While we talked Pons was gathering to my bedside my clothes for the day.
"Drink on, my master," he answered. "It won"t hurt you. You"ll die with a sound stomach."
"You mean mine is an iron-lined stomach?" I wilfully misunderstood him.
"I mean--" he began with a quick peevishness, then broke off as he realized my teasing and with a pout of his withered lips draped my new sable cloak upon a chair-back. "Eight hundred ducats," he sneered. "A thousand goats and a hundred fat oxen in a coat to keep you warm. A score of farms on my gentleman"s fine back."
"And in that a hundred fine farms, with a castle or two thrown in, to say nothing, perhaps, of a palace," I said, reaching out my hand and touching the rapier which he was just in the act of depositing on the chair.
"So your father won with his good right arm," Pons retorted. "But what your father won he held."
Here Pons paused to hold up to scorn my new scarlet satin doublet--a wondrous thing of which I had been extravagant.
"Sixty ducats for that," Pons indicted. "Your father"d have seen all the tailors and Jews of Christendom roasting in h.e.l.l before he"d a-paid such a price."
And while we dressed--that is, while Pons helped me to dress--I continued to quip with him.
"It is quite clear, Pons, that you have not heard the news," I said slyly.
Whereat up p.r.i.c.ked his ears like the old gossip he was.
"Late news?" he queried. "Mayhap from the English Court?"
"Nay," I shook my head. "But news perhaps to you, but old news for all of that. Have you not heard? The philosophers of Greece were whispering it nigh two thousand years ago. It is because of that news that I put twenty fat farms on my back, live at Court, and am become a dandy. You see, Pons, the world is a most evil place, life is most sad, all men die, and, being dead . . . well, are dead. Wherefore, to escape the evil and the sadness, men in these days, like me, seek amazement, insensibility, and the madnesses of dalliance."
"But the news, master? What did the philosophers whisper about so long ago?"
"That G.o.d was dead, Pons," I replied solemnly. "Didn"t you know that?
G.o.d is dead, and I soon shall be, and I wear twenty fat farms on my back."
"G.o.d lives," Pons a.s.serted fervently. "G.o.d lives, and his kingdom is at hand. I tell you, master, it is at hand. It may be no later than to- morrow that the earth shall pa.s.s away."
"So said they in old Rome, Pons, when Nero made torches of them to light his sports."
Pons regarded me pityingly.
"Too much learning is a sickness," he complained. "I was always opposed to it. But you must have your will and drag my old body about with you--a- studying astronomy and numbers in Venice, poetry and all the Italian _fol- de-rols_ in Florence, and astrology in Pisa, and G.o.d knows what in that madman country of Germany. Pish for the philosophers! I tell you, master, I, Pons, your servant, a poor old man who knows not a letter from a pike-staff--I tell you G.o.d lives, and the time you shall appear before him is short." He paused with sudden recollection, and added: "He is here, the priest you spoke of."
On the instant I remembered my engagement.
"Why did you not tell me before?" I demanded angrily.
"What did it matter?" Pons shrugged his shoulders. "Has he not been waiting two hours as it is?"
"Why didn"t you call me?"
He regarded me with a thoughtful, censorious eye.
"And you rolling to bed and shouting like chanticleer, "Sing cucu, sing cucu, cucu nu nu cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu.""
He mocked me with the senseless refrain in an ear-jangling falsetto.
Without doubt I had bawled the nonsense out on my way to bed.
"You have a good memory," I commented drily, as I essayed a moment to drape my shoulders with the new sable cloak ere I tossed it to Pons to put aside. He shook his head sourly.
"No need of memory when you roared it over and over for the thousandth time till half the inn was a-knock at the door to spit you for the sleep- killer you were. And when I had you decently in the bed, did you not call me to you and command, if the devil called, to tell him my lady slept? And did you not call me back again, and, with a grip on my arm that leaves it bruised and black this day, command me, as I loved life, fat meat, and the warm fire, to call you not of the morning save for one thing?"
"Which was?" I prompted, unable for the life of me to guess what I could have said.
"Which was the heart of one, a black buzzard, you said, by name Martinelli--whoever he may be--for the heart of Martinelli smoking on a gold platter. The platter must be gold, you said; and you said I must call you by singing, "Sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu." Whereat you began to teach me how to sing, "Sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu.""
And when Pons had said the name, I knew it at once for the priest, Martinelli, who had been knocking his heels two mortal hours in the room without.
When Martinelli was permitted to enter and as he saluted me by t.i.tle and name, I knew at once my name and all of it. I was Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure. (You see, only could I know then, and remember afterward, what was in my conscious mind.)
The priest was Italian, dark and small, lean as with fasting or with a wasting hunger not of this world, and his hands were as small and slender as a woman"s. But his eyes! They were cunning and trustless, narrow- slitted and heavy-lidded, at one and the same time as sharp as a ferret"s and as indolent as a basking lizard"s.
"There has been much delay, Count de Sainte-Maure," he began promptly, when Pons had left the room at a glance from me. "He whom I serve grows impatient."
"Change your tune, priest," I broke in angrily. "Remember, you are not now in Rome."
"My august master--" he began.
"Rules augustly in Rome, mayhap," I again interrupted. "This is France."
Martinelli shrugged his shoulders meekly and patiently, but his eyes, gleaming like a basilisk"s, gave his shoulders the lie.
"My august master has some concern with the doings of France," he said quietly. "The lady is not for you. My master has other plans. . ." He moistened his thin lips with his tongue. "Other plans for the lady . . .
and for you."
Of course, by the lady I knew he referred to the great d.u.c.h.ess Philippa, widow of Geoffrey, last Duke of Aquitaine. But great d.u.c.h.ess, widow, and all, Philippa was a woman, and young, and gay, and beautiful, and, by my faith, fashioned for me.
"What are his plans?" I demanded bluntly.
"They are deep and wide, Count Sainte-Maure--too deep and wide for me to presume to imagine, much less know or discuss with you or any man."
"Oh, I know big things are afoot and slimy worms squirming underground,"
I said.
"They told me you were stubborn-necked, but I have obeyed commands."
Martinelli arose to leave, and I arose with him.
"I said it was useless," he went on. "But the last chance to change your mind was accorded you. My august master deals more fairly than fair."
"Oh, well, I"ll think the matter over," I said airily, as I bowed the priest to the door.
He stopped abruptly at the threshold.