"You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can't get off scot free."
Villon's bewildered thoughts forced themselves into words. He spoke not so much to the king as to himself, desperately trying to decide.
"Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with its tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm sleep, living hands to hold and living laughter to gladden me—or a week of cloth of gold, of glory, of love—and then a shameful death!"
He flung himself on the marble seat and crouched there, shuddering.
The king patted him on the back.
"Pray, friend, pray, to help your judgment!"
He had taken off his black velvet cap and ran his eye over the little row of metal saints which encircled it as if he were meditating to which particular patron he should recommend his Grand Constable to address himself. As he did so, Olivier le Dain came through the garden and moved swiftly to the king's side.
"Sire," he said, "the Burgundian herald, Toison d'Or, attends under a flag of truce with a message for your majesty."
Louis turned to his barber.
"We will receive him here, Olivier, in this green audience chamber.
We need the free air when we hold speech with Burgundy."