SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION
"There was a time," said Villon, "when I, too, could forget that rose
arches are open at the ends. The world is always gaping at our elbow.
If we taste a peach in an orchard, the wall is low; if we smell a rose
in a garden, there are, Heaven be thanked, more flowers than leaves
when life's at May; and either way the world is with us."
"And you were the gaping world!" answered La Mothe, vexed for Ursula's
sake that Villon of the bitter tongue should have discovered their
secret. "Was that friendly of you?"
"Not gaping, no! But is a man to close his eyes when heaven opens? I
beg you to believe," he went on with great dignity, "that just so soon
as I made certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you to your
rose-gathering. Observe I have not said one word about the thorns.
That is the stale gibe of the cynic whose heart of youth has dried
before its time. And what if there are thorns? A single rose with the
dew of love upon it is worth more than a pair of scratched hands.
Gape? Could you believe it of me--of me, Francois Villon? No, son of
my teaching, I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe."
"Saxe!" cried La Mothe. "Never once have I thought of Saxe, never once
all day, and now it is almost night."
"Don't distress yourself on that account. Saxe has wanted for nothing,
thanks to his two best friends. That reminds me." Pausing, Villon
rapped loudly on the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until a
servant familiar with his ways answered the summons. "My friend, fetch
me a bottle of wine, one single bottle from the furthest-in bin on the
right-hand side of the cellar. It is the '63 vintage," he explained to
La Mothe, "and I have the best of reasons for knowing Saxe will not
object."
"But why one bottle only?"
"I have been invited to a certain presentation," he answered, the
crow's feet round his twinkling eyes deepening as he laughed. "Thanks,
my friend," he went on as the drawer returned with the wine; "place it
on the table and retire to your kitchen to meditate on the mutability
of human fortune in the person of the greatest poet of his age, from
the Guest of the Three-legged Maid of Montfaucon to 'Francois Villon,
my friend' of the Dauphin of France! At last they are beginning to
appreciate me at the Château."
"But what of Saxe?"
"Ah, Saxe?" Filling his horn mug he emptied it with such slow
satisfaction that the flavour of no single drop of the wine missed his
palate. "Saxe's best friend had been before me this morning."
"But Monsieur de Commines' orders were strict, only you and I were to
see him."
"Not even your Monsieur de Commines can shut out a man from himself,
and who is a better friend or a worse enemy? Saxe, the wise man, has
hanged himself."
"Hanged himself? Saxe?"
"An intelligent anticipation," said Villon, nodding thoughtfully. "I
did not think he had so much good sense or good feeling. He always
struck me as a man of a coarse, material mind; but one can never tell."
"Villon, it is horrible! How can you talk so callously? But you know
you do not mean what you say."
"Every word of it. Hanged he would have been in any case, that was
inevitable. I warned him last night that he knew too much, and that
more went into Amboise than came out again. And was it not better he
should go to his end quietly, decently, just God and himself alone
together--the Good God who understands us so much better than we do
ourselves and so makes allowances? You don't agree with me?"
"I can only say again, it is horrible."
"Then what of the justice of the King which makes a man a spectacle in
the market-place, with all the world agape at the terror of it, the
world that licks its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbeting
of wretches no worse than itself? Think of the terror of it! Think of
the shame of it! The men he had drunk with, the women he had laughed
with, the children he had played with, all ringed round him to see him
die. And there he would hang till his bones dropped, a shame and a
blot on the clean face of the earth, blackened by the heat, drenched
white by the rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while the
pies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, a waste rag of
humanity. Come now, which is the decenter?"
"Poor Saxe!"
"If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no dew on the roses
this morning. He would have lied Mademoiselle de Vesc to death without
a scruple."
"She wished him no harm, of that I am certain."
"It is of the quality of roses to be sweet. But, La Mothe, say nothing
to her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold to
spend through a whole day of life," a cynical truth La Mothe was to
remember before a new morning dawned.
"Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine?"
"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, to
be serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a second
bottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life
like a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he would
have bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is no
infection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think of
it, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between us
three that I wonder which will go next."
"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe."
"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, I
palmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off upon
mademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and--bah! your presentation will save
us two."
"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance."
"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choose
presentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at La
Mothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it another
intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better--a
remembrance. The King--God bless him!--will presently die in earnest;
the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La
Mothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget the
stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases in
princes. When, lo!--a wise youth you are, La Mothe--a remembrance jogs
his recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur
Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over.
Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligent
anticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way of
remembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophets
fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-foot
rope may be infectious after all."
"Villon, you are quite wrong."
"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh few
recover from. But let us go to the Château." Pushing the unemptied
bottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had
changed; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face were
those of age, not laughter.