His
wanderings brought him back to the fair space at the foot of the
terrace protected by the image of the god Pan. The place was
deserted; the revellers had drifted elsewhere. A lute lay on the
marble seat. Villon seated himself and taking up the instrument was
touching it carelessly, when a light step on the grass arrested him,
the sweetest voice in the world sounded in his ears, and he found
himself addressed by the Lady Katherine de Vaucelles, who was
attended by a number of fair court ladies.
"I am the voice of these ladies to pray for a favour."
Villon bowed low.
"My ear is all obedience," he said, "and my heart all homage."
"You are a poet, my lord," said Katherine, "and this is an eve which
should please a poet. Rhyme us a rhyme which shall match this night
of summer."
Villon sighed a little.
"No rhyme ever rhymed was worth a beam of summer sun or summer moon;
but I have lingered in Provence where every man is a nightingale,
and I caught there the fever of improvisation. What shall I rhyme
about?"
Katherine laughed as she pointed to her attendant ladies.
"Your suitors are women; therefore, nothing better nor worse than
love.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173