If I Were King | Page 7

best Beaune,
Master Beggar-maker, to drink damnation to the Burgundians."
Robin Turgis made no motion to obey, but his small eyes seemed to
grow smaller as they stared. "What colour has money now-a-days,
Master François?" he asked doggedly. In a moment the brown, dirty
hand of the poet was clapped to his dagger and there was something of
a wolfish snarl in his voice as he answered menacingly, "The colour of
blood sometimes." But the landlord, unabashed and undismayed, stood
his ground.

"None of your swaggering, Master François," he said sturdily. "There is
such a thing as a king in France and that king's name is writ fair on his
coinage. Show me a Louis XI. and I will show you my Beaune wine."
The face of Master François flushed under its grime, and he fiddled at
his dagger nervously, as one uncertain whether to laugh or cry at the
dilemma which confronted him. Huguette and Montigny alike had
dipped their hands into their pouches for money to pay the poet's score
when to the amazement of Tristan the king forestalled their kindnesses.
Rising to his feet with creditable alacrity he advanced towards Master
François and saluted him with a gracious wave of the hand. "Will you
let me be of some small service to you," he began politely, and as
Villon turned to stare at him in surprise he continued: "Will you honour
me by drinking that Beaune wine our host brags of at my expense?"
Villon's astonishment had not unnerved his clutch at opportunity. Here
was a god out of a machine, proffering cool liquor to dry gullets.
Master François gave back the salutation with a mien of splendid
condescension, while the rest of the company glared at the burgess who
thus thrust himself upon them, and Tristan, cursing the king for his
temerity, felt for a hidden dagger.
Villon's patronizing wave of the hand was magnificent in its effrontery,
and his words matched his gesture nobly.
"You are a civil stranger, and I will so far honour you." Louis bowed.
"I left my purse under my pillow this morning"--a roar of laughter
saluted the ancient jape--"and this ungentle fellow denies me credit.
How rarely we meet with an ale-draper who is also a gentleman."
With an unmoved countenance Louis listened to Villon's words. "Yet
the sale of a thing so noble ought to beget a kind of nobility in the
vendor," he said with great gravity; then turning to Robin Turgis,
whose mouth was gaping at this colloquy, he bade him bring a flagon
of his best, and as he did so he tendered him a silver coin for which
Robin extended his fat fingers--and extended them too late. For at the
sight of the silver the eyes of Master François had glistened, and his
lean, brown hand, swift and agile as a hawk, had swooped between the

king and the publican, and had secured the coin, which he promptly
held up and surveyed in an apparent ecstasy of admiration.
"Is this the good king's counter?" he asked, and as he did so he plucked
off his shabby bonnet and paid the exalted coin a profound obeisance.
"Well, God bless his majesty, say I, for I owe him my present liberty.
There was a gaol-clearing when he came to Paris, and as I happened to
be in gaol at the time--through an error of the law"--here he paused to
leer knowingly at his comrades, who yelled commendation--"they were
good enough to kick me into the free air. Will you add to your kindness,
old gentleman"--and here Master François spun round and solemnly
saluted his unknown entertainer--"by allowing me to guard and cherish
this token of our dear monarch in memory of this notable event?"
Louis' fortitude could not prevent him from making something of a wry
face as he hastily answered, "By all means." He beckoned discreetly to
Robin Turgis, who, making a wide circle round Master François, stole
to the king's side, received from him another coin and hastened away to
bring the drink it paid for.
From his corner Tristan surveyed the episode with a grim enjoyment.
"Master Villon, Master Villon," he murmured to himself, "you'll be
sorry for this, very sorry indeed." And in his mind's eye he transferred
the fantastic figure, posturing and grimacing before Louis, to the end of
a long rope hanging from a high gallows. Master François, ignorant of
the immediate irony of existence, wafted a kiss airily from the tips of
his fingers to his patron. "You are a very obliging old gentleman," he
said approvingly.
Louis frowned slightly. "You harp on my age, sir," he said. "Yet you
are yourself no chicken." This mild reproof seemed to irritate Villon's
friends more than it irritated Villon. The men manifested a marked