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Updated: September 14, 2025
His duty called him shortly to the service of the king, but he lingered in the garden on the chance of a hoped-for meeting. "I shall be revenged," he said to himself, "if my astrologer plays his part and tells the weak king that this Lord of Montcorbier is his evil spirit."
No look of surprise stirred the barber's face; there came no change in his extreme complaisance. "You are the Count of Montcorbier, monseigneur," he answered, gravely.
I know of the verses you made her, and the gloves you gave her at Candlemas, too. Saint Anne!" observed the voice, somewhat sharply; "she needed gloves. Her hands are so much raw beef. And the head-dress at Easter, she looks like the steeple of Saint Benoit in it. But every man to his taste, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Good-night, Monsieur de Montcorbier." But, for all that, the window did not close.
But the matter has to my eyes a more dubious air. A pardon necessary for Des Loges and another for Montcorbier? and these two the same person? and one or both of them known by the ALIAS OF Villon, however honestly come by? and lastly, in the heat of the moment, a fourth name thrown out with an assured countenance? A ship is not to be trusted that sails under so many colours.
But afterward Sermaise gnawed at his under lip like a madman as he went about seeking for Francois de Montcorbier. "Deux estions, et n'avions qu'ung Cueur" It verged upon nine in the evening a late hour in those days when Francois climbed the wall of Jehan de Vaucelles' garden. A wall! and what is a wall to your true lover?
"The years!" said he. "You are modest. It was you who killed Francois de Montcorbier, as surely as Montcorbier killed Sermaise. Eh, Sovereign Virgin! that is scant cause for grief. You made Francois Villon. What do you think of him, lass?" She echoed the name. It was in many ways a seasoned name, but unaccustomed to mean nothing. Accordingly Francois sneered.
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.
Before one of the apparitors of the Chatelet he exonerated Montcorbier, under oath, and asked that no steps be taken against him. "I forgive him my death," said Sermaise, manly enough at the last, "by reason of certain causes moving him thereunto." Presently he demanded the peach-colored silk glove they would find in the pocket of his gown. It was Catherine's glove.
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.
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.
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