MASTER FRANÇOIS VILLON
As Tristan spoke the tavern latch rattled, the tavern door was flung
noisily open, and the king's gaze rested on a strange figure framed
in the entry. The man was of middle height, spare and slight and
lean; his thin, eager face was bronzed with the suns and winds of a
generation, and lined with the stern ciphers of malign experiences.
His dark, straight hair was long and unkempt; the finer lines of his
cheeks and chin were blurred with the uncropped growth of a week-old
beard; his eyes were bright and quick; his glance restless and
comprehensive. A cunning reader of features would have found a home
for high thoughts behind the fine forehead, the lines of infinite
tenderness upon the mobile lips, the light of some noble
conflagration in the wild eyes. He was dressed in faded finery of
many colours, so ragged and patched and hostile that he had very
much the air of a gaudy scarecrow. His ruined cloak was tilted by a
long sword; his disordered thatch was crowned by a battered cap
grotesquely adorned with a cock's feather. In his leathern belt a
small vellum bound book of verses kept company with a dagger. For
all his whimsical appearance the king's keen eyes could note a
something gallant in the carriage of the scamp, could spy out
qualities of manhood beneath the battered bravery. He poised for a
moment on the threshold in a fantastic attitude of salutation ere he
slammed the door behind him and strode forward to meet his friends.
"Well, Hearts of Gold, how are ye?" he cried joyously as he advanced
with head thrown back and open hands extended. "Did ye miss me,
lads; did ye miss me, lasses?"
Abbess Huguette was at his side in an instant, with her arms about
his neck fondling him and fawning upon him. "Surely I missed you,"
she whispered. "Where have you been, little monkey?"
Master François looked at her for a moment with a curious pity. Then
gently extricating himself from her embrace he called out, "Give me
a wash of wine for my throat's parched with piping."
Every man thrust his own mug towards Master François, beseeching him
to drink of it, but he waved them all aside imperially. "Nay, I will
have my own," he said. "Have we no landlord here? Master Robin, come
hither."
Robin Turgis, who had kept apart up to now, surveying the new-comer
with no excess of favour, moved slowly forward with his thumbs in
his girdle and a sour smile on his fat cheeks. Master François
addressed him sternly, twitching as he did so the landlord's greasy
cap from his pate and sending it flying down the room. "Why do you
not salute gentry when they honour your pot-house? A mug of your
best Beaune, Master Beggar-maker, to drink damnation to the
Burgundians."
Robin Turgis made no motion to obey, but his small eyes seemed to
grow smaller as they stared. "What colour has money now-a-days,
Master François?" he asked doggedly. In a moment the brown, dirty
hand of the poet was clapped to his dagger and there was something
of a wolfish snarl in his voice as he answered menacingly, "The
colour of blood sometimes." But the landlord, unabashed and
undismayed, stood his ground.
"None of your swaggering, Master François," he said sturdily. "There
is such a thing as a king in France and that king's name is writ
fair on his coinage. Show me a Louis XI. and I will show you my
Beaune wine."
The face of Master François flushed under its grime, and he fiddled
at his dagger nervously, as one uncertain whether to laugh or cry at
the dilemma which confronted him. Huguette and Montigny alike had
dipped their hands into their pouches for money to pay the poet's
score when to the amazement of Tristan the king forestalled their
kindnesses. Rising to his feet with creditable alacrity he advanced
towards Master François and saluted him with a gracious wave of the
hand. "Will you let me be of some small service to you," he began
politely, and as Villon turned to stare at him in surprise he
continued: "Will you honour me by drinking that Beaune wine our host
brags of at my expense?"
Villon's astonishment had not unnerved his clutch at opportunity.
Here was a god out of a machine, proffering cool liquor to dry
gullets. Master François gave back the salutation with a mien of
splendid condescension, while the rest of the company glared at the
burgess who thus thrust himself upon them, and Tristan, cursing the
king for his temerity, felt for a hidden dagger.
Villon's patronizing wave of the hand was magnificent in its
effrontery, and his words matched his gesture nobly.
"You are a civil stranger, and I will so far honour you." Louis
bowed. "I left my purse under my pillow this morning"--a roar of
laughter saluted the ancient jape--"and this ungentle fellow denies
me credit. How rarely we meet with an ale-draper who is also a
gentleman."
