THE ANSWER TO BURGUNDY
A touch on the shoulder roused Villon from his honeyed meditations,
and he turned with a start to find the sable figure of the king at
his side and the sinister visage smiling upon him.
"Good afternoon, Lord Constable," Louis said amiably, and as Villon
dropped respectfully on his knee, he questioned:
"Does power taste well?"
"Nobly, sire. On my knees let me thank your majesty."
"Nonsense, man; I'm pleasing myself. You sang yourself into
splendour. 'If François were the king of France,' eh?"
Villon rose with voice and gesture of apologetic entreaty.
"Your majesty will understand--"
Louis brushed his apologies aside blandly.
"Perfectly. My good friend, you captivated me. With what a flashing
eye, with what a radiant forehead, with what a lofty carriage you
thundered your verses at me. 'There,' I said to myself, 'is a real
man, a man with a mission, a man who may serve France.'"
"Sire, that has been my hunger's dream of plenty."
Louis clasped his thin arms across his chest and hugged himself
affectionately.
"Well, I couldn't very well make you king, you know, and I wouldn't
if I could, for I have a fancy for the task myself. But I owed you a
good turn and your own words prompted the payment. 'This poor devil
shall taste power,' I said. 'I will make him my Grand Constable--'"
Villon's joy was so great that he was unable to hear the king out,
but interrupted him with enthusiastic promises.
"Sire, I will serve you as never king was served."
Louis went on unheeding, and his quiet, monotonous words fell on the
hot brain of the poet and chilled it.
"I will make him my Grand Constable for a week."
If Louis had jerked a dagger into Villon's side, he could not have
more surely hurt his victim.
"A week, sire?" Villon gasped, almost unable to realize the meaning
of the king's words.
Louis turned upon him and snarled at him:
"Good Lord, did your vanity credit a permanent appointment? Come,
friend, come, that would be pushing the joke too far!"
All the sunlight seemed to have gone out of the world, all the scent
out of the roses. Villon could only repeat to himself: "A week!" and
stare vacantly at the king. The king emphasized his offer, lingering
over it lovingly.
"Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days." He paused for
an instant as he counted. "One hundred and sixty-eight heavenly
hours. It's the chance of a lifetime. The world was made in seven
days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendour, seven days of
love."
Villon gave a groan of despair for his golden hopes.
"And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the
brothel!"
Louis' malign smile deepened. He came closer to the poet and tapped
him on the chest with his lean forefinger. He was enjoying himself
immensely.
"No, no, not exactly." he hummed. "You don't taste the full force of
the joke yet. In a week's time you will build me a big gibbet in the
Place de Greve, and there your last task as Grand Constable will be
to hang Master François Villon."
If the world had been colourless and scentless before, it was now no
better than a hideous heap of ashes. If Villon had run up a heavy
reckoning with the king at the Fircone Tavern, must he wipe out the
score with his life-blood? Villon fell at the king's feet with
extended hands and agonized, beseeching eyes.
"Sire, sire, have pity!"
The king looked down on him in disdain.
"Are you so fond of life? Are you so poor a thing that you prize
your garret and your kennel, your tavern and your brothel so
highly?"
Villon bowed his head.
"I was content yesterday."
The king surveyed the cowering figure with growing contempt.
"Can you be content to-day? Please yourself. There is still a door
open to you. You can go back to your garret this very moment if you
choose. Say the word and my servants shall strip you of your smart
feathers and drub you into the street."
Villon buried his face in his hands. "Your majesty, be merciful!" he
implored.
The king's scorn blazed out:
"You read Louis of France a lesson, and Louis of France returns the
compliment. I took you for true gold and I am afraid that you are
only base metal. You mouthed your longing for the chance to show
what you could do. Here is your chance! Take it or leave it. But
remember that I never change my mind. You may have your week of
wonder if you wish, but if you do, by my word as a king, you shall
swing for it."
Villon rose to his feet and caught at his throat as if the grip of
the rope were at that very moment closing about it. He choked as he
spoke.
"In God's name, sire, what have I done that you should torture me
thus?"
The king snapped his answer:
"You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can't get off
scot free."
Villon's bewildered thoughts forced themselves into words. He spoke
not so much to the king as to himself, desperately trying to decide.
"Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with its
tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm
sleep, living hands to hold and living laughter to gladden me--or a
week of cloth of gold, of glory, of love--and then a shameful
death!"
He flung himself on the marble seat and crouched there, shuddering.
The king patted him on the back.
"Pray, friend, pray, to help your judgment!"
He had taken off his black velvet cap and ran his eye over the
little row of metal saints which encircled it as if he were
meditating to which particular patron he should recommend his Grand
Constable to address himself. As he did so, Olivier le Dain came
through the garden and moved swiftly to the king's side.
"Sire," he said, "the Burgundian herald, Toison d'Or, attends under
a flag of truce with a message for your majesty."
Louis turned to his barber.
"We will receive him here, Olivier, in this green audience chamber.
We need the free air when we hold speech with Burgundy."
As Olivier left the royal presence a little thing happened which
meant much to four people. Katherine came on to the terrace with
Noel le Jolys. She had a lute in her hand and she touched its chords
lightly, seeking to make an air for words as she idled the time with
her wooer. Louis saw her, though Villon did not, for he was huddled
in a heap on the marble seat with his head in his hands trying to
control his whirling thoughts. A new demon of mischief entered the
king's heart.
"How," he thought, "if my lady Virtue, who flouted me, could be
lured to love this beggar-man?" He ambled across to where Villon
lay and tapped him on the shoulder. Villon turned to him a face
drawn and white with agony.
