Puslapio vaizdai
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ale and all the things of the flesh. I saw my fellow-students who had acclaimed my gift of poesy, who had followed my lead in thought, go back to their seigniories, or to rich abbacies and chaplainships, and since I was too honest to be a priest, must I also be too honest to live? So I set up a seigniorship of my own: I took toll of the toll-takers. But I have taken nothing from poorer men; I have stolen only that I might live, and sing the songs that God gave my soul. And so I say, if I am a thief, I am a thief in a time of thieves, a thief in a land of thieves, a better man than those honest fellows who rob the helpless and torture the weak and hang the hungry man."

The Carthusian's chin was between his cupped palms, and his eyes were set upon the poet-disquieting eyes, steady of stare.

"Go to, good man!" said Villon, rudely. "You do not alarm me by your looks. Perchance I am not in the right, but the world is in the wrong. What boots it for the bubble to attempt to go north when the tide goes south? Lay my crimes at the door of law, or, rather, at the feet of the princes of church and state, great lords who have no need to rob and slay. Let them show mercy and kindness, and the locks could be wrenched from all the jails, aye, and from men's hearts, too, and all the thieves in France could be lodged in this single Bastille of St. Antoine, the hangman and the headsman set to milking cows. I am to die. Be it so. Then I will soon be judged by the Sieur God. I am glad, very glad, for I am aweary of the judgments of man."

He ceased his speech and stared into the fire. The Carthusian was also silent, studying him. Several times he essayed to speak, but seemingly saw himself ill advised. So the silence endured until a live coal leaped and fell beside the poet, sizzling the straw, causing Villon's meditations to lapse as he stamped it out. His eyes again met the monk's and gave him the excuse he waited for.

"Suppose you were not to die?" he suggested softly.

Villon's eyes darkened, his hands trembled.

"Take care, good man," he said fiercely, his fingers twitching. "If I find you have made sport of me to amuse your solitude, by God's splendor I'll take your gullet

between these ten finger-bones and give my headsman some reason for his red ax." The monk's mien was almost majestic.

"There is a way to escape," he said. "An I find you worthy, I may take you with me." He paused, to add significantly, "Otherwise, I have only to wait for dawn to escape alone."

The sinister emphasis of these words chilled Villon despite his suspicions that the monk had some hidden motive for wishing to frighten him. One takes fright at shadows in shadowland, at death's counterfeit when death itself is nigh. So he studied the fellow in sore perplexity. The eyes were stern, yet not unkind; the forehead narrow, but high; the lips loose and thin, yet short of cruel, though the many lines that seamed the face added craftiness and some sadness to its natural secrecy. The poet knew something of physiognomy, although he had his knowledge by no such name, nor, indeed, other than instinctively, the tortuous ways into which he had lived having often given his life no greater value than the good faith of those he must trust. So he had early learned to read a language that lying lips could not gainsay.

Now he saw a man who had power and, better, a purpose. Whatever he said or did, it was to some end worth discovering; possible friend or enemy only in so far as human clay could be kneaded into shapes that served that end-shapes that were no whimsies of idle or impulsive moments, but parts of a system long pre

meditated. Villon was aware of the same curiosity as when he had lifted strange books, quaint or mystic in the designs of their binding. For the moment the literatus was uppermost in the poet, the fate of a single human atom, even though the atom was himself, seemed of less importance. He squatted down tailor-like on the monk's side of the fire, so close that he could watch his eyes.

"This Valois, this king with the mind of a merchant, this monarch without majesty, this Louis who dresses like his own burgesses and has a barber for confidant and a hangman for friend-" So had the monk begun when Villon interrupted.

"I have no quarrel with him," the poet demurred. "He has started better than most, by freeing certain unfortunates in the jails-"

"Of which you were doubtless one," said the monk, indifferently, almost indulgently. "Endeavor rather to judge him as a man of France, not as a grateful thief, released only because of his foxing. That he, the first of princes, covets the good-will even of thieves, is that not ill? To satisfy his lust for power, or, as he says, to give peace to France, he sets in peril the power of holy church by imperiling the dread and fear of kings. He goes slinking through the streets and into public taverns like that heathen idolater Harun-al-Rashid. Often he reveals himself as what he is, so that the common people see no great potentate, but a fellow in shabby clothes like themselves. He eats with burgesses of the cities and encourages them to maintain what they presumptuously call their rights, increasing his power by aiding their parliaments to deny their liege lords' divinely given powers. Not content with rousing rebellion against his own vavasors, he scruples not to do as ill where princes of the infallible pontiff hold temporal power. Even the awful sovereignty of the holy father constrains naught of this man's craft and guile. Openly he discountenances violence, taking hands in friendly grasp that he plans to cut off. And this is preserving peace to France!" The monk's voice rose high and scornful, and his eyes searched the poet's, which gave no sign save interest in his tale.

