Part 28 (2/2)
”A strange thing,” mused Colin, ”that a trifle of hair less on a man's chin and a trifle of dirt less on a man's cheek, with some matter of clean linen and a smooth jerkin, can make such a difference.”
”Not at all,” said Rene de Montigny,” we are all the same at the core, every man-jack and woman-jill of us, hungering, thirsting, l.u.s.ting, just after the same fas.h.i.+on. 'Tis only the coat that counts.”
”'Tis you who lie now,” grunted Tabarie. ”There's no gold tissue in the world that would make you as cunning as Francois. You would never have done as he did if the king had made you the pick of the litter.”
Rend whistled through his teeth. ”May be so, may be not,” he said.
”No man can tell what he may do till he is given his chance to test his mettle. Oh opportunity, golden opportunity! If I were Francois Villon I would shape an image of gold in your name and praise you for a saint.”
”I wonder what that girl will say,” mused Tabarie, ”if our Francois comes back with the Duke of Burgundy in his pocket!”
”I wonder what she will say,” sneered Jehan le Loup, ”if he trundles back feet foremost with a hole in his body and half a head.”
”Whatever happens is sure to vex her,” said Casin Cholet. ”Women are made that way.”
”Our poor minions will be lonely to-night,” said Colin.
”I doubt it,” said Rene de Montigny drily, and then he sighed a little. ”Poor Abbess!”
Sudden tears smeared Tabarie's fat cheeks.
”She was a brave wench if ever,” he snivelled. ”Through wellfare or illfare she was always the same, and would share board and blanket with a friend though his pouch were as barren as Sarah's body.”
”It was ten thousand pities,” said Eene, ”that she fell so love-sick for Francois. Did he give her some philtre, some elixir, do you think? Francois is a fine fellow though, I'll not deny it, but he's had the devil's own luck, and by our patron St. Nicholas there be others as fine as he.”
As he spoke the great gate of the city yawned noiselessly, and stealthy and silent the hope of Paris glided into the darkness and was swallowed up by the night.
CHAPTER XIV
THE BANNERS OF BURGUNDY
The yellow dawn, rippling over Paris, found her streets strangely silent, strangely quiet. A few good citizens were abed, but most good citizens were abroad on that kindly June morning, for there was business doing outside the walls of Paris which tempted every man inside the walls to those walls, and that business was the battle that was raging, and had raged since nightfall, between the troops of King Louis on one side under the Grand Constable of France, and the troops of the Duke of Burgundy and his allies on the other.
Paris might have been that strange city of slumber told of by the wanderer in the Arabian tale, or that poppied palace where the sleeping beauty and her court lay waiting the coming of the hero. If Asmodeus whisking his way on the wings of the wind with any astonished travelling companion in tow had paused over Paris and unroofed it for the benefit of his fellow-voyager, most of the rooms would have been found as empty as the streets.
But there was one spot in the city--an open place by the river, between an ancient gate and the church of the Celestins--which was alive and busy with a strange activity of its own. It was empty enough and the windows of its houses stared vacantly upon its emptiness, but there were two men in possession of its tranquillity who had been toiling hard at a singular piece of work. They were putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the erection of a tall, gaunt gallows with its steps and platform, which occupied a s.p.a.ce midway between the gateway and the grey old Gothic church. In curious contrast to the sinister grimness of the gibbet, there rose opposite to it on the side of the church a dais, richly draped with royal velvet, splendidly spangled with fleur-de-lis and brave with armourial bearings.
The two men who were working at the gallows having finished their job, came out into the open s.p.a.ce and stretched themselves. One was a tall, thin, grave, poplar-tree of a man, clad in sad-coloured clothes and conspicuous for a long rosary of enormous beads which he carried around his neck and which from time to time he handled with ostentatious sanctimony. The other was as complete a contrast to his companion as could be desired by the humorous painter. He was a plump, spry little fellow, brightly dressed and bubbling over with merry, roguish spirits, which formed the most fantastic foil to the lugubriousness of his fellow-worker. Any good citizen of Paris, arising belated, if any such there may have been, and hurrying to the walls to know how things went for the king's cause, would have recognized readily enough in these two strange opposites two of the most dreaded of the myrmidons of Tristan l'Hermite, no less than his two chief hangmen, Trois-Ech.e.l.les and Pet.i.t-Jean. Trois-Ech.e.l.les was the long, cadaverous hangman; Pet.i.t-Jean was the stout, droll hangman, but when it came to a push and a pinch, both were hangmen and hung in the same manner, if not with the same manners.
Pet.i.t-Jean pulled a flagon of wine from under the platform of the gallows, lifted it to his lips, drained a mighty draught, sighed with satisfaction, and held out the bottle to his brother craftsman.
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