"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, to be serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a second bottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life like a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he would have bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is no infection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think of it, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between us three that I wonder which will go next."
"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe."
"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, I palmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off upon mademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and—bah! your presentation will save us two."
"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance."
"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choose presentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at La Mothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it another intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better—a remembrance. The King—God bless him!—will presently die in earnest; the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget the stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases in princes. When, lo!—a wise youth you are, La Mothe—a remembrance jogs his recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over. Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligent anticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way of remembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophets fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-foot rope may be infectious after all."
"Villon, you are quite wrong."
"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh few recover from. But let us go to the Château." Pushing the unemptied bottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had changed; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face were those of age, not laughter.
CHAPTER XXXII
LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION
Partly to divert the boy from his grief at Hugues' death, but partly also as an outlet for her new-found lightness of heart, Ursula de Vesc would have turned what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into a playful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand Turk, seated on a divan of shawls and cushions, would receive the envoy of the Sultan of Africa bringing presents from his master. It would be just such a play of make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe proposed to present the offering in the name of the King of the Genie her zest waned, and a little alloy seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day. That would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, she declared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the night's amusement.