THE DEATH OF A WANTON
The sham king leaped to his feet, still laughing, flung off the
black cap with its little row of leaden saints and the rusty black
mantle which mimicked the king's habit, and stood delighted and
defiant before Thibaut, the François Villon who thus a second time
had crossed his path.
"Well, friend, what has the wizard told you?" Louis asked blandly.
Villon swayed with laughter as he pointed to the bewildered giant.
"Wonders, sire," he answered. "I have not laughed so heartily since
I attained greatness." But even as he spoke Thibaut had recovered
his wits. He might be defeated but he would not be unavenged.
"You shall laugh no more!" he shouted, wrenching himself free from
restraint, and he sprang at his enemy with lifted dagger.
From behind the shadow of the statue of Pan there came a warning
shriek, and swiftly between Villon and Thibaut a slim green figure
darted and slim green arms clasped Villon around the neck. The
dagger of Thibaut drove deep into the soft body of Huguette.
With a curse Thibaut turned and, sweeping aside the archers who
tried to stop him, disappeared down the nearest alley. Noel le
Jolys, drawing his sword, rushed in pursuit, followed by several
soldiers. Villon held the bleeding body of the girl in his arms, and
tried his best to stanch the wound which was staining the green
jerkin a dull red, but the girl protested faintly, pushing his
ministering hand away.
"Let me alone; I am done for," she gasped.
Olivier was by her side in an instant, eyeing the wound with the
professional interest of the surgeon-barber and looking from it to
the girl's pale face. Villon's gaze questioned him. Olivier shrugged
his shoulders and shook his head. Villon knew that the wound was
mortal, and his own blood seemed like water within him. He carried
the girl across the grass to the marble seat and rested her on it,
the red stain on the green coat growing wider and wider as they
moved.
"Courage, Abbess, courage, lass," he whispered, fighting with his
horror and his sorrow as he moaned to himself: "That any one should
die for me!"
The girl's arms clung closer about his neck and her lips moved
faintly. He stooped close to her to catch her words.
"This is a strange end, François. I always thought I should die in a
bed. Here is another kind of battlefield. Give me drink."
"Some water," Villon cried to Olivier, who stood a little apart from
the pair with the resigned look of the physician who knows that his
art is of no avail.
Huguette protested faintly.
"Not water. Wine. I have ever loved the taste of it, and 'tis too
late to change now."
Olivier filled a cup from the flagon on the table and was for
lifting it to the girl's lips, but her feeble hand repulsed him and
she pleaded to Villon:
"Give it to me, François."
Villon took the cup from the barber's hand, lifted it to the dying
girl's lips, and she drank greedily. The strong wine gave her for a
moment something of its own false strength, and she struggled to her
feet, Villon rising with her and supporting her.
"Your health, François. I suppose I have been a great sinner. Will
God forgive me?"
Villon stifled a heavy groan, but he was sworn to console her if he
could, and, indeed, he believed his words of consolation.
"He understands his children."
The heavy head drooped its golden curls upon his shoulder.
"You always were hopeful," she said brokenly. Then suddenly clasping
him tightly, she cried: "Many men have taken my body; only you ever
took my heart. Give me your lips."
Villon's spirit was troubled. It seemed to him that his lips were
bound to wait for that kiss of his lady's, and yet the dying girl
loved him and he had loved the dying girl after a fashion, and he
could not refuse her now. He bent to grant her prayer, when suddenly
she shook herself free from his arms and began to sing faintly the
words of the song he had made for her:
"Daughters of Pleasure, one and all,
Then she caught her breath with a sob and slipped to the last lines
of the verse:
"Use your red lips before too late, Love ere love flies beyond
recall."
She shook her head back in a wild peal of laughter: then she gave a
great cry and fell forward. Villon caught her, looked in her face
and knew that she was dead, and that the best of his old bad life
lay dead with her.
Olivier in obedience to an order of the king's, gave a signal and
the girl's body was swiftly wrapped in a soldier's cloak and laid
gently upon a pair of crossed halberds. As this was being done, Noel
le Jolys came panting back with a red sword in his hand.
"Thibaut d'Aussigny is dead, sire," he said; "my hand was the hand
that finished him."
Then as his eyes fell on the dead body, they shone with sudden
tears. Villon went up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
"I leave this dead woman in your hands," he said, "for I think you
had a kindness for her. See that she has Christian burial."
Noel bowed his head and followed in silence the girl's body. The
garden was left to Louis and Villon, Tristan and Olivier, and the
handful of captured rogues who stood apart, strongly guarded and
stripped of their pilgrims' garb, gazing amazed at Louis and his
double. Villon, silent too, looked after the little group that bore
away the dead girl's body. His mind was a warfare of wild memories.
Strange recollections of times and places with Huguette came
crowding up and beating piteously upon his brain. He thought of what
he had been, and groaned; of what he was now, and his soul cried out
as in prayer in the name of Katherine.