If I Were King | Page 8

inclination to hustle so questioning a citizen; the women cackled at him
angrily. Casin Cholet bluntly proposed to lend the cit a slap on the
chops; and Huguette enquired with every emphasis of impoliteness:
"What's his age to you, sobersides?" But Villon quietly waved his
turbulent companions into tranquility. "Patience, damsels," he said
blandly. "Patience, good comrades of the Cockleshell. If our friend is

inquisitive at least he has paid his fee," and as he spoke he hid his face
for a moment behind the huge mug of Beaune wine which Robin
Turgis at that moment handed to him. Much refreshed by his mighty
draught he resumed briskly: "For three and thirty years I have taken toll
of life with such result as you see. A light pocket is a plague, but a light
heart and a light love make amends for much." And as he spoke he
slapped his pocket whose emptiness gave back no jingle, drummed
lightly on his bosom and nodded gallantly to the admiring womenkind.
"You are a philosopher," said the king. "You are a little angel," cried
the Abbess, flinging her arms round the poet in an enthusiastic hug.
The girl's homage seemed little to Villon's taste, for he disengaged
himself swiftly from the embrace, saying as he did so: "Gently, Abbess,
gently! My shoulders tingle and my sides ache too sorely for
claspings."
Villon's manner was so decisive and his meaning so obvious that the
curiosity of the gang burned keenly and found voice in René de
Montigny, who asked what ailed him with commendable solicitude.
Villon shook his head, applied himself again to the cannakin, and
emerged from it with a most melancholy expression of countenance.
"You behold in me, friends," he sighed, "a victim of love," and his
visage showed so lugubrious that it sorely tempted Louis to laugh, and
hotly moved Huguette to anger, for she raged up to Villon, challenging
the meaning of his speech. Villon gently cooled her impatience. "Hush,
hush, my girl! There are many kinds of love, as you ought to know well
enough. I am a rogue and a vagabond, no less, and so sometimes I love
you and other such Athanasian wenches; Isabeau there and
Jehanneton."
At this mention of her novices' names the Abbess turned on the two
girls fiercely. "You minxes," she cried. "Do you make eyes at my
man?" The pair shrank back from her fury, but Master Villon, who
seemed suddenly to have fallen into a meditative mood, rambled on in
a, kind of reverie, as indifferent to the Fircone and all his surroundings
as if he were a lonely shepherd tending his sheep on a lonely hillside.
"But also I am, Heaven forgive me, a jingler of rhymes, with the stars

for my candles and the roses for my toys, and singers of songs
sometimes love in another fashion. And so it has chanced to me for my
sins and to my sorrow."
Villon's chin had dropped upon his breast; the cock's feather drooped
dismally; the singer seemed quite chapfallen. Huguette, tired of glaring
at her offending minions, again turned her scornful attention to her
dejected lover. "Cry-baby!" she sneered scornfully, pointing with
derisive finger at Master François, in whose eyes indeed the close
observer could discern the threatening of tears. Jehanneton came
sidling round to Villon, piqued by natural curiosity, and the desire to
vex Huguette. "Tell us your love-tale, François," she pleaded, and her
pleading found an immediate supporter in Louis. The Arabian nature of
his adventure enchanted him, and he had a child's taste for a story.
"May I support the lady's prayer," he said, "unless a stranger's presence
distresses you?"
Villon turned to him with a mocking laugh. "Lord love you, no," he
answered. "I have long since forgotten reticence and will discourse of
my empty purse, my empty belly, and my empty heart to any man.
Gather around me, cullions and cut-purses, and listen to the strange
adventure of Master François Villon, clerk of Paris."
Joyous applause greeted his speech, Jehan le Loup, seizing upon an
empty barrel that stood in a corner, trundled it forward, and standing it
on one end invited Villon to take his seat upon this whimsical throne.
The poet sprang lightly upon the perch thus provided for him, and sat
there with his legs crossed, holding his long sword against his knees
with both hands. The men and women gathered about him, like bees
about a rose-bush. Huguette placed herself on a stool at his feet.
Jehanneton flung herself full length on the ground and stared up into
his face. Robin Turgis straddled a bench at some distance and grinned.
Louis seized the opportunity to whisper behind his hand to Tristan that
he found the fellow diverting, to which Tristan replied gruffly