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."




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