“It is evident that young ladies especially know how to appreciate Monseigneur’s qualities.” The fool slapped his hands together once with exaggerated courtliness. “How many sixty-year-old men have the happiness to be consoled for the misery of life by so merry a young lady as the Duchess?”
The maidens exchanged annoyed glances. Annette said brusquely, “Monseigneur is not ‘happy’ and the Duchess is not ‘merry’. Now keep quiet; they are coming.”
Charles d’Orléans entered the hall through the great door; he led his wife by the hand. He wore, as usual, a loose, dull black cloak with no girdle. His hair was now completely grey and very thin; his teeth were going bad. He walked with difficulty; the spring had been damp and he suffered from stubborn rheumatism. But anyone who caught his dark glance, who noticed the sensitive, ironic lines of his lips, the lively gestures of his still youthful hands, forgot quickly that Monseigneur had crossed the threshold of old age.
The Duchess looked half a head taller than her husband, who always walked with something of a stoop. Her long oval face, with its full cheeks and high forehead, was pale; around her mouth were lines that hinted at mournful resignation. The ducal couple were followed by members of the household; the chamberlain, the treasurer, the court physician, the librarian, the lords of the chancellery and the Duchess’s ladies. Between the clerks and the scribes walked the guest, Villon, in a doublet that had been hastily cleansed of dust and dirt. From time to time he passed his palm over his freshly-shaven jaws. His eyes, dark and restless, took swift and sharp stock of the faces of the household and the interior of the hall. Charles and his wife sat down on the bench under the canopy.
“Take your place, Messire,” Charles said to Villon, who remained standing somewhat uncertainly among the people who were going to sit at the lower end of the table. “De Monzay, bring our guest somewhat closer to us so that we may chat with him …” As Villon was seated, the Duke said to him, “I’m afraid you may find our meals here at Blois rather frugal. But our wine is good.”
“I’m aware of that,” Villon said. “I have had the opportunity to taste it more than once.”
While the dishes were being handed around, Antonio Astesano who, during the customary prayer at table, had glanced stealthily at the guest from time to time, said to his neighbor under his breath, “The fellow looks like an outlaw.”
“He is one, more or less,” replied de Courcelles, one of the masters of the chancellery. “He roams around the neighborhood; he’s usually drunk and he’s always mixed up in something scandalous. It seems he wintered at Chevreuse.”
“Chevreuse? But that’s a nunnery, isn’t it?”
De Courcelles winked. “The abbess is young and I hear that she likes poetry.”
Antonio looked at the guest anew. Villon sat carelessly eating as though he were in a public house along the road. He held his knife constantly in his fist, even when his mouth was full. Meanwhile his dark eyes, sunk deep in shadowed sockets, flitted from one face to another. A barely healed rough red scar protruded from one of his thin cheeks. In his long, sinewy neck his adam’s apple shot up and down as he swallowed. He looked, amid the well-cared-for courtiers of the Duke of Orléans, who sat quietly chatting and eating, like a ragged crow in a dovecote. From time to time he glanced sharply at his host, his mouth pulled wryly down at one corner. Charles, thoughtfully appraising his guest, met this glance more than once.
“What are you thinking about, Messire Villon?” he asked suddenly, with a smile.
Villon put down his knife. “I was thinking, Monseigneur, how much more pleasant this encounter is than our first meeting was.”
“I was not aware that we had met before,” Charles said, raising his brows. Villon laughed shortly.
“You may well have forgotten. I had the pleasure of speaking with you before the doors of the Celestine cloister in Paris when you visited there in ’44. That is more than twelve years ago.”
Host and guest stared at each other for a moment. Then Charles began to laugh softly. He raised his goblet and drank to Villon.
“Welcome to Blois, Messire François. I hardly dare to ask if your life has improved since we saw each other last.”
“No, it is really better if you don’t ask,” replied Villon, in the same tone, while he raised his own goblet. “I hoped by the way to speak about other things with you.”
“I am eager to learn why you have visited me.” Charles gestured to the others to go on with their own conversations. Villon shrugged.
“I could say that I came here to serve you, or something flattering like that. The truth is, I was curious. They say you are fond of poets, you are more liberal and open-handed than many other great lords and that you yourself can write good verse. It would be rather convenient for me just now to have a safe shelter for a few days and nights. And it seems to me to be a beautiful opportunity to hear your poetry.”
“It pleases me to note that you still come out with your opinions as frankly as … before …” Charles’ lips twisted in an ironic laugh. “At that time you must have noticed that honesty of that sort holds an irresistible fascination for me.”
“I am known as the worst liar under God’s heavens,” said Villon carelessly, “and I have earned that reputation ten times over.”
The Duchess, who until now had sat silently eating — she took small bites and broke the bread with extreme care — raised her head and said mildly, with a quick, somewhat timid, suspicious glance at the guest, “Monseigneur, tell us something about the theme of the contest.”
“I have two themes for today,” Charles said. “I cannot decide between them, so you choose, ma mie — or else Villon must throw for heads or tails. This is the first theme: ‘I die from thirst, sitting near the fountain.’”
Marie began to smile sadly, but Pierre the fool who, during the meal had sat on the arm of Charles’ bench, called out in his shrill voice, “Ho ho, Monseigneur, that is poetic license, by your leave. The fountain in the garden is broken, I won’t deny it, but how do you venture to say that you are dying of thirst with a glass full of delicious Beaune standing beside your plate? I am dying of thirst and, believe me, I’m not interested in rhymes at the moment.”
Charles shoved his goblet toward the fool; the small crooked man sprang closer with a jingling of bells and quickly drank a few draughts. Villon repeated the theme: “I am dying of thirst, sitting near the fountain.”
“The notion of thirst can hold no mysteries for Messire Villon,” said Pierre, grinning; he climbed onto the arm of the chair again and nestled there with his shrunken legs crossed.
“The second theme,” continued Charles, “is: ‘In the Forest of Long Awaiting.’”
The Duchess made an involuntary gesture of surprise; she seemed about to say something, but remained silent, staring down at her plate.
“I choose the first theme,” said Villon. “Usually I need more wine to be able to rhyme extemporaneously, but I shall try it.”
Marie rose abruptly and said in voice so loud and cold that all the guests looked up: “I shall withdraw until the tables are removed. I have chosen both themes.”
“You do not make it easy for yourself, ma mie.” Charles came up out of his chair, amazed. Now they all rose, in the customary sign of respect when the Duke or his wife left the table. Charles, perceiving that Marie was displeased or offended for some reason, added courteously, “It goes without saying that you are perfectly free not to take part if you don’t wish to. It’s hardly a suitable amusement for a woman like yourself to be compelled to compose poetry on thirst and long awaiting. I take it, ma mie, that these subjects don’t mean anything in particular to you.”