"Greater Testament," and gave it into the hands of his royal patron. Louis's eyes sparkled as he held the thick roll of manuscript close to the glowing coals, chuckling again as some impudence of the poet caught his eye. "We shall have rare sport with this," he said. "I am glad it was upon your person, as Oliver must have descended into the oubliette with his dagger in case the fall had not done its duty. So your work would not have been food for mice and rats or have rotted with your bones. You think me too harsh with traitors? But it is not I, but France, Master Villon. One live traitor means a hundred, mayhap a thousand, dead men on the field, harmless peasants, peaceful burghers. That is my way of making war-to scotch the serpent in the egg. An I did not spread terror, there would be too many traitors. Were I only Louis the scholar, every pillory and gibbet you saw to-night would come down. But a king may neither love men nor hate them: he may only rule wisely, and be judged not by his deeds, but by what comes of them. And if France passes to my son a richer country and a happier people, only fools will say I have done wrong." He yawned. The third watch had long passed. From the windmills of Montmartre, under the walls of the prison, the thin echo of a cock's crow came through the high, barred window-slits. It was very still outside; one could hear the watchmen in the Rue Antoine calling the hour and "All's well." "All is indeed well, Master Villon," said Louis, these echoes arousing him from reverie. "Peace on earth. A good omen, Oliver, by our Lady of Embrum." He crossed himself sleepily and rose. "Thieve no more, Gossip Villon. It must not be said of my reign that I neglected letters and the arts. Oliver, give him my purse, shave him, shear away those elf-locks, find him proper gear. And do you, Master Francis, go to some reputable inn and give the name of Loges, by which you were born, representing yourself as a knight of Picardy or Poitou or Provence-what you will. Oliver will instruct you how you may serve me. Our friend the traitor monk spoke truth concerning the holy see and Burgundy. There is also that thrice-damned League of Public Welfare. Private Cutthroats. You will write fewer poems and more history, Gossip. Attend him, Oliver. Then to me in my bedchamber." Holding the second and greater “Testament" of Villon close to his breast, he raised up its author, who would have kneeled. "That is well enough for public show. The sheep must be taught to hold in honor those their scatterwits can respect only by goodly measure of gaud and show. But in private my friends kneel only to God, Our Lady, and her saints-some of them. By this true cross of St. Lo, with which you threatened your lawful monarch, some achieved their saintship by easier ways than mine. Good-den to you, Knight of Poitou or Picardy or Provence." "God save you, beau Sire!" returned the poet, thickly. Louis laid hand on the door, then turned and stood, scratching his ear. "But concerning this knighthood," he said thoughtfully. "To assume the gilt spurs and banderole without the accolade is deemed a crime by certain of our subjects who administer the high justice and the low. Your neck will be periled enough in our service without that. Henceforth the poet Villon lives only in my Hussite heretic's prints. It shall be as if he died, no man knowing how nor why. He who leaves this Bastille to-night is the Chevalier des Loges, knight by the hand of his king. Oliver, your sword. Francis, you may kneel, after all.” lololololol "LOUIS THE FOX? LOUIS THE LEOPARD? WHY NOT LOUIS THE SPIDER, MASTER VILLON?' ASKED LOUIS THE KING" FROM THE PAINTING BY ARTHUR E. BECHER RODIN'S NOTE-BOOK COMPILED BY JUDITH CLADEL AND TRANSLATED BY S. K. STAR INTRODUCTION BY JUDITH CLADEL TH PART FOUR HE residence of Rodin, the Hôtel Biron, is situated at the extreme end of the Rue de Varenne, in the Faubourg St.-Germain. The long, straight street is lined on both sides with old mansions that lend distinctive nobility to this district of Paris. The street is solemn, the quiet austere. Only rarely a carriage rumbles by. Like the tide of a river, the air sweeps down this street from the Boulevard des Invalides, which at its other end opens upon the Esplanade des Invalides, like a great lake. Now and then one catches glimpses of the spacious courts, the steps, the peristyles, and the ornate, but at the same time simple, pediments. Most of these mansions were, and many of them still are, inhabited by families associated with the history of France. The northern façade of the Hôtel Biron and the courtyard through which one enters are hidden behind a high convent wall, for in the nineteenth century the old residence of the Duc de Biron was transformed into a religious school of the Sacred Heart. There the daughters of the aristocracy were educated. In consequence of the law of 1904 relating to the religious orders, the mansion was vacated, and taken possession of by the state, which rented it in apartments. Rodin, ever in search of old buildings, in which alone he can think and work in comfort, soon became the main tenant. To ring the bell one must reach high. With difficulty one turns the handle of the door, which swings slowly. It is a portal made for coaches to pass through. Under its monumental arch one seems as insignificant as an insect. To the right of the court is the old chapel of the religious