Part 15 (1/2)
”My lord, there is a lady there who desires to speak with you.”
Villon turned his gaze unwillingly from the gracious apparition above him to the sombre servitor.
”I desire to speak with her,” he said earnestly, and again his eyes travelled in the direction of the lady.
Olivier came close to him and touched him respectfully on the wrist.
”Remember, my lord,” he said, very softly, ”that you are Francois of Corbeuil, Lord of Montcorbier, Grand Constable of France, newly come to Paris from the Court of His Majesty of Provence. Remember this as if it were written in letters of gold upon tables of iron. Forget all else. The king commands it.”
The words sounded dully enough on Villon's brain, absorbed as he was in the contemplation of his queen, but at least they served to convince him of what he had already begun to a.s.sure himself, that for some purpose or other King Louis wished him well and granted him golden chances.
Francois of Corbeuil, Count of Montcorbier, stood in a very different relation to the Lady Katherine from that of the lowly poet and gaolbird who had rhymed and sighed and battled in the Fircone Tavern last night.
”The king shall be obeyed,” he said gravely, and Olivier, turning, made a sign to Katherine, who descended the steps slowly. As she reached the last step, Olivier saluted Villon and the lady profoundly and, mounting the steps, vanished within the palace.
The man and the woman were left alone in the rose garden. Villon felt a sudden strange sensation at his heart, exquisite pain and exquisite pleasure, and he clasped his hands together.
”I am awake,” he a.s.sured himself; ”no dream could be as fair as she.”
Even at the thought, Katherine flung herself swiftly at his feet, divinely gracious in her surrender of dignity as she kneeled to him with uplifted imploring hands and eyes.
”My lord,” she cried, ”will you listen to a distressed lady?”
Villon stooped and caught her white fingers and drew her to her feet.
”Not while the lady kneels,” he said gently, and he looked with a strange apprehension into the frank, bright eyes of Katherine. Would she know him for what he was, he wondered. He read no recognition in her sweet eyes. Katherine returned his gaze, unflinchingly regarding him as a great lady might regard some stranger her equal of whom she could ask a favour.
”She does not know me,” Villon's delight cried in his heart, and at the thought his spirit fluttered with fierce exaltation. The Lord of Moncorbier, who was Grand Constable of France, might say many things that were denied to the lips of Francois Villon.
Katherine pleaded warmly:
”There is a man in prison at this hour for whom I would implore your clemency. His name is Francois Villon. Last night he wounded Thibaut d'Aussigny--”
Villon smiled a contented smile.
”Thereby making room for me,” he suggested.
Katherine went on unheeding:
”The penalty is death. But Thibaut was a traitor sold to Burgundy.”
”Did this Villon fight him for his treason?”
”No. He fought for the sake of a woman. He risked his life with a light heart because a woman asked him.”
”How do you know all this?”
”Because I was the woman. This man had seen me, thought he loved me, sent me verses--”
”How insolent!”