With an unmoved countenance Louis listened to Villon's words. "Yet
the sale of a thing so noble ought to beget a kind of nobility in
the vendor," he said with great gravity; then turning to Robin
Turgis, whose mouth was gaping at this colloquy, he bade him bring a
flagon of his best, and as he did so he tendered him a silver coin
for which Robin extended his fat fingers--and extended them too
late. For at the sight of the silver the eyes of Master François had
glistened, and his lean, brown hand, swift and agile as a hawk, had
swooped between the king and the publican, and had secured the coin,
which he promptly held up and surveyed in an apparent ecstasy of
admiration.
"Is this the good king's counter?" he asked, and as he did so he
plucked off his shabby bonnet and paid the exalted coin a profound
obeisance. "Well, God bless his majesty, say I, for I owe him my
present liberty. There was a gaol-clearing when he came to Paris,
and as I happened to be in gaol at the time--through an error of the
law"--here he paused to leer knowingly at his comrades, who yelled
commendation--"they were good enough to kick me into the free air.
Will you add to your kindness, old gentleman"--and here Master
François spun round and solemnly saluted his unknown
entertainer--"by allowing me to guard and cherish this token of our
dear monarch in memory of this notable event?"
Louis' fortitude could not prevent him from making something of a
wry face as he hastily answered, "By all means." He beckoned
discreetly to Robin Turgis, who, making a wide circle round Master
François, stole to the king's side, received from him another coin
and hastened away to bring the drink it paid for.
From his corner Tristan surveyed the episode with a grim enjoyment.
"Master Villon, Master Villon," he murmured to himself, "you'll be
sorry for this, very sorry indeed." And in his mind's eye he
transferred the fantastic figure, posturing and grimacing before
Louis, to the end of a long rope hanging from a high gallows. Master
François, ignorant of the immediate irony of existence, wafted a
kiss airily from the tips of his fingers to his patron. "You are a
very obliging old gentleman," he said approvingly.
Louis frowned slightly. "You harp on my age, sir," he said. "Yet you
are yourself no chicken." This mild reproof seemed to irritate
Villon's friends more than it irritated Villon. The men manifested a
marked inclination to hustle so questioning a citizen; the women
cackled at him angrily. Casin Cholet bluntly proposed to lend the
cit a slap on the chops; and Huguette enquired with every emphasis
of impoliteness: "What's his age to you, sobersides?" But Villon
quietly waved his turbulent companions into tranquility. "Patience,
damsels," he said blandly. "Patience, good comrades of the
Cockleshell. If our friend is inquisitive at least he has paid his
fee," and as he spoke he hid his face for a moment behind the huge
mug of Beaune wine which Robin Turgis at that moment handed to him.
Much refreshed by his mighty draught he resumed briskly: "For three
and thirty years I have taken toll of life with such result as you
see. A light pocket is a plague, but a light heart and a light love
make amends for much." And as he spoke he slapped his pocket whose
emptiness gave back no jingle, drummed lightly on his bosom and
nodded gallantly to the admiring womenkind. "You are a philosopher,"
said the king. "You are a little angel," cried the Abbess, flinging
her arms round the poet in an enthusiastic hug. The girl's homage
seemed little to Villon's taste, for he disengaged himself swiftly
from the embrace, saying as he did so: "Gently, Abbess, gently! My
shoulders tingle and my sides ache too sorely for claspings."
Villon's manner was so decisive and his meaning so obvious that the
curiosity of the gang burned keenly and found voice in René de
Montigny, who asked what ailed him with commendable solicitude.
Villon shook his head, applied himself again to the cannakin, and
emerged from it with a most melancholy expression of countenance.
"You behold in me, friends," he sighed, "a victim of love," and his
visage showed so lugubrious that it sorely tempted Louis to laugh,
and hotly moved Huguette to anger, for she raged up to Villon,
challenging the meaning of his speech. Villon gently cooled her
impatience. "Hush, hush, my girl! There are many kinds of love, as
you ought to know well enough. I am a rogue and a vagabond, no less,
and so sometimes I love you and other such Athanasian wenches;
Isabeau there and Jehanneton."
At this mention of her novices' names the Abbess turned on the two
girls fiercely. "You minxes," she cried. "Do you make eyes at my
man?" The pair shrank back from her fury, but Master Villon, who
seemed suddenly to have fallen into a meditative mood, rambled on in
a, kind of reverie, as indifferent to the Fircone and all his
surroundings as if he were a lonely shepherd tending his sheep on a
lonely hillside.
"But also I am, Heaven forgive me, a jingler of rhymes, with the
stars for my candles and the roses for my toys, and singers of songs
sometimes love in another fashion. And so it has chanced to me for
my sins and to my sorrow."
