Missouri Valley times. [volume] (Missouri Valley, Iowa) 1874-1931, 1903-02-05

and one wine of Burgundy. He rose and
crept across the soft grass to the table
and lifted one of the golden nagons
gingerly, shifted at it fearfully and
poured some of It's contents carefully
into a golden goblet. Lifting 1t
cautiously to his lips, he tasted 1t ju-
diciously. A ripe, warm, royal flavor
rewarded him.
BY heaven!' he cried mo robler
juice ever rippled from Burgundian
Vineyards
He drained the cup and set it down
to fill another from the companion YES
sci and to repeat the ceremony of sniff
fling, tasting and swallowing. Again
the desire of his palate was pleased and
pacified. He reflected as he slipped and
swallowed.
This quintessence of crushed violets
ripened no otherwhere than In the val
leys Of Bordeaux. Ergo, l am not
drunk I do not think I am mad
neither, for know in my heart that |
am poor Francois Villon penniless
master of arts and no will O. the wisp
fast asleep in the chimney corner of the
Flrcone tavern. having finished that
flask | filched. and everything since
then has been and is dream. The
coming of Katherine, dream. My
fight with Thibaut d 'Aussigny, dream.
Then the king-popping up at the last
moment, like a jackin-th -box--a
dream. These clothes, these servants,
this garden-dreams. dreams, dreams.
shall wake presently and be devilish
shabby But in the meantime, these
dream liquors make good drinking
He was about to fill himself another
cup when a shadow fell at his feet the
shadow of Olivier lie Dain standing be-
fore him with his air of emphasized re-
spect which was beginning to pail upon
the TRANSPORTED poet.
Your dignity will forgive me, but it
is the kings wish you should pass judg-
ment on certain prisoners"
Villon stared at him.
i? And here?"
Such is the kings pleasure"
What prisoners?
Certain rogues and vagabonds, man
kind and womankin1, 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 rainment. He leaned
forward curiously and almost whisper
ed to the attendant barber.
Tell me, is Master Francois yillon,
Master of arts, rhymer at his best.
Vagabond at his worst, ne'er-do-well at
all seasons. and scrapgrace in all
moods, among them?"
Olivier smiled complacently as those
In office are accustomed to smile at the
humors of great men.
Your dignity Is pleased to jest Shall
l send you the prisoners?"
Nillon caught at the offer sharply.
Can do with them as I wish?"
u nj wis lie ,o
kings will
Nillon leaned back in resigned sur
render to an astonishing situation. He
had dreamed strange dreams in his
days and nights, but never dream
like this dream.
Set thief to try thief he phlloso-
phized. Well, bring them in"
Olivier bowed and disappeared silent
ly along the rose alley by which he had
come. When he was alone again Viii
lon slapped his forehead resoundingly,
as IL he hoped to scare is senses back
into sanity by violent assault.
"Oh, my poor head" he moaned. Am
I awaken Am j asleep? What an en-
broglio'
A sense of dislike to his respectful at
tendant surged up through his perpleX-
ity. THAT damned fellow in black is
confoundedly obsequious,' he mutter-
be hanged; he has a hanging face
Even as this kind reelection came into
his head, his meditations were disturb
ed by the tramp of many feet and the
rattle and clank of weapons, and a
small company of soldiers came wheel
ing round into the rose garden from
the side of the palace, guarding num-
Der of men and women, in whom Nillon
instantly recognized his familiar friends
of the E1rcone tavern. AT the head of
the soldiers marched dapper gentle
man, courtier-soldier or soldier-courtier.
Il thing of silk and steel, half dandy,
half man-at-arms, eXquisitely attired
and flagrantly aware of his own attrac-
tons He, too, was familiar to the
poet, for he was no other than the pink
and white gentleman whom he had seen
acting as escort to Katherine on the
day when he first beheld her, and whose
name, as he had learned on the pre-
vious evening from Katherine's own
lips, was Noel lie Jolys.
The puppet who bangles after my
lady he grumbled to himself HE
jars the dream"
Villon felt profoundly sorry for his
imprisoned playfellows, and profoundly
hostile to the pink and white gentle
man. His friends looked so wretched,
so woebegone, so bedraggled, while
their captor looked so point-device and
self-satistfed that Nillon felt a fierce
Indignation burn within him over the
injustices of the world.
How hang dog my poor devils look
and how dirty he thought to himself,
as the soldiers ranged their prisoners