But

"Nay, this coward king discredits war, mocks even the holy crusades as the hysteric debauches of half-civilized savages, half of whom, says this blasphemer, thought Our Lady was a Valkyr and St. Michael Thor of the Thunder. shame on me for repeating such sacrilege! His crafty conniving is accomplished through agents of low degree, educated sons of villeins, low-born scholars of the university, even, sorrow I must say it, some of the ambitious haute noblesse, who should scorn such villainy. These agents, by promising his secret aid, stir up revolt in the seigniories, the baronies, the bishoprics, the free cities, especially in the tributary dukedoms. Louis would cripple first the lords, then take from holy church all but spiritual sovereignty. Willingly he grants more power to the people's parliaments; does he not control them? More, he follows the example of the

accursed and heretical English, training common men to the use of these new-fangled harquebuses and fire-drakes, these guns and cannon which will break down even the military supremacy of knights and nobles. And these common people, who outnumber noblesse as the sands of the sea outnumber its rocks, will be the army of the king, not feudal followers of vassals and vavasors. He will forego all," went on the monk, excitedly, "his nobility, his princely blood, his debt to Burgundy, which sheltered him when he was dauphin and a fugitive, even his reverence to holy church and his own royal honor, if it brings peace to France. Such is his ignoble contention. But before his poisonous dragons' teeth bring up armies of villeins and vagabonds, the holy see may yet proclaim Philip of Burgundy a true and lawful sovereign and no vassal to a traitor. Then we shall see what Philip's rebellious Flemings, fanned on by the Valois to believe themselves another Swiss Confederation, will say to that."

His voice had risen high, and as if in answer, there sounded upon the farther wall what seemed to be a signal: a rapping as sharp and distinct as if done with a sword-hilt against the stone.

"Yes," said Villon, whose eyes had neither blinked nor shown expression since the monk had begun to explain, "all these things are of vast import, no doubt, and of great assistance to one desiring to 'scape headsman or hangman." The other eyed him earnestly, seeking to read the thought the words concealed; but the poet's expression still betokened only intelligent interest. It seemed he had not heard the rapping out beyond at all.

"This much assistance," growled the Carthusian, annoyed at the poet's imperturbability. "To counter the efforts of the Valois, other agents are needed in Paris, men at once ambitious, unscrupulous, and with wit enough to ape a class above them; of personable port and mannerly bearing, and with sufficient Latinity to read messages and write them. Clothed as one of the haute noblesse, your beard shaven and your locks trimmed, I perceive that you might pass undetected. None would know the former homeless vagabond. Such service as you might render would be far less perilous than your thieving has been."

He began to show signs of impatience. "My own escape is at hazard," he added sharply. "My friends are ready for me to go hence; you heard their knocks on yon wall.. Will you go with me on such terms or stay and be hanged?"

The stoicism of Villon's face, the stoniness of his stare, altered no whit.

"Your friends? And you a prisoner in St. Antoine? They may be ready and then again ready, but how will that aid you? This is very solid masonry, many feet in thickness. Those window-slits are too narrow to give egress to a sizable eel." "Man," said the monk, "a cause like ours has adherents in the court itself, within the very reach of the Valois. There are trap-doors and catacombs, subterranean ways and secret stairways, in every fortress, in every castle. You doubt me?" he added stormily.

"How might a common man know such secrets," asked Villon, smiling.

Suspended from its rosary of black beads a crucifix dangled below the Carthusian's cord. With an angry look, he raised this heavy piece of iron and struck. the wall sharply four times. The former signal was repeated from beyond. "At the second four, lest there be some error, one of the stones of this cell will swing on an axis. We have only to drop a few feet and follow our guide. The passageway leads to the cellars and into the catacombs. The guide will conduct us to safety. Well?"

"A single guide?" asked Villon, as though he feared so perilous an undertaking with no greater guard.

"Did your lordship expect an army?" sneered the monk.

But the sneer faded as Villon's eyes lighted up. A profound student of facial expression himself, the Carthusian shrank back, hand upraised; but with a single bound the poet pinned him against the wall, and, snapping the rosary, snatched the iron crucifix which then menaced its owner, an iron club in an enemy's hand. For enemy the poet was, if one might judge from looks of fierce dislike. "Speak low," he warned. "A single guide, you said, and in darkness? Do not call out. His blood is enough without adding yours."

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But even in this extremity the Carthusian preserved his calm.

"You mean to go without me? The guide knows my voice; he will not lead you." For answer Villon, smiling faintly, nodded at his heavy iron club.

"You are a patriot, then?" asked the other, his sneer returning. "To a land that by your own words has given you only starvation and jail? You return to your haunts, once more to be hunted down? Or to wander afar, exiled from your friends?"

Villon shook his head, smiling.

