example. He has also written a book, called Pantagruel, and has come here now to bring me the first copy. The story sounds interesting... about the king of Utopia."
"Having read Sir Thomas More's book, I am familiar with the theme of Utopia," remarked Andrew. "And I have heard of your Rabelais as well. Quite a colorful character, isn't he?"
"Yes! I must say that court life has become rather boring of late, and Rabelais's appearance is a perfect curative. I never could bear March. We're all fed up with winter, itching to ride and hunt all day, and along comes Lent to make the month even more tedious. Forty days of fish!" The king rolled his eyes.
Sandhurst was beginning to wonder if the king had earlier been into the wine with Rabelais. "Yes, well..."
"We'll have another visitor soon that will cheer us all, including my children! When your king and I met this past autumn, we agreed that it would be a fine thing if his son were to come to the French court to be raised alongside my own boys. I received the happy news this morning that the Duke of Richmond will arrive in a week!"
Andrew went pale. The Duke of Richmond and Somerset was actually Henry Fitzroy, illegitimate son of Henry VIII and Bessie Blount. In the absence of other children, the king had bestowed two significant titles on the boy when he was only six. Now fourteen, the young duke had been introduced to the Marquess of Sandhurst on countless occasions, and Andrew knew that he would blurt out the truth immediately if they met at Fontainebleau.
"A week, you say?" he echoed.
"Yes. My own Francois is the same age as young Henry, so he especially is looking forward to his arrival. But enough about that. More wine?" A steward rushed to refill their goblets. "You are doubtless wondering why I wanted to see you?"
André nodded absently, his mind racing with the news about the Duke of Richmond.
"I understand that you are nearly finished with Madame Tevoulere's portrait. I had heard such marvelous things about it that I confess I went for a look myself last evening, and I found it breathtaking. Congratulations, monsieur."
"Thank you, sire."
"My—uh—friend Mademoiselle d'Heilly has her heart set on being your next subject, but a different idea occurred to me today. How would you like to paint the incomparable Rabelais?"
"I realize, sire, that it is an honor to be asked, but unfortunately I shall have to return to England shortly."
"Shortly?" The king's brow gathered.
"Within the week..."
* * *
The next evening Micheline went down to the hall for supper, clad in a sumptuous gown of powder blue and white velvet, her flame-tinted hair cooled by a silvery crispinette. These meals had become an ordeal for her, since she was always aware of Andrew Selkirk's presence above all else.
Tonight was different. Boards were laid, as usual, on trestles, to make three extensive tables that ran lengthwise down the hall, while the king's table was placed horizontally at the head of the huge room. Ever since Andrew's arrival at court, he had been given a place among the privileged, but tonight Micheline glimpsed him sitting far away at one of the other three tables. Moreover, his place was filled by Francois Rabelais, who had chosen a seat next to Micheline.
The eccentric, charismatic genius from Chinon proved a perfect supper companion for Micheline. Although three years out of the monastery, he still wore his monkish cowl, but his attitude was anything but holy.
"Ah, my good September soup!" Rabelais cried gustily when the first goblet of wine was poured. "Drink up, madame. I taste the essence of violets in this wine. It is obviously a product of Chinon grapes!"
Spellbound at first, Micheline soon was completely distracted by the lively company of Rabelais. He had an opinion on everything. While she enjoyed a dish of sturgeon eggs and olives, Rabelais held forth on the subject of astrology. His tone was mocking, his choice of words humorous, and yet his points made sense.
Soon everyone at the table, including the king himself, was listening to the monk. No one was safe from his sharp, ingenious tongue. He gaily attacked the Sorbonne, various theologians and pompous scholars, and let his humor stray dangerously near the monarchy. His listeners laughed, albeit nervously through course after course. They were served a variety of fish: salmon, carp from the Marne River, and breams. Among the side dishes were orange-apples, rice with fried almonds, sorrel and watercress,