In the year of grace 1412 the Vicomte, being then bedridden, died
without any disease and of no malady save the inherencies of his age.
"I entreat of you, my nephew," he said at last, "that always you use
as touchstone the brave deed you did at Eltham. It is necessary for a
gentleman to serve his lady according to her commandments, but you
performed the most absurd and the most cruel task which any woman ever
imposed upon her lover and servitor in domnei. I laugh at you, and I
envy you." Thus he died, about Martinmas.
Now was Antoine Riczi a powerful baron, but he got no comfort of his
lordship, because that old incendiary, the King of Darkness, daily
added fuel to a smouldering sorrow until grief quickened into vaulting
flames of wrath and of disgust.
"What now avail my riches?" said the Vicomte. "How much wealthier was
I when I was loved, and was myself an eager lover! I relish no other
pleasures than those of love. I am Love's sot, drunk with a deadly
wine, poor fool, and ever I thirst. All my chattels and my acres
appear to me to be bright vapors, and the more my dominion and my
power increase, the more rancorously does my heart sustain its
bitterness over having been robbed of that fair merchandise which is
the King of England's.
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