Villon's chin had dropped upon his breast; the cock's feather
drooped dismally; the singer seemed quite chapfallen. Huguette,
tired of glaring at her offending minions, again turned her scornful
attention to her dejected lover. "Cry-baby!" she sneered scornfully,
pointing with derisive finger at Master François, in whose eyes
indeed the close observer could discern the threatening of tears.
Jehanneton came sidling round to Villon, piqued by natural
curiosity, and the desire to vex Huguette. "Tell us your love-tale,
François," she pleaded, and her pleading found an immediate
supporter in Louis. The Arabian nature of his adventure enchanted
him, and he had a child's taste for a story. "May I support the
lady's prayer," he said, "unless a stranger's presence distresses
you?"
Villon turned to him with a mocking laugh. "Lord love you, no," he
answered. "I have long since forgotten reticence and will discourse
of my empty purse, my empty belly, and my empty heart to any man.
Gather around me, cullions and cut-purses, and listen to the strange
adventure of Master François Villon, clerk of Paris."
Joyous applause greeted his speech, Jehan le Loup, seizing upon an
empty barrel that stood in a corner, trundled it forward, and
standing it on one end invited Villon to take his seat upon this
whimsical throne. The poet sprang lightly upon the perch thus
provided for him, and sat there with his legs crossed, holding his
long sword against his knees with both hands. The men and women
gathered about him, like bees about a rose-bush. Huguette placed
herself on a stool at his feet. Jehanneton flung herself full length
on the ground and stared up into his face. Robin Turgis straddled a
bench at some distance and grinned. Louis seized the opportunity to
whisper behind his hand to Tristan that he found the fellow
diverting, to which Tristan replied gruffly that he for his part
found him a dull ape. Louis might have argued the point but his
interest was claimed by the voice of Villon, who, being comfortably
installed on his wine-cask, was beginning his promised narrative. A
philosopher would have discerned something pathetic in the picture
of the ragged rascal thus girdled about with blackguards of a baser
sort, his lean body quivering, his eager face alive with emotions,
mockery on his lips and sorrow in his eyes: to the sardonic king it
afforded nothing more and nothing less than amusement. "You must
know, dear Devils and ever-beautiful Blowens, that three days ago,
when I was lying in the kennel, which is my humour, and staring at
the sky, which is my recreation--I speak, honest citizen, but in
parable or allegory, a dear device with the schoolmen--I saw between
me and Heaven the face of a lady, the loveliest face I ever saw."
Here the poor Abbess, indignation overcrowding her borrowed
mannishness, began to sniffle and to assert that the speaker was a
faithless pig, but Villon, unheeding her whimpers, went on with
his tale.
"She was going to church--God shield her--but she looked my way as
she passed, and though she saw me no more than she saw the
cobble-stone I stood on, I saw her once and for ever. We
song-chandlers babble a deal of love, but for the most part we know
little or nothing about it, and when it comes it knocks us silly. I
was knocked so silly that--well, what do you think was the silly
thing I did?"
Villon turned his alert face to each member of his audience, and his
derisive mouth belied the sadness of his eyes.
"Emptied a can for oblivion," Montigny suggested. Blanche was no
less practical.
"Kissed a wench for the same purpose," she cried. "The times that
I've been wooed out of my name!"
"Picked the woman's pocket," Casin Cholet hinted, wagging his shock
head wisely, while Jehan le Loup, with a hideous leer, sniggered:
"Got near her in the crowd and pinched her," and suited the action
to the word with finger and thumb on Blanche's plump shoulder.
Master François dissipated all this roguish philosophy with a
contemptuous gesture.
"La, la, la," he chirruped. "Sillier than all these. I followed her
into the church."
The silence of astonishment fell upon the audience. Only Colin de
Cayeulx had sufficient presence of mind to formulate his amazement
in a prolonged whistle. Louis crossed himself repeatedly under his
gown. "You are not a church-goer, sir?" he questioned sourly. Villon
answered him sweetly.
"No, old Queernabs, unless there's an alms-box to open or a matter
of gold plate to pilfer." Guy Tabarie hurriedly interrupted him with
a warning cry of "Cave!" and a significant glance at the strangers,
but Villon derided his fears.
"Nonsense," he cried, leaning forward and playfully slapping Louis
on the back with his sword. "This good Cuffin has a friendly face
and can take a joke. Can't you, old rabbit?"
Louis winced and then grinned as Tristan gasped in anger. "I thank
Heaven I have a sense ot humour," he said, with a sly glance at his
companion. Villon went on with his story.
"Well, I sprawled there in the dark, with my knees on the cold
ground, and all the while the sound of her beauty was sweet in my
ears, and the taste of her beauty was salt on my lips, and the pain
of her beauty was gnawing at my heart, and I prayed that I might see
her again."
