Part 14 (1/2)
”Happy enough,” she answered as she snapped her fingers defiantly, ”when fools like you don't clap me into prison for living my life in my own way.”
”I may be a fool, but I did not clap you into prison. Heaven forbid!”
A curious look came into the girl's eyes, and she drew a little nearer to him. Her voice was a caress; the tenor of her hands was a caress; every supple curve of her alluring body caressed. She seemed to coax him, cat-like, as she whispered:
”Your voice sounds familiar, Monseigneur. Had I ever the honour to serve you?”
Villon drew away from her. He felt suddenly body-sick and soul-sick; sorry for the woman, sorry for himself.
”Who knows?” he answered. The girl laughed and turned aside.
”Who cares? What are you going to do with me?”
”Set you free, my delicate bird of prey. Those wild wings were never meant for clipping and caging. Is there anything I can do to please you?”
On the instant her enticement s.h.i.+fted; all her being was a tremulous entreaty.
”What has come to Master Francois Villon?”
”Why do you ask?”
”He was with us when we were snared last night. But he did not share our prison and he is not with us now. Does he live?”
Villon hesitated for a moment before speaking.
”He lives. He is banished from Paris, but he lives.”
Huguette clasped her hands in grat.i.tude.
”The sweet saints be thanked!” she said; and there was that in her voice which made the simple words sound very sincere to Villon's ears.
”What do you care for the fate of this fellow?”
”As I am a fool, I believe I love him.”
”Heaven's mercy! Why?”
”I cannot tell you, Messire. A look in his eyes, a trick of his voice--the something--the nothing that makes a woman's heart run like wax in the fire. He never made woman happy yet, and I'll swear no woman ever made him happy. If you gave him the moon, he would want the stars for a garnish. He believes nothing; he laughs at everything; he is a false monkey--and yet, I wish I had borne such a child.”
There was a sudden pain at Villon's heart, as if the girl's fingers had seized it and squeezed it, but he replied lightly:
”Let us speak no more of this rascal. He believes more and laughs less than he did. He is so glad to be alive that his forehead sc.r.a.pes the sky and the stars fall at his feet in gold dust. Paris is well rid of such a jackanapes.”
”You are a merry gentleman.”
”I would be more gentle than merry with you. Will you wear this ring for my sake? Fancy that it comes from Master Francois Villon, who will always think kindly of your wild eyes.”