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Updated: May 26, 2025
Even as this kind reflection came into his head, his meditations were disturbed by the tramp of many feet and the rattle and clank of weapons, and a small company of soldiers came wheeling round into the rose garden from the side of the palace, guarding a number of men and women, in whom Villon instantly recognized his familiar friends of the Fircone Tavern.
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.
"What prisoners?" "Certain rogues and vagabonds, mankind and womankind, taken brawling in the Fircone Tavern last night." Villon stroked his chin thoughtfully. An idea seemed to take command of his confused mind. Here was a chance to learn something of the reality that lay at the core of all this mystery of roses and wine and fine raiment.
It was his intention to alarm the watch and intervene for the protection of his powerful patron, and with this purpose in his mind he disappeared into the darkness of the street and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. In the meantime the quarrel at the Fircone raged hotter.
"Is this the eyrie?" he whispered, and his companion answered him in the same low tone, "This is the Fircone Tavern, sire." The other's finger was lifted to his lip at once in warning. "Hush, gossip, hush," he muttered. "No title now, I beg of you. Here I am not Louis of France, but a simple sober citizen like yourself. I suppose we must take something for the good of the house?"
Villon caught his breath. The Lord of Montcorbier was, indeed, wardered by very different stars from the fellow of the Fircone. He saluted her banteringly. "Though I be newly come to Paris I have heard much of the beauty and more of the pride of the Lady Katherine de Vaucelles." A little fire burned in the girl's pale cheeks, and she flung her head back scornfully.
If Master Robin, dancing attendance upon his clamourous customers, could have divined the identity of the newcomers whose advent he regarded so indifferently, his purple face would have paled and his stomach failed him at the thought that the Fircone sheltered the baleful presence of the king and of his malign satellite, Tristan l'Hermite.
She flashed in Noel's face the ring the Grand Constable had given her as she answered: "At the sign of the Golden Scull, hard by the Fircone. Will you visit me?" Noel clapped his hands together. "As I am a man, I will." A good understanding being thus established, the pair drifted away together and were soon lost to sight.
François 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.
The sound of military music and the tramp of marching men could be heard approaching louder and louder. Five girls had forced their way to the very front row of the throne and were applauding and shouting with the rest. These were the light ladies of the Fircone, Isabeau, Jehanneton, Denise, and Blanche with Guillemette, fat Robin Turgis' fat daughter.
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