Part 13 (1/2)

Fate grinned and went on with her weaving.

3. ”Et Ysabeau, Qui Dit: Enne!”

Somewhat later Francois came down the deserted street, treading on air.

It was a bland summer night, windless, moon-washed, odorous with garden-scents; the moon, nearing its full, was a silver egg set on end--(”Leda-hatched,” he termed it; ”one may look for the advent of Queen Heleine ere dawn”); and the sky he likened to blue velvet studded with the gilt nail-heads of a seraphic upholsterer. Francois was a poet, but a civic poet; then, as always, he pilfered his similes from shop-windows.

But the heart of Francois was pure magnanimity, the heels of Francois were mercury, as he tripped past the church of Saint Benoit-le-Betourne, stark snow and ink in the moonlight. Then with a jerk Francois paused.

On a stone bench before the church sat Ysabeau de Montigny and Gilles Raguyer. The priest was fuddled, hiccuping in his amorous dithyrambics as he paddled with the girl's hand. ”You tempt me to murder,” he was saying.

”It is a deadly sin, my soul, and I have no mind to fry in h.e.l.l while my body swings on the Saint Denis road, a crow's dinner. Let Francois live, my soul! My soul, he would stick little Gilles like a pig.”

Raguyer began to blubber at the thought.

”Holy Macaire!” said Francois; ”here is a pretty plot a-brewing.” Yet because his heart was filled just now with loving-kindness, he forgave the girl. _”Tantaene irae?”_ said Francois; and aloud, ”Ysabeau, it is time you were abed.”

She wheeled upon him in apprehension; then, with recognition, her rage flamed. ”Now, Gilles!” cried Ysabeau de Montigny; ”now, coward! He is unarmed, Gilles. Look, Gilles! Kill for me this betrayer of women!”

Under his mantle Francois loosened the short sword he carried. But the priest plainly had no mind to the business. He rose, tipsily fumbling a knife, and snarling like a cur at sight of a strange mastiff. ”Vile rascal!” said Gilles Raguyer, as he strove to lash himself into a rage.

”O coward! O parricide! O Tarquin!”

Francois began to laugh. ”Let us have done with this farce,” said he.

”Your man has no stomach for battle, Ysabeau. And you do me wrong, my la.s.s, to call me a betrayer of women. Doubtless, that tale seemed the most apt to kindle in poor Gilles some homicidal virtue: but you and I and G.o.d know that naught has pa.s.sed between us save a few kisses and a trinket or so. It is no knifing matter. Yet for the sake of old time, come home, Ysabeau; your brother is my friend, and the hour is somewhat late for honest women to be abroad.”

”Enne?” shrilled Ysabeau; ”and yet, if I cannot strike a spark of courage from this clod here, there come those who may help me, Francois de Montcorbier. 'Ware Sermaise, Master Francois!”

Francois wheeled. Down the Rue Saint Jacques came Philippe Sermaise, like a questing hound, with drunken Jehan le Merdi at his heels. ”Holy Virgin!” thought Francois; ”this is likely to be a nasty affair. I would give a deal for a glimpse of the patrol lanterns just now.”

He edged his way toward the cloister, to get a wall at his back. But Gilles Raguyer followed him, knife in hand. ”O hideous Tarquin! O Absalom!” growled Gilles; ”have you, then, no respect for churchmen?”

With an oath, Sermaise ran up. ”Now, may G.o.d die twice,” he panted, ”if I have not found the skulker at last! There is a crow needs picking between us two, Montcorbier.”

Hemmed in by his enemies, Francois temporized. ”Why do you accost me thus angrily, Master Philippe?” he babbled. ”What harm have I done you? What is your will of me?”

But his fingers tore feverishly at the strap by which the lute was swung over his shoulder, and now the lute fell at their feet, leaving Francois unhampered and his sword-arm free.

This was fuel to the priest's wrath. ”Sacred bones of Benoit!” he snarled; ”I could make a near guess as to what window you have been caterwauling under.”

From beneath his gown he suddenly hauled out a rapier and struck at the boy while Francois was yet tugging at his sword.

Full in the mouth Sermaise struck him, splitting the lower lip through.

Francois felt the piercing cold of the steel, the tingling of it against his teeth, then the warm grateful spurt of blood; through a red mist, he saw Gilles and Ysabeau run screaming down the Rue Saint Jacques.

He drew and made at Sermaise, forgetful of le Merdi. It was shrewd work.

Presently they were fighting in the moonlight, hammer-and-tongs, as the saying is, and presently Sermaise was cursing like a madman, for Francois had wounded him in the groin. Window after window rattled open as the Rue Saint Jacques ran nightcapped to peer at the brawl. Then as Francois hurled back his sword to slash at the priest's shaven head--Frenchmen had not yet learned to thrust with the point in the Italian manner--Jehan le Merdi leapt from behind, nimble as a snake, and wrested away the boy's weapon. Sermaise closed with a glad shout.

”Heart of G.o.d!” cried Sermaise. ”Pray, bridegroom, pray!”