"He got a
stomach affliction," I devilled, "so that one
mouthful of
spirits turned it outside in. It were
wisdom not to drink when
one's tank will not hold the drink."
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 hell 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 pricked 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 God was dead, Pons," I replied
solemnly. "Didn't you know
that? God is dead, and I soon shall be, and I wear twenty fat farms
on my back."
"God lives," Pons asserted
fervently. "God 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 pass 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 God 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 God 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
senselessrefrain in an ear-jangling falsetto.
Without doubt I had bawled the
nonsense out on my way to bed.