"To serve King Louis, monk. I have found a way to gain his ear at last. I have sent him petitions, not one, but many; but who was I that he should bestow his patronage upon me? He released me from Meung jail; that was enough for a notorious scape-gallows. But now that I have a way to serve him, he will listen fast enough: he is wise, that fox of the Valois, that leopard of France. Men may call him what they will, but in days to come it will seem he was one of two sane persons in a nation of madmen, the other his servant Francis."

He louted low and rapped upon the wall as he had heard the other do. Things being now distinguishable in the darkness, he saw the middle of the cell rise like a wraith from the sea, rise and fall, and the light of the glowing coals revealed a shadowy void. A flagstone had turned and upended.

"Now," whispered Villon, soft-voiced and soft-footed as any cat. "Doff that cowl and robe, Sir Priest, or this holy cross will give you everlasting life more speedily than you hoped. Off with them, and pray for the soul of the traitor below. He has no such alternative. And think on this, Master Monk. A man may be a thief because he hungers and thirsts, he may kill that he may live; but, by my lustihead! he may not be a traitor unless he is a dog. Carry that message to the badger of Burgundy from the men of Paris. And tell him all true men of Paris serve the Valois, fox and leopard mayhap, but for all that the father of his people and a man after my own heart. Come, no more delay!" he whispered even lower than before, and raised the heavy iron crucifix.

Smiling strangely, the monk obeyed; the cowl was lifted off his head, the robe uncorded from his waist. As both fell to

the ground at Villon's feet, he saw a man in garb most unclerical: doublet and hosen and a high-pointed hat where the monkish hood had been. And the doublet, though frayed and worn, had on the breast thereof in tarnished silver threads the fleur-de-lis of France; while encircling the brim of the high-crowned hat were many leaden images, our Lady of Embrum to the fore. Vanished the sneer and the sour and sinister smile; came in their place a homely wink and a thin high laugh. The eyes of the poet bulged like the buttons on the jerkin of a greedy jester.

"Louis the Fox? Louis the Leopard? Why not Louis the Spider, Master Villon?" asked Louis the King.

Villon took a backward step, one and yet another. Louis sprang and gripped him.

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"Ware the opening behind you!" he warned, dragging the poet from the very verge of the black void. "There is a drop of a hundred feet to the stones below.' Still holding the poet's scruff, he snatched the cross and struck the wall. The flagstone fell into its place, and the poet to his knees.

"The king!" he murmured brokenly, his teeth chattering, a chill sweat on his brow, his body rough with goose-flesh, as he realized the trap he had escaped so nearly.

III

LOUIS laughed again. It was a situation to his taste. The cell-door opened, and Oliver le Dain, barber in name, prime minister in fame, entered from the adjoining chamber, where were the levers that controlled the dread oubliette. A slight frown clouded his face as he saw that the poet had survived the test; for Oliver feared to lose any of his power with his royal confidant, and this poet, for all he was vagabond and starveling, he knew for a better man than himself, one on whom the king's learning would not be wasted. But he banished his look of discontent as he came out of the shadows and into the circle of light, where the king, looking very like the plain burgher of Paris he professed to be, sat chuckling and eying Villon, who had by now regained his native confidence and had ventured on a wry smile.

"I have a crow to pick with you, Gos

sip," said Louis as Oliver approached. "I should have seen this fellow's first petition before he wasted six months in Master Thibault's jail. Had we his services when we were dauphin, he might have helped us much when our rebellious Paris at first refused us welcome. Had I not read the poems our Cousin Charles sent us prettily bound by his Fougère, Master Villon might have languished there anon and the kingdom lost him altogether. As it nearly did to-night, had he proved traitor. One with wits so keen were too dangerous an enemy to have in our city, Master Poet. It is not the foes without that I fear. That is why I go about with Oliver here and with Tristran and drink at the taverns and watch and listen. It ill beseems a king, they say. Let them say."

He put a hand within his doublet and took out a small book of black-letter. "We have improved somewhat on Cousin Charles," he said, opening it. "His script was daintily limned enough, and many were its varicolored inks and a great deal too much of gilt. But I prefer the homelier way, the way of my Hussite heretic for whom I sent to Mainz, the 'prentice of Faust the printer. Printersounds it strange to your ears, Master Villon? It shall sound loud in the ears of ignorance anon. See what this Gutenberg has wrought. Observe, Master Poet, you have been honored beyond all the men of France. It would have been my right to have taken your life, for I have given you immortality. Yours is the first book to be printed in France."

He gave into Villon's hand a volume in vellum, open at its title-page. There in bold black letters the poet's own name stood stark on the white page.

Twitching for a far different reason than before, his fingers turned the pages, and he saw the ballads of his youth, those of his "Little Testament," not only in the filaments and traceries of his own delicate French, but on each opposite page the Latin nuances of Charles of Orleans and of the king himself. A thrill of pride chilled his spine and burned his eyes. No longer was he Villon the vagabond, but one whom no bishop or lord or king might scorn: Villon-the king had said it himself-the immortal.

Eagerly he drew from his breast his

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