At this point Huguette, who had been following the narrative with a
feline ferocity, caught up a wine-jug and made to throw it at the
poet's head, but was dexterously disarmed by Guy Tabarie before the
vessel had time to quit her fingers. Sulkily she plumped herself
down on her stool again, while Villon, quite unconscious of the
averted peril, rambled on dreamily.
"And the incense tickled my nostrils and the painted saints sneered
at me, and bits of rhymes and bits of prayers jigged in my brain and
I felt as if I were drunk with some new and delectable liquor. And
then she slipped out and I after her. She took the Holy Water from
my fingers."
Villon's voice sank reverently and Huguette took advantage of the
pause.
"I wish it had burned you to the bone," she interrupted spitefully.
Master Villon shook his head.
"It burned deeper than that, believe me. Outside, on God's steps,
stood a yellow-haired, pink-faced puppet who greeted her and they
ambled away together, I on their heels. Presently they came to a
gateway and in slips my quarry, and as she did so she turned to her
squire and I saw her face again and lost it, for the tears came into
my eyes." With a heavy sigh he turned to Louis. "I suppose you
wonder why I talk like this, but when my heart's in my mouth I must
spit it out or it chokes me."
"I have learned to wonder at nothing," Louis answered sagely. Villon
picked up the dropped thread of his tale.
"I saluted the gallant and begged to know the lady's name. He took
me for a madman, but he told me."
In a second Huguette was on her legs again and nestling her eager
face close to that of Villon as she whispered coaxingly:
"What was the lady's name, dear François?"
Master François looked into her watchful eyes with a wise smile.
"Be secret, sweet," he murmured. "It was Her Majesty, the Queen." A
wild roar of laughter from Villon's friends greeted this sally, and
the fury it brought to Huguette's face. Louis, royally angered, made
as if to rise in protest, but the heavy hand of Tristan fell on his
shoulder and restrained him, and Villon, noticing his irritation,
waved him down with a pacifying gesture.
"Now, now, my rum duke," he cried, "your loyalty need not take fire.
It was not her majesty, but her name I shall keep to myself, though
it is written on my shoulders in fair large blue and black bruises."
This statement stirred a murmur of surprise in the gathering. "Did
the pink and gold popinjay beat you?" Montigny asked, interpreting
the general curiosity.
"No, no," Villon answered. "It came about thus. We tinkers of verses
set a price on our wares that few find them worth, yet with the
love-fever in my veins I wrote rhymes to this lady and sent them to
her fairly writ on a piece of parchment that cost me a dinner."
"Did you think she would come to your whistle like a bird to a
lure?" Louis enquired playfully. Villon sighed again.
"In this kind of madness a minstrel thinks himself a new Orpheus who
could win a woman out of hell with his music. But I got my
answer--oh, I got my answer."
He dropped suddenly into a moody silence, which was not to the taste
of the fellowship who were interested in the adventure. Montigny,
leaning forward, gave Villon a clap on the back which made him
shrink, and shouted "What was the answer?"
Villon began to laugh, a loud, mirthless laugh that had no human
warmth in it.
"A fellow like a page boarded me here three days ago. He asked me if
I had sent certain verses to a certain quarter. If so I was to
follow him at once. I followed like a sheep with my heart drumming
till we came to a quiet place, and there four boobies with yard-long
cudgels fell upon me. I was taken unawares, I had no weapon but my
jackdagger, the blows were raining upon me as fast as acorns fly in
a high wind, so I thought it no shame to take to my heels. The
varlets pursued me, full cry, till I led them to a part of Paris
where their lives would not have been worth a minute's purchase and
they had to stay their chase. But I have been rarely drubbed and
roundly basted, and my poor back and sides are most womanishly
tender. I go abroad no more without Excalibur." He tapped his sword
hilt as he spoke. Huguette glared fiercely up at him. "Will it teach
you not to play the fool again?" asked, with a vicious snap of her
white teeth.
"It will teach me not to play the fool again," Villon answered
sadly. "The mark of the beast is upon me and I shall dream no more
dreams." He shook himself as if he were trying to shake away
clinging memories and extended his empty can to Montigny, saying:
"I'm thirsty again. More liquor."
As Montigny filled up for his leader, Louis commented, "You drink
more than is good for your health, sir." Villon rounded on him
angrily, with flushed face and shining eyes.
"Mind your own business!" he shouted, and the rest shouted with him
applaudingly. "What can a man do but drink when France is going to
the devil, with the Burgundians camped in the free fields where I
played in childhood, and a nincompoop sits on the throne and lets
them besiege his city?" The rascals laughed. Tristan whispered to
himself, "You'll be sorry you spoke, Master Villon." The king
propounded a problem. "No doubt you could do better than the king if
you wore the king's shoes?"
