Part 12 (2/2)
”You have made me very unhappy,” said the voice, with a little sniff.
”It was before I knew you, Catherine. The stars are beautiful, m'amye, and a man may reasonably admire them; but the stars vanish and are forgotten when the sun appears.”
”Ysabeau is not a star,” the voice pointed out; ”she is simply a lank, good-for-nothing, slovenly trollop.”
”Ah, Catherine--!”
”You are still in love with her.”
”Catherine--!”
”Otherwise, you will promise me for the future to avoid her as you would the Black Death.”
”Catherine, her brother is my friend--!”
”Rene de Montigny is, to the knowledge of the entire Rue Saint Jacques, a gambler and a drunkard and, in all likelihood, a thief. But you prefer, it appears, the Montignys to me. An ill cat seeks an ill rat. Very heartily do I wish you joy of them. You will not promise? Good-night, then, Monsieur de Montcorbier.”
”Mother of G.o.d! I promise, Catherine.”
From above Mademoiselle de Vaucelles gave a luxurious sigh. ”Dear Francois!” said she.
”You are a tyrant,” he complained. ”Madame Penthesilea was not more cruel. Madame Herodias was less implacable, I think. And I think that neither was so beautiful.”
”I love you,” said Mademoiselle de Vaucelles, promptly.
”But there was never any one so many fathoms deep in love as I. Love bandies me from the postern to the frying-pan, from hot to cold. Ah, Catherine, Catherine, have pity upon my folly! Bid me fetch you Prester John's beard, and I will do it; bid me believe the sky is made of calf-skin, that morning is evening, that a fat sow is a windmill, and I will do it. Only love me a little, dear.”
”My king, my king of lads!” she murmured.
”My queen, my tyrant of unreason! Ah, yes, you are all that is ruthless and abominable, but then what eyes you have! Oh, very pitiless, large, lovely eyes--huge sapphires that in the old days might have ransomed every monarch in Tamerlane's stable! Even in the night I see them, Catherine.”
”Yet Ysabeau's eyes are brown.”
”Then are her eyes the gutter's color. But Catherine's eyes are twin firmaments.”
And about them the acacias rustled lazily, and the air was sweet with the odors of growing things, and the world, drenched in moonlight, slumbered. Without was Paris, but old Jehan's garden-wall cloistered Paradise.
”Has the world, think you, known lovers, long dead now, that were once as happy as we?”
”Love was not known till we discovered it.”
”I am so happy, Francois, that I fear death.”
”We have our day. Let us drink deep of love, not waiting until the spring run dry. Catherine, death comes to all, and yonder in the church-yard the poor dead lie together, huggermugger, and a man may not tell an archbishop from a rag-picker. Yet they have exulted in their youth, and have laughed in the sun with some la.s.s or another la.s.s. We have our day, Catherine.”
”Our day wherein I love you!”
”And wherein I love you precisely seven times as much!”
So they prattled in the moonlight. Their discourse was no more overburdened with wisdom than has been the ordinary communing of lovers since Adam first awakened ribless. Yet they were content, who, were young in the world's recaptured youth.
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