community. Its somber character stands out against the neighboring secular buildings. The cold style of Charles X, in which it is built, forms a strange contrast to the charming structure of Jacques Gabriel, the celebrated artist who in the eighteenth century endowed Paris with many works of art, among others this pavilion of the Rue de Varenne, the Hôtel Biron. Nevertheless, had it not been for Rodin, this building would have been torn down. It is a vast mansion, extremely simple, and built on the lines of an elongated square. Its great charm is due wholly to its correct proportions and to the grace and variety of its beautiful, tall windows, some straight, others rounded, and surmounted by an inconspicuous ornament, the signature of the artist. All of them are enlivened by little squares of glass, which are to a window what the facets are to a diamond. The spacious vestibule is paved with black and white marble, its ceiling supported by six strong columns. A charming stone staircase rises here. All is in the style of Louis XV, a style that is dignified when it is not delightfully elegant and coquettish. The house was to be torn down, and sold as junk; but Rodin was on guard. Ever since he had learned that this masterpiece was condemned his heart bled, and for the first and only time in the course of his long existence an outside interest took him from his work. He wrote letters, took legal steps, called to his assistance artists, people of culture, and men in politics. M. Clémenceau, then president of the cabinet; M. Briand, who succeeded. him; M. Gabriel Hanotaux, one of his great friends; M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, Under-Secretary of State of Fine Arts, all listened to his indefatigable pleading. Fi 1 We are happy to announce that a few weeks ago this was achieved by the state pronouncing the Hôtel Biron a permanent museum for Rodin's works. The greatest nally his plea was heard, and the Hôtel Biron was classified as a historical monument, henceforth inviolate. Then the speculators had to abandon their idea of filling the park with hideous modern structures, and of disfiguring in six months this unique Quartier des Invalides, to construct which the architects had given years of work and all their intelligence. Rodin's admirers soon conceived the idea of converting the Hôtel Biron into a museum for the master's works, which they pledged themselves to defend with a tenacity equal to that which Rodin had just displayed.1 It is a morning in spring. The bright light sheds its rays on the various antiquities that the master has assembled here: Empire chairs, with faded velvet coverings; a Louis XIV arm-chair of gilded wood and cherry-colored silk, in which one might fancy Molière seating himself to chat with Rodin, who, ever ready as he is with a bit of raillery, would surely not have failed in repartee. On a round table there is a Persian material, and some Japanese vases filled with tulips and anemones. On the mantelpiece are bronzes from the far East and a statuette of porcelain in marvelous blues that Rodin calls his "Chinese Virgin." On the walls, close together like the stones in a mosaic, are many of the master's watercolors. Their well-chosen tones harmonize with and intensify those of the flowers, the fabrics, and the ceramics of bygone days. Scattered pedestals support huge bronze busts, which call to mind the warriors of Photographed by Bulloz PORTRAIT OF MRS. X FROM THE SCULPTURE BY AUGUSTE RODIN the Middle Ages, and some unfinished pieces. They consist of small groups that, under the eye of the master, seem to grow out of the white marble, and in the golden. sunlight look as soft as snow. On this table, where Rodin takes his meals and writes, is a Greek marble, a little torso without arms or legs; I know it well, for he showed it to me while murmuring words of admiration. This is his latest passion. I enter the garden, where he is enjoying a moment of rest, for he has been working a long while. Due to his habits as a good workman, he rises at five every morning. The I pass through one of the big doors which open upon the park. The beautiful view always captivates me anew. light, the air, the expanse of sky, the magnificent groups of trees, this rustic solitude in the heart of Paris, take one by surprise, inspire and elevate the spirit. Rodin is here, smiling and in good humor. We are on the terrace that overlooks the expanse of green and forms a sort of slanting pedestal for the pavilion. Below stretches a broad alley, almost an avenue, overgrown with a rich carpet of grass and moss, which loses itself in the distant wood. Fruittrees, growing wild, form impenetrable screens on both sides of this alley. The grandeur of this park is largely due to the age of the trees. Stepping to the edge of the balustrade, I can see toward the right the dome of the Invalides, standing alone, outlined against the sky, like a burgrave on guard under a helmet of gold. The northern façade of the pavilion has a severe character. It is the façade which visitors and passers-by see, and for this an elegant simplicity suffices. But this other side, bathed in the midday sun, is meant for friends. All the delicate splendor that the architect conceived is expressed in these stones. This sculptured pediment, this balcony with its console of flowers, and the graceful windows, with their semicircular transoms, are models of elegance. The |