Villon rolled about on his barrel in an ecstasy of entertainment.
"If I could not do better than Louis Do-Nothing, Louis Dare-Nothing,
having his occasions and advantages, may Huguette there never kiss
me again."
His boon companions laughed. Huguette whispered sulkily, "Perhaps she
never will."
Isabeau came sidling and bridling up to Louis, wheedling like a cat
as she said: "Our François has made a rhyme of it, sir, how he would
carry himself if he wore the king's shoes."
Louis was always ready for any kind of gallantry. He put his arms
around the girl's slim body and drew her on to his knee. "Has he,
indeed, pretty minion?" he said. "May we not hear it, Master Poet?"
Villon, with mock modesty, had tried to restrain Isabeau from
speaking of the work, but now he changed his tune. "You may; you
shall; for 'tis a true song, though it would cost me my neck if it
came to the king's ears, very likely. But you are not tall enough to
whisper in them, so here goes."
With a shout Villon sprang to his feet, draped his tattered cloak
closely about him, struck a commanding attitude, and began to recite
with great solemnity. Louis scooped his claw-like fingers behind his
ear, that he might hear the better the words that fell from the wild
poet's mouth:
"All French folk, whereso'er ye be,
Who love your country, soil and sand.
From Paris to the Breton sea,
And back again to Norman strand,
Forsooth ye seem a silly band,
Sheep without shepherd, left to chance--
Far otherwise our Fatherland
If Villon were the King of France!"
Louis glanced grimly at Tristan; the rogues rubbed their hands and
chuckled. Villon smiled in pride and went on:
"The figure on the throne you see
Is nothing but a puppet, planned
To wear the regal bravery
Of silken coat and gilded wand.
Not so we Frenchmen understand
The Lord of lion's heart and glance,
And such a one would take command
If Villon were the King of France!"
The king's face was a study in sardonics. Tristan was poppy-red with
rage. The gang applauded and Villon glowed with their applause.
"His counsellors are rogues, Perdie!
While men of honest mind are banned.
To creak upon the Gallows Tree,
Or squeal in prisons over-mann'd;
We want a chief to bear the brand,
And bid the damned Burgundians dance;
God! Where the Oriflamme should stand
If Villon were the King of France!"
Mugs and cans clattered approval. The rhymer's eyes widened as he
drew breath to blow forth the envoi of his ballade.
"Louis the Little, play the grand;
Buffet the foe with sword and lance;
'Tis what would happen, by this hand,
If Villon were the King of France!"
A roar of enthusiasm came from the full throats of the band.
Montigny slapped Villon on the back with a "Well crowed,
Chanticleer!" Huguette flung her arms around him and hugged him as
she cried passionately: "I forgive you much, for that light in your
eyes."
But the poet seemed weary after so much heat. He pushed the girl
away and drooped on his hogshead. The rogues rattled away to their
table again, and Villon was left alone with Louis, who questioned
him drily: "You call yourself a patriot, I suppose?"
Villon had recovered sufficient energy to drain a mug of wine. He
turned to the king, passing his hand over his forehead. "By no such
high-sounding title," he answered. "I am but a poor devil with a
heart too big for his body and a hope too large for his hoop. Had I
been begotten in a brocaded bed, I might have led armies and served
France; have loved ladies without fear of cudgellings, and told
kings truths without dread of the halter, while as it is, I consort
with sharps and wantons, and make my complaint to a dull little
buzzard like you, old noodle! Oh,'tis a fool's play and it were well
to be out of it."
"You won't have long to worry," Tristan muttered to himself under
his breath, and found great comfort in the thought. Louis merely
said: "You are sententious!"
Villon took him up swiftly. "The quintessence of envy, no less. I
have great thoughts, great desires, great ambitions, great
appetites, what you will. I might have changed the world and left a
memory. As it is I sleep in a garret under the shadow of the
gallows, and shall be forgotten to-morrow, even by the wolves I pack
with. But this is dry thinking; let's to drinking!" As he spoke
Villon rose to join his comrades, when his quick eye noted that
Robin Turgis had fallen asleep on his bench. Villon skipped lightly
toward him, dexterously unhooked his bunch of keys from his girdle,
and, with a triumphant gesture, made on tiptoe for the cellar door,
which he unlocked and through which he disappeared. Louis looked
after him with an acid smile. Tristan leaned forward and plucked at
the kind's sleeve. "Shall I hang him to-morrow?" he asked, hoarsely.
