Part 3 (1/2)
The king's face was a study in sardonics. Tristan was poppy-red with rage. The gang applauded and Villon glowed with their applause.
”His counsellors are rogues, Perdie!
While men of honest mind are banned.
To creak upon the Gallows Tree, Or squeal in prisons over-mann'd; We want a chief to bear the brand, And bid the d.a.m.ned Burgundians dance; G.o.d! Where the Oriflamme should stand If Villon were the King of France!”
Mugs and cans clattered approval. The rhymer's eyes widened as he drew breath to blow forth the envoi of his ballade.
”Louis the Little, play the grand; Buffet the foe with sword and lance; 'Tis what would happen, by this hand, If Villon were the King of France!”
A roar of enthusiasm came from the full throats of the band.
Montigny slapped Villon on the back with a ”Well crowed, Chanticleer!” Huguette flung her arms around him and hugged him as she cried pa.s.sionately: ”I forgive you much, for that light in your eyes.”
But the poet seemed weary after so much heat. He pushed the girl away and drooped on his hogshead. The rogues rattled away to their table again, and Villon was left alone with Louis, who questioned him drily: ”You call yourself a patriot, I suppose?”
Villon had recovered sufficient energy to drain a mug of wine. He turned to the king, pa.s.sing his hand over his forehead. ”By no such high-sounding t.i.tle,” he answered. ”I am but a poor devil with a heart too big for his body and a hope too large for his hoop. Had I been begotten in a brocaded bed, I might have led armies and served France; have loved ladies without fear of cudgellings, and told kings truths without dread of the halter, while as it is, I consort with sharps and wantons, and make my complaint to a dull little buzzard like you, old noodle! Oh,'tis a fool's play and it were well to be out of it.”
”You won't have long to worry,” Tristan muttered to himself under his breath, and found great comfort in the thought. Louis merely said: ”You are sententious!”
Villon took him up swiftly. ”The quintessence of envy, no less. I have great thoughts, great desires, great ambitions, great appet.i.tes, what you will. I might have changed the world and left a memory. As it is I sleep in a garret under the shadow of the gallows, and shall be forgotten to-morrow, even by the wolves I pack with. But this is dry thinking; let's to drinking!” As he spoke Villon rose to join his comrades, when his quick eye noted that Robin Turgis had fallen asleep on his bench. Villon skipped lightly toward him, dexterously unhooked his bunch of keys from his girdle, and, with a triumphant gesture, made on tiptoe for the cellar door, which he unlocked and through which he disappeared. Louis looked after him with an acid smile. Tristan leaned forward and plucked at the kind's sleeve. ”Shall I hang him to-morrow?” he asked, hoa.r.s.ely.
The king turned, musing, to his henchman. ”We shall see! He is a loose-lipped fellow, but he might have been a man. He has set me thinking of my dream. I was a swine rioting in the streets of Paris and I found a pearl-well, well. Let us kill the time with cards till Thibaut d'Aussigny comes.” Tristan produced a pack of cards from his pouch and laid them on the table. ”Do you think he will come?” he asked.
”He does not expect to find me here, I promise you,” Louis answered.
”He would not come if he did. Barber Olivier is to warn me of his coming.” As he spoke the inn-door opened a little and the king, hearing the click of the catch, asked: ”Is that he?”
Tristan glanced round over his shoulder. The door was pushed partly open, and an old, stooped woman was peeping curiously into the room.
Tristan shrugged his shoulders.
”No, sire,” he snarled, ”another old woman.”
By this time the king had arranged the cards to his satisfaction. He made an imperative gesture to his companion to seat himself and in a few seconds had forgotten everything else in the excitement of the game. Meanwhile the old woman, having pushed the door wide open, came softly into the room. She was a quiet, mild-faced creature, one of those human shadows who suggest without tragedy faded youth and withered comeliness. She was very poorly but very neatly dressed, in worn grey and rusty black, and the linen folds about her lined face were scrupulously clean. She looked anxiously around her, shading her eyes with her hand, in the dim light of the tavern, unable to discern much but evidently eager to discern something.
Rene de Montigny, tired of teasing Isabeau, suddenly looked up and caught sight of the old woman as she stood, very helpless and wistful, peering about her. An impish spirit floated leaf-like on the surface of his mind. He rose to his feet and danced towards her in a fantastic manner, sweeping her a profound salutation as he approached her.
”Your pleasure, sweet princess?” he said with mock deference.
The old woman turned her wrinkled visage up to his in wonder.
”Is Master Francois Villon in this company, sir?” she faltered.
Montigny treated her to another profound bow.
”Sweet creature,” he simpered, ”I kiss your hand and inquire.”
He turned to his companions at the table and his eye rested mockingly on the bowed figure of Huguette. After Master Villon had told his tale Huguette had been glum enough, and her comrades finding her snappish wisely left her to herself. She had pulled a pack of cards from her scarlet pouch; she had been spelling out her fortune silently, and the death card insisted itself again and again with grim pertinacity. With a sense of despair that was strange to her airy nature she had bowed her face on her arms and was sobbing softly to herself. Montigny was not a man to be touched by a woman's sorrow. He mockingly gesticulated over her bent shoulders as he cried to the others in a false whisper,
”There is a beautiful woman at the door, beseeching our Francois.”