment when the rose garden was to be thrown open to the royal
guests.
Villon pulled a rose from a bush by his hand and gazed into its
crimson heart as if he sought to read there the secret which all
flowers hold but which no flower has ever yet betrayed to the
longing eyes of a poet. He leaned against the statue of Pan and
mused pensively.
"The petals of my reign are falling from me full of life, full of
colour to the end.
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