The king turned, musing, to his henchman. "We shall see! He is a
loose-lipped fellow, but he might have been a man. He has set me
thinking of my dream. I was a swine rioting in the streets of Paris
and I found a pearl-well, well. Let us kill the time with cards till
Thibaut d'Aussigny comes." Tristan produced a pack of cards from his
pouch and laid them on the table. "Do you think he will come?" he
asked.
"He does not expect to find me here, I promise you," Louis answered.
"He would not come if he did. Barber Olivier is to warn me of his
coming." As he spoke the inn-door opened a little and the king,
hearing the click of the catch, asked: "Is that he?"
Tristan glanced round over his shoulder. The door was pushed partly
open, and an old, stooped woman was peeping curiously into the room.
Tristan shrugged his shoulders.
"No, sire," he snarled, "another old woman."
By this time the king had arranged the cards to his satisfaction. He
made an imperative gesture to his companion to seat himself and in a
few seconds had forgotten everything else in the excitement of the
game. Meanwhile the old woman, having pushed the door wide open,
came softly into the room. She was a quiet, mild-faced creature, one
of those human shadows who suggest without tragedy faded youth and
withered comeliness. She was very poorly but very neatly dressed, in
worn grey and rusty black, and the linen folds about her lined face
were scrupulously clean. She looked anxiously around her, shading
her eyes with her hand, in the dim light of the tavern, unable to
discern much but evidently eager to discern something.
René de Montigny, tired of teasing Isabeau, suddenly looked up and
caught sight of the old woman as she stood, very helpless and
wistful, peering about her. An impish spirit floated leaf-like on
the surface of his mind. He rose to his feet and danced towards her
in a fantastic manner, sweeping her a profound salutation as he
approached her.
"Your pleasure, sweet princess?" he said with mock deference.
The old woman turned her wrinkled visage up to his in wonder.
"Is Master François Villon in this company, sir?" she faltered.
Montigny treated her to another profound bow.
"Sweet creature," he simpered, "I kiss your hand and inquire."
He turned to his companions at the table and his eye rested
mockingly on the bowed figure of Huguette. After Master Villon had
told his tale Huguette had been glum enough, and her comrades
finding her snappish wisely left her to herself. She had pulled a
pack of cards from her scarlet pouch; she had been spelling out her
fortune silently, and the death card insisted itself again and again
with grim pertinacity. With a sense of despair that was strange to
her airy nature she had bowed her face on her arms and was sobbing
softly to herself. Montigny was not a man to be touched by a woman's
sorrow. He mockingly gesticulated over her bent shoulders as he
cried to the others in a false whisper,
"There is a beautiful woman at the door, beseeching our François."
The moment these words fell on Huguette's ears, they stung her into
life and activity. She leaped to her feet in a flash.
"What do you say?" she raged, and then, seeing a woman's form a few
feet away from her, she rushed towards the stranger furiously while
the others rose in cages expectation of some new excitement.
"What do you seek here?" she asked fiercely of the old woman, and
then as she saw the pitiful wrinkled face staring up at her, she
started back in surprise.
The old woman, misinterpreting the sex of her questioner from the
dress that Huguette wore, began apologetically.
"Asking your pardon, young gentleman," and for a moment her words
were drowned in a shout of delighted laughter, as the listening
rogues appreciated the blunder she had made.
"Asking your pardon, young gentleman, I seek Master François
Villon."
Huguette snapped at her impatiently, "Seek him and find him." Then
turning to René, she cried, "Montigny, you beast!" and with her hand
on her dagger, made hotly for him.
Montigny, grinning like a delighted monkey, skipped for safety,
dodging her around the table, while the others perceiving a victim
in the bewildered old woman, joined hands in a ring and began
dancing wildly around her, singing a ribald song. The old woman, as
frightened and timid as a mouse might be if it suddenly found itself
the centre of a circle of dancing cats, stood still.
At this moment the cellar door opened, and François reappeared,
carrying in his arms a large jug of wine. Perceiving that the
landlord still lay in his heavy sleep, he smiled delightedly to
himself, closed the cellar door softly and placed his booty in the
corner of the fireplace nearest to the settle. The noise of the
tumult attracted him from his successful plunder, and looking up, he
became aware of what was happening. In a second his contented mien
changed, and dashing into the dancing crowd, he struck Jehan le Loup
a heavy blow with the bunch of keys, which felled him to the ground
like a log. In a moment the cluster of rascals dissipated, and
Villon caught the old woman in his arms.
