Francois was dining--with an appearance of great fervour.
Peter sat on his rustic bench, by the riverside, and watched
him, smoking a cigarette the while.
The Duchessa di Santangiolo stood screened by a tree in the
park of Ventirose, and watched them both.
Francois wore a wide blue ribbon round his pink and chubby
neck; and his dinner consisted of a big bowlful of bread and
milk.
Presently the Duchessa stepped forth from her ambush, into the
sun, and laughed.
"What a sweetly pretty scene," she said. "Pastoral--idyllic
--it reminds one of Theocritus--it reminds one of Watteau."
Peter threw his cigarette into the river, and made an
obeisance.
"I am very glad you feel the charm of it," he responded. "May
I be permitted to present Master Francois Vllon?"
"We have met before," said the Duchessa, graciously smiling
upon Francois, and inclining her head.
"Oh, I did n't know," said Peter, apologetic.
"Yes," said the Duchessa, "and in rather tragical
circumstances. But at that time he was anonymous. Why--if you
won't think my curiosity impertinent--why Francois Villon?"
"Why not?" said Peter. "He made such a tremendous outcry when
he was condemned to death, for one thing. You should have
heard him. He has a voice! Then, for another, he takes such a
passionate interest in his meat and drink. And then, if you
come to that, I really had n't the heart to call him Pauvre
Lelian."
The Duchessa raised amused eyebrows.
"You felt that Pauvre Lelian was the only alternative?"
"I had in mind a remark of Pauvre Lilian's friend and confrere,
the cryptic Stephane," Peter answered. "You will remember it.
'L'ame d'un poete dans le corps d'un--' I--I forget the last
word," he faltered.
"Shall we say 'little pig'?" suggested the Duchessa.
"Oh, please don't," cried Peter, hastily, with a gesture of
supplication. "Don't say 'pig' in his presence. You'll wound
his feelings."
The Duchessa laughed.
"I knew he was condemned to death," she owned. "Indeed, it was
in his condemned cell that I made his acquaintance. Your
Marietta Cignolesi introduced us. Her air was so inexorable, I
'm a good deal surprised to see him alive to-day. There was
some question of a stuffing of rosemary and onions."
"Ah, I see," said Peter, "I see that you're familiar with the
whole disgraceful story. Yes, Marietta, the unspeakable old
Tartar, was all for stuffing him with rosemary and onions. But
he could not bring himself to share her point of view. He
screamed his protest, like a man, in twenty different octaves.
You really should have heard him. His voice is of a compass,
of a timbre, of an expressiveness! Passive endurance, I fear,
is not his forte. For the sake of peace and silence, I
intervened, interceded. She had her knife at his very throat.
I was not an instant too soon. So, of course, I 've had to
adopt him."