Part 10 (1/2)
”I have little doubt that when the jacka.s.s wore the lion's skin he thought himself the lion. But is he not amazed?”
”Too much amazed, sire, to betray amazement. His attendants a.s.sure him, with the gravest faces, that he is the Grand Constable of France. I believe he thinks himself in a dream, and, finding the dream delicate, accepts it.”
”Remember,” said Louis, ”to keep to the tale. This fellow came here from Provence last night. None must know who he is save you and I and Tristan. Blow it about to all the court that he is the Count of Montcorbier, the favourite of our brother of Provence, and now my friend and counsellor. I have a liking for you, Olivier, as you know, and Tristan and I are very good friends, but neither of your heads are safe on their shoulders if this sport of mine be spoiled by indiscretions.”
Olivier bowed deeply.
”I cannot speak for Tristan, sire,” he said, ”but I can speak for myself. The G.o.d Harpocrates is not more symbolical of silence than I when it is my business to hold my tongue.”
”It is well,” said Louis. ”I will answer for Tristan. Have this fellow sent to me here.”
With another reverence Olivier left the king and ascended the steps into the palace. The king sniffed pensively at the rose which Katherine had given to him. The perfume seemed to sooth him and he mused, sunning himself and feeding his fancy with the entertainment which playing with the lives of others always afforded to him.
”This Jack and Jill shall dance to my whimsy like dolls upon a wire.
It would be rare sport if Mistress Katherine disdained Louis to decline upon this beggar. He shall hang for mocking me. But he carried himself like a king for all his tatters and patches, and he shall taste of splendour.”
Glancing up at the terrace he perceived the returning figure of Olivier le Dain, and guessed that his henchman was serving as herald to the new Grand Constable. Behind Olivier came a little cl.u.s.ter of pages, and behind them again the king could see a s.h.i.+ning figure in cloth of gold.
”Here comes my mountebank,” he said to himself, ”as pompous as if he were born to the purple.” He moved swiftly to the door of the tower and entered it, disappearing as the little procession descended the steps into the Rose Garden. There was a little grating in the door of the tower, a little grating with a sliding shutter, and through this grating the king now peered with infinite entertainment at the progress of the comedy himself had planned. Olivier had spoken truly when he said that Master Villon had been greatly changed. The barber's own handiwork had so cleansed and shaved his countenance, had so trimmed and readjusted his locks that his face now shone as different from the face of the tavern-haunter as the face of the moon s.h.i.+nes from the face of a lantern. He was as sumptuously attired as if he were a prince of the blood royal: the noonday sun seemed to take fresh l.u.s.tre from his suit of cloth of gold, the air to be enriched by his perfume, the world to be vastly the better for his furs and jewels. Though it was plain that the tricked-out poet was in a desperate dilemma he managed to bear himself with a dignity that consorted royally with his pomp. Olivier bowed low to the figure in cloth of gold.
”Will your dignity deign to linger awhile in this rose arbour?” he asked.
The gentleman in cloth of gold looked at him in wonder. In truth, the gentleman in cloth of gold was in a very bewildered frame of mind. He had seen but now a clean and smooth-shaven face in the mirror, with elegantly trimmed hair, and he tried to a.s.sociate the image in the mirror with his own familiar face, unwashed, unkempt, unshaven. He eyed the splendid clothes that covered him and his memory fumbled in perplexity over the horrors of a dingy, filthy wardrobe, ragged, wine-stained and ancient. He looked at the solemn pages who stood about him with golden cups and golden flagons in their hands, and he tried to remember how he had escaped from the society of Master Robin Turgis into this gilded environment. His head ached with the endeavour and he abandoned it. Olivier repeated his question, and at last Villon found words, though his voice sounded strange and hollow on his ears, and hard to command.
”My dignity will deign to do anything you suggest, good master Blackamoor,” he answered, but to his heart he whispered that it was better to humour these strange satellites whose persons he found it impossible to reconcile with any memories of the real world as he knew it. The barber bowed deferentially.
”I shall have to trouble you presently with certain small cares of state,” he said.
Villon beamed on him benignly. He was wondering what his interlocutor was talking about, but he felt that it was the course of the wise man to betray no wonder. The conditions were, indeed, bewildering, but also they were not disagreeable, and it was as well to take them cheerfully.
”No trouble, excellent myrmidon,” he answered. ”These duties are pleasures to your true man.”
Olivier bowed anew.
”His majesty will probably honour you with his company later.”
Villon beamed again, and again his wonder found words which seemed to him to make the most and the best of the situation. Perhaps in this singular region of dreams he was the king's man and the king's friend. At least it could do no harm to a.s.sume such friends.h.i.+p when his solemn companion seemed to take it for granted.
”Always delighted to see dear Louis. He and I are very good friends.
People say hard things of him, but believe me, they don't know him.”
He was trying his best to piece together the disordered fragments of his memory and to explain to himself how it came to pa.s.s that he was on terms of friends.h.i.+p with the king. His head was dizzy and heavy and he felt like a man in a dark room who was groping to find the door handle. The voice of the barber interrupted these mental struggles.
”May we take our leave, monseigneur?”
Villon's face lighted. He felt that it would be pleasanter for him to be alone while he was attempting to regain control of his faculties, more especially as he noted that the pages had placed their golden cups and flagons on the marble table and that his instinct a.s.sured him that these precious vessels sheltered no less precious wine.
”You may, you may,” he a.s.sented, and then as the barber made to depart, Villon's mood changed and he caught him by the sleeve and drew him confidentially toward him.
”Stay one moment,” he murmured. ”You know this plaguy memory of mine--what a forgetful fellow I am. Would you mind telling me again who I happen to be?”