"Damn you, chubs!" he shouted at them. "It's my mother." Then as he
drew the trembling old woman towards the fireplace, he whispered in
her ears, "Don't be frightened, mammy, they meant no harm."
A certain hang-dog air of contrition was on the faces of most of the
members of the gang as they stood apart and eyed the mother and son
shame-facedly. Guy Tabarie, who had a wholesome dislike to quarrels,
slipped quietly into the cool street to seek pleasure in some place
where the atmosphere might be less stormy.
Robin Turgis wakened from his heavy sleep, clapped his hand
instinctively to his girdle and found that his keys were missing.
"My keys! my keys!" he shouted--"where are my keys?" And then,
catching sight of them where they lay by the prostrate form of Jehan
le Loup, he rushed forward and secured them greedily.
By this time Jehan le Loup had recovered the senses which Villon's
swinging blow had knocked out of him and was crawling slowly into a
sitting posture. He glared ferociously at Master François and his
evil right hand stole to the pommel of his dagger.
"You have cracked my crown, curse you," he grunted, and then swiftly
sprang to his feet with the bare blade in his hand and rushed at his
assailant. But Villon was too alert to be taken unawares. He had not
time to draw his sword, but in a second he had snatched a spit from
the fire and extending it scientifically kept Jehan le Loup at arm's
length. Huguette seized Jehan by the dagger arm.
"She is his mother!" she said angrily. "You all had mothers, I
suppose? Let him alone!"
Jehan le Loup unwillingly sheathed his weapon; Huguette dragged him
back to the table; Villon replaced the spit, which had somewhat
burned his fingers, and sat down by his mother's side on the settle,
in peace.
"Did they frighten you, mammy?" he whispered. "But they meant no
harm. Boys and girls, girls and boys."
The old woman put her arms tightly about him. Villon grimaced. Her
loving touch was as painful as a hostile one to his bruised body,
but he made no attempt to repress her embrace.
"Come home, François," she said. "Come home. Where have you been
these three days?"
Villon caressed the old woman very tenderly, as he answered:
"Very busy, mammy--state secrets. Mum's the word. How did you find
me out?"
"They told me at the Unicorn," the old woman said, "that I might
find you here."
Villon made a gesture of contempt.
"Oh, the Unicorn is no longer fashionable. They want payment on the
nail there, confound them! Besides, this is nearer the walls and we
can hear the Burgundians shouting. It is as good as a relish with
our wine."
Mother Villon shook her grey head sadly.
"Come away," she entreated. "You have had wine enough."
Villon contradicted her instantly.
"Never in my life, mammy. I have a fool's head and always get into
my altitudes too soon."
Then, seeing the look of disappointment that made her grey old face
look greyer still,--he added, "I cannot come home just now, mammy,
but there is something I can do for you. Do you remember when I was
a little child--"
Something in the words made him stop suddenly. The hideous contrast
between the phrase and the place wherein he was, between the mother
who fondled him and the wild men-savages and women-savages who were
his daily friends and who were drinking and dicing behind him at the
other side of the settle, came upon him like a great wave of pain
and knocked the mirth out of him. He turned away from his mother and
repeated to himself dismally, "God! when I was a little child!" The
mother's pity, the mother's protection immediately asserted
themselves.
"You were the prettiest child woman ever bore," she said, softly.
Villon turned towards her again, while he tried to wink the tears
out of his eyes.
"You used to sing me to sleep," he said, and as he spoke he rocked
her slowly backward and forward in his arms, while he crooned the
words of that old nurse's song which has soothed so many generations
of French children to sleep, "Do, do, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira
tantot."
"Well, mammy, your dutiful son has made a song for you to sing
yourself to sleep with. I went to church the other day. Oh, on my
honour, I did"--this was in reply to a startled look of surprise
that flooded the old woman's face--"and a prayer came into my
head--a prayer for you to say to our Lady."
The old woman kissed him fondly on the forehead.
"My love bird," she said, and as she spoke a boyish look that had
long been absent from Villon's face came back to it for a moment.
"Here it is," he said. "Listen." And he whispered to her the verses
he had made, while the old woman crossed herself reverentially.
"Lady of Heaven, Queen of Earth,
Empress of Hell, I kneel and plead
You pity, by the holy birth,
The humblest Christian of the Creed;
I cannot write; I cannot read;
I am a woman poor and old,
But in the Church, where I behold
The gates of Paradise, I cry
Woman to woman, make me bold
In thy belief to live and die."
"There, mammy, there is a pretty prayer for you."
Mother Villon was dissolved in tears and sobbed on his shoulder.
"You should have been a good man," she said.