"One further chance, fellow," said the king. "If the Count of
Montcorbier win the heart of Lady Katherine de Vaucelles within the
week, he shall escape the gallows and carry his lady love where he
pleases."
"On your word of honour, sire?"
"My word is my honour, Master François. Well?"
At this very moment it pleased heaven that Katherine, sitting on the
terrace and smiling at the adoration in Noel le Jolys' eyes, seemed
to find the air she sought and began to sing. The tune was quaint
and plaintive, tender as an ancient lullaby, the words were the
words of the tortured poet, and as he heard them a new hope seemed
to come into his heart.
"Life is unstable,
Love may uphold;
Fear goes in sable,
Courage in gold.
Mystery covers
Midnight and noon,
Heroes and lovers
Cry for the moon."
"Well," said the king; "you cried for the moon; I give it to you."
"And I take it at your hands!" Villon thundered. "Give me my week of
wonders though I die a dog's death at the end of it. I will show
France and her what lay in the heart of the poor rhymester."
Louis applauded, clapping his thin hands together gleefully.
"Spoken like a man! But remember, a bargain's a bargain. If you fail
to win the lady, you must, with heaven's help, keep yourself for the
gallows. No self-slaughter, no flinging away your life on some other
fool's sword. I give you the moon, but I want my price for it."
Villon's blood now ran warm again in its channels, and he answered
stoutly:
"Sire, I will keep my bargain. Give me my week of opportunity, and
if I do not make the most of it I shall deserve the death to which
you devote me."
Even as he spoke the air was stirred with a cheerful flourish of
trumpets and the quiet garden was invaded by Tristan l'Hermite and a
company of soldiers, escorting a tall and stately gentleman, whose
gorgeous tabard proclaimed him to be Toison d'Or, the herald of the
Duke of Burgundy. The news of his coming had run through the palace,
and the terrace was suddenly flooded with courtiers and ladies eager
to hear what the enemy's envoy had to say and what answer the king
would send back to him. Louis seated himself on the marble seat
anigh the image of Pan and drew Villon down beside him.
"Listen well to this man's words, my Lord Constable," he whispered,
and then turning to the gleaming figure of the herald, he demanded:
"Your message, sir?"
Toison d'Or advanced a few feet nearer to the monarch and spoke in a
ringing voice.
"In the name of the Duke of Burgundy and of his allies and
brothers-in-arms assembled in solemn leaguer outside the walls of
Paris, I hereby summon you, Louis of France, to surrender this city
unconditionally and to yield yourself in confidence to my master's
mercy."
The king folded his hands over his knees and inclined his head a
little, like an enquiring bird.
"And if we refuse, Sir Herald?"
The herald answered promptly:
"The worst disasters of war, fire and sword and famine, much blood
to shed and much gold to pay and for yourself no hope of pardon."
"Great words," the king sneered.
The herald replied proudly:
"The angels of great deeds."
Villon had been sitting listening as a man listens in a dream,
almost unconscious of what was taking place. Among the ladies on the
terrace Katherine stood conspicuous in her youth and beauty, and to
her his eyes were turned in worship. The quarrels of great princes,
the destinies of France were for the moment indifferent to him. He
forgot his high desires of empire, his swelling belief in his real
mission. He was only conscious that a great prize lay temptingly
within his grasp, that he might win his heart's desire. Louis
interrupted his reverie:
"The Count of Montcorbier, Constable of France, is my counsellor.
His voice delivers my mind. Speak, friend, and give this messenger
his answer."
He touched Villon on the arm and Villon turned to him in
astonishment. "As I will, sire?"
The king caught him up impatiently.
"Yes, go on, go on. 'If Villon were the king of France.'"
Villon leaped to his feet and advanced toward the herald. A wild
exultation filled his veins with fire. He felt as if he were the
lord of the world, as if his hands held the scales that decided the
destinies of nations. He had always dreamed of the great deeds he
would do, and now great deeds were possible to him, and at least he
would try to do them. He looked straight into the herald's
changeless face, but his heart shrined Katherine as he spoke.
"Herald of Burgundy, in God's name and the king's, I bid you go back
to your master and say this: Kings are great in the eyes of their
people, but the people are great in the eyes of God, and it is the
people of France who answer you in the name of this epitome. The
people of Paris are not so poor of spirit that they fear the croak
of the Burgundian ravens. We are well victualled, we are well armed;
we lie snug and warm behind our stout walls; we laugh at your
leaguer. But when we who eat are hungry, when we who drink are dry,
when we who glow are frozen, when there is neither bite on the board
nor sup in the pitcher nor spark upon the hearth, our answer to
rebellious Burgundy will be the same. You are knocking at our doors,
beware lest we open them and come forth to speak with our enemy at
the gate. We give you back defiance for defiance, menace for menace,
blow for blow. This is our answer--this and the drawn sword. God and
St. Denis for the King of France!"
As he spoke, he drew his sword and flashed it aloft in the sunlight.
There was contagion in his burning words, and every soldier present
bared his blade and pointed it to heaven while Villon's cry was
repeated upon a hundred lips. As Toison d'Or turned and left the
presence, Katherine came swiftly down the steps and flung herself at
Villon's feet.
"My Lord," she said. "With my lips the women of France thank you for
your words of flame."
Louis leaned forward, smiling sardonically.
"Mistress, what does this mean?" he questioned.
The girl rose to her feet, looking into Villon's face with eyes that
mirrored the admiration shining in his eyes.
"It means, sire, that a man has come to court!"