ON the terrace the fair girl leaned and looked over at the garden and its golden occupant. To the eyes of Villon her beauty had never seemed rarer, and the wild passion which had prompted him to spin his very soul into song burnt with a new, delicious strength of hope. He stared at her as a worshipper might stare at some sudden vision of a long dreamed of goddess, and as he stared, Olivier descended the steps, soft-footed, and came and stood before him.
"My lord, there is a lady there who desires to speak with you."
Villon turned his gaze unwillingly from the gracious apparition above him to the sombre servitor.
"I desire to speak with her," he said earnestly, and again his eyes travelled in the direction of the lady.
Olivier came close to him and touched him respectfully on the wrist.
"Remember, my lord," he said, very softly, "that you are François of Corbeuil, Lord of Montcorbier, Grand Constable of France, newly come to Paris from the Court of His Majesty of Provence. Remember