Villon stroked her hair very gently.
"We are as Heaven pleases, dear." He paused for a moment, then
suddenly remembering the silver coin which he had confiscated from
the king, he dipped his fingers into his pouch and produced it.
"Here is something for you, mammy," he said, and as the old woman,
with a faint flush on her worn cheeks, seemed about to protest, he
insisted. "Oh, yes. Take it, take it. It was honestly come by, and
you will spend it more honestly than I should." He forced the coin
into her lean, brown hand, and added, "Now run away, mammy, and pray
yourself to sleep, You shall see me soon, I promise you."
He led her gently across the tavern floor to the door, which he
opened for her. As she turned to go, she looked up to him and
repeated two lines of his prayer:
"Woman to woman, make me bold In thy belief to live and die."
As the door closed and Villon turned to come back to his seat, Jehan
le Loup, who had been eyeing him and who was eager to pay off the
score of his cracked crown, rose to his feet, dragging Isabeau with
him, and barred his passage.
"Kiss a young mouth for a change," he said, and thrust the girl
against the poet. Villon brushed them both aside.
"Go to the devil," he said angrily, and passed them. Once again
Jehan's hand sought his weapon and once again he was restrained.
"He is in one of his bad moods," said Isabeau. "Leave him to
himself," and she drew her reluctant companion back to the table,
while Villon seated himself in a corner of the settle, staring into
the fire.
At the moment the tavern door was thrust open violently and Guy
Tabarie rushed into the room, his great moon face sweating, his eyes
bulging, his fringe of crimson locks flaming out from the eggshell
dome of his bald head, his mighty belly swaying with a passion of
excitement.
"Friends!" he shrieked, at the top of his voice, "there's a fight at
Fat Margot's between two wenches. They are stripped to the waist and
at it hammer and tongs. Come and see for the love of God!"
The whole band was afoot in an instant, clamantly agog. Guy Tabarie
turned as he finished speaking and rushed through the open door into
the shining moonlit street. The rest trailed after him, wandering
stars in the tail of a dishonourable comet, shouting, screaming,
laughing, pushing, panting, eager for the promised sport.
"I'll crown the victor!" cried Montigny as he ran and "I'll console
the vanquished!" shouted Jehan le Loup, as he brought up the rear of
the road and vanished, clattering, into the night. Only Huguette
remained of all the fellowship, and she turned instinctively to
Villon when he crouched over the dying fire.
"Will you come, François?" she whispered softly. Villon lifted his
head for a moment from his hands to signify a refusal.
"Nay, I am reading."
Huguette blazed out at him a fierce "You lie!" which failed to move
the poet from his melancholy resolve.
"A man may read without book," he said. "Go your ways, girl, and
skelp both the hussies!" He drooped into a dejected heap again,
oblivious of the girl, who looked at him half sadly, half angrily
for an instant, and then disappeared in her turn into the causeway,
calling upon her knavish heralds to wait for her.
Robin Turgis, shutting the door after her with a sigh of
satisfaction, retired to his own quarters to seek sleep until custom
should return. Louie and Tristan, deep in their cards, paid little
heed to anything else.
"Your barber tarries," Tristan said, after a panse.
"The game makes amends," Louis answered.
"You are winning, sire," Tristan grunted. The king chirruped
merrily.
"My grandsire will be remembered longer than most kings for the sake
of these wasters and winners that they made to soothe his madness."
But even as he spoke his mirth faded, for a turn of Fortune gave
Tristan an opportunity.
"My game, sire!" he said, and swept the stakes into his pocket.
The king fell into a frowning silence as Tristan dealt the cards
again, and scrutinized his new hand with a sombre care, as if the
fate of Empire depended upon it. Scarcely a sound disturbed the
heavy quiet of the room. Master François Villon glooming in his
settle corner, sucked a long noiseless draught from his stolen jug
and meditated drearily. Between wine and weariness his head was
beginning to swim. His head felt as heavy as lead and his brain as
light and foolish as a wind-tumbled feather. Two women's faces
danced before his eyes, one proud and beautiful and young, the other
humble and pitiful and old, and he tried his best to shut both of
them out of his senses. Vaguely he tried to shape a ballade, a noble
ballade in honour of all things good to eat. He had got at least an
excellent overword. "A dish of tripe's the best of all." He mouthed
the line with a relish, but his eyes were seeing straws and his
stubbled chin scraped his breast. There came a click at the latch,
but he did not heed it. He would scarcely have heeded a Burgundian
cannon shot; he had drifted into a lumpish doze. And yet the way of
the world depended, for him, upon that lift of a latch.