François. And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the brothel!
King. No, no, not exactly! You don’t taste the full force of the joke yet. Your last task as Grand Constable will be to hang François Villon.
François. Sire, sire, have pity!
King. You may have your week of wonder if you wish, but if you do, by my word as king, you shall swing for it.
François. Sire, what have I done that you should torture me thus?
King. You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can’t get off scot free.
François. 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!
King. One further chance, fellow. If the Count Montcorbier win the heart of Lady Katherine within the week, he shall escape the gallows and carry his lady love where he please.
François. On your word of honor, sire?
King. My word is my honor, Master François. Well?