Louis clasped his thin arms across his chest and hugged himself affectionately. "Well, I couldn't very well make you king, you know, and I wouldn't if I could, for I have a fancy for the task myself. But I owed you a good turn and your own words prompted the payment. 'This poor devil shall taste power,' I said. 'I will make him my Grand Constable--'" Villon's joy was so great that he was unable to hear the king out, but interrupted him with enthusiastic promises. "Sire, I will serve you as never king was served." Louis went on unheeding, and his quiet, monotonous words fell on the hot brain of the poet and chilled it. "I will make him my Grand Constable for a week." If Louis had jerked a dagger into Villon's side, he could not have more surely hurt his victim. "A week, sire?" Villon gasped, almost unable to realize the meaning of the king's words. Louis turned upon him and snarled at him: "Good Lord, did your vanity credit a permanent appointment? Come, friend, come, that would be pushing the joke too far!" All the sunlight seemed to have gone out of the world, all the scent out of the roses. Villon could only repeat to himself: "A week!" and stare vacantly at the king. The king emphasized his offer, lingering over it lovingly. "Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days." He paused for an instant as he counted. "One hundred and sixty-eight heavenly hours. It's the chance of a lifetime. The world was made in seven days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendour, seven days of love." Villon gave a groan of despair for his golden hopes. "And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the brothel!" Louis' malign smile deepened. He came closer to the poet and tapped him on the chest with his lean forefinger. He was enjoying himself immensely. "No, no, not exactly." he hummed. "You don't taste the full force of the joke yet. In a week's time you will build me a big gibbet in the Place de Greve, and there your last task as Grand Constable will be to hang Master François Villon." If the world had been colourless and scentless before, it was now no better than a hideous heap of ashes. If Villon had run up a heavy reckoning with the king at the Fircone Tavern, must he wipe out the score with his life-blood? Villon fell at the king's feet with extended hands and agonized, beseeching eyes. "Sire, sire, have pity!" The king looked down on him in disdain. "Are you so fond of life? Are you so poor a thing that you prize your garret and your kennel, your tavern and your brothel so highly?" Villon bowed his head. "I was content yesterday." The king surveyed the cowering figure with growing contempt. "Can you be content to-day? Please yourself. There is still a door open to you. You can go back to your garret this very moment if you choose. Say the word and my servants shall strip you of your smart feathers and drub you into the street."