"I? And here?"
"Such is the king's pleasure."
"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. He leaned forward curiously and almost whispered to the attendant barber,
"Tell me, is Master François Villon, Master of Arts, rhymer at his best, vagabond at his worst, ne'er-do-well at all seasons, and scapegrace in all moods, among them?"
Olivier smiled complacently as those in office are accustomed to smile at the humours of great men.
"Your dignity is pleased to jest. Shall I send you the prisoners?"
Villon caught at the offer sharply.
"Can I do with them as I wish?"
"Absolutely as you wish. Such is the king's will."