Part 4 (1/2)

”Come away,” she entreated. ”You have had wine enough.”

Villon contradicted her instantly.

”Never in my life, mammy. I have a fool's head and always get into my alt.i.tudes too soon.”

Then, seeing the look of disappointment that made her grey old face look greyer still,--he added, ”I cannot come home just now, mammy, but there is something I can do for you. Do you remember when I was a little child--”

Something in the words made him stop suddenly. The hideous contrast between the phrase and the place wherein he was, between the mother who fondled him and the wild men-savages and women-savages who were his daily friends and who were drinking and dicing behind him at the other side of the settle, came upon him like a great wave of pain and knocked the mirth out of him. He turned away from his mother and repeated to himself dismally, ”G.o.d! when I was a little child!” The mother's pity, the mother's protection immediately a.s.serted themselves.

”You were the prettiest child woman ever bore,” she said, softly.

Villon turned towards her again, while he tried to wink the tears out of his eyes.

”You used to sing me to sleep,” he said, and as he spoke he rocked her slowly backward and forward in his arms, while he crooned the words of that old nurse's song which has soothed so many generations of French children to sleep, ”Do, do, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira tantot.”

”Well, mammy, your dutiful son has made a song for you to sing yourself to sleep with. I went to church the other day. Oh, on my honour, I did”--this was in reply to a startled look of surprise that flooded the old woman's face--”and a prayer came into my head--a prayer for you to say to our Lady.”

The old woman kissed him fondly on the forehead.

”My love bird,” she said, and as she spoke a boyish look that had long been absent from Villon's face came back to it for a moment.

”Here it is,” he said. ”Listen.” And he whispered to her the verses he had made, while the old woman crossed herself reverentially.

”Lady of Heaven, Queen of Earth, Empress of h.e.l.l, I kneel and plead You pity, by the holy birth, The humblest Christian of the Creed; I cannot write; I cannot read; I am a woman poor and old, But in the Church, where I behold The gates of Paradise, I cry Woman to woman, make me bold In thy belief to live and die.”

”There, mammy, there is a pretty prayer for you.”

Mother Villon was dissolved in tears and sobbed on his shoulder.

”You should have been a good man,” she said.

Villon stroked her hair very gently.

”We are as Heaven pleases, dear.” He paused for a moment, then suddenly remembering the silver coin which he had confiscated from the king, he dipped his fingers into his pouch and produced it.

”Here is something for you, mammy,” he said, and as the old woman, with a faint flush on her worn cheeks, seemed about to protest, he insisted. ”Oh, yes. Take it, take it. It was honestly come by, and you will spend it more honestly than I should.” He forced the coin into her lean, brown hand, and added, ”Now run away, mammy, and pray yourself to sleep, You shall see me soon, I promise you.”

He led her gently across the tavern floor to the door, which he opened for her. As she turned to go, she looked up to him and repeated two lines of his prayer:

”Woman to woman, make me bold In thy belief to live and die.”

As the door closed and Villon turned to come back to his seat, Jehan le Loup, who had been eyeing him and who was eager to pay off the score of his cracked crown, rose to his feet, dragging Isabeau with him, and barred his pa.s.sage.

”Kiss a young mouth for a change,” he said, and thrust the girl against the poet. Villon brushed them both aside.

”Go to the devil,” he said angrily, and pa.s.sed them. Once again Jehan's hand sought his weapon and once again he was restrained.