CHAPTER XXXI
SAXE RISES IN VILLON'S ESTIMATION
"There was a time," said Villon, "when I, too, could forget that rosearches are open at the ends. The world is always gaping at our elbow.If we taste a peach in an orchard, the wall is low; if we smell a rosein a garden, there are, Heaven be thanked, more flowers than leaveswhen life's at May; and either way the world is with us."
"And you were the gaping world!" answered La Mothe, vexed for Ursula'ssake that Villon of the bitter tongue should have discovered theirsecret. "Was that friendly of you?"
"Not gaping, no! But is a man to close his eyes when heaven opens? Ibeg you to believe," he went on with great dignity, "that just so soonas I made certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you to yourrose-gathering. Observe I have not said one word about the thorns.That is the stale gibe of the cynic whose heart of youth has driedbefore its time. And what if there are thorns? A single rose with thedew of love upon it is worth more than a pair of scratched hands.Gape? Could you believe it of me--of me, Francois Villon? No, son ofmy teaching, I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe."
"Saxe!" cried La Mothe. "Never once have I thought of Saxe, never onceall day, and now it is almost night."
"Don't distress yourself on that account. Saxe has wanted for nothing,thanks to his two best friends. That reminds me." Pausing, Villonrapped loudly on the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until aservant familiar with his ways answered the summons. "My friend, fetchme a bottle of wine, one single bottle from the furthest-in bin on theright-hand side of the cellar. It is the '63 vintage," he explained toLa Mothe, "and I have the best of reasons for knowing Saxe will notobject."
"But why one bottle only?"
"I have been invited to a certain presentation," he answered, thecrow's feet round his twinkling eyes deepening as he laughed. "Thanks,my friend," he went on as the drawer returned with the wine; "place iton the table and retire to your kitchen to meditate on the mutabilityof human fortune in the person of the greatest poet of his age, fromthe Guest of the Three-legged Maid of Montfaucon to 'Francois Villon,my friend' of the Dauphin of France! At last they are beginning toappreciate me at the Chateau."
"But what of Saxe?"
"Ah, Saxe?" Filling his horn mug he emptied it with such slowsatisfaction that the flavour of no single drop of the wine missed hispalate. "Saxe's best friend had been before me this morning."
"But Monsieur de Commines' orders were strict, only you and I were tosee him."
"Not even your Monsieur de Commines can shut out a man from himself,and who is a better friend or a worse enemy? Saxe, the wise man, hashanged himself."
"Hanged himself? Saxe?"
"An intelligent anticipation," said Villon, nodding thoughtfully. "Idid not think he had so much good sense or good feeling. He alwaysstruck me as a man of a coarse, material mind; but one can never tell."
"Villon, it is horrible! How can you talk so callously? But you knowyou do not mean what you say."
"Every word of it. Hanged he would have been in any case, that wasinevitable. I warned him last night that he knew too much, and thatmore went into Amboise than came out again. And was it not better heshould go to his end quietly, decently, just God and himself alonetogether--the Good God who understands us so much better than we doourselves and so makes allowances? You don't agree with me?"
"I can only say again, it is horrible."
"Then what of the justice of the King which makes a man a spectacle inthe market-place, with all the world agape at the terror of it, theworld that licks its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbetingof wretches no worse than itself? Think of the terror of it! Think ofthe shame of it! The men he had drunk with, the women he had laughedwith, the children he had played with, all ringed round him to see himdie. And there he would hang till his bones dropped, a shame and ablot on the clean face of the earth, blackened by the heat, drenchedwhite by the rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while thepies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, a waste rag ofhumanity. Come now, which is the decenter?"
"Poor Saxe!"
"If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no dew on the rosesthis morning. He would have lied Mademoiselle de Vesc to death withouta scruple."
"She wished him no harm, of that I am certain."
"It is of the quality of roses to be sweet. But, La Mothe, say nothingto her; it would spoil her happiness, and we seldom get pure gold tospend through a whole day of life," a cynical truth La Mothe was toremember before a new morning dawned.
"Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine?"
"My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went thirsty? And, tobe serious, if to go thirsty would unhang him, I would drink a secondbottle of wine to make certain. If he had lived to fight for his lifelike a mad dog, as he would have done, Heaven knows how many he wouldhave bitten. As it is, peace to him, and God be thanked there is noinfection in a ten-foot rope. And yet I don't know! When I think ofit, La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance between usthree that I wonder which will go next."
"I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe."
"Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his bad wine upon me, Ipalmed you upon the Dauphin, and you palmed your bad verses off uponmademoiselle. Now Saxe is hung, and--bah! your presentation will saveus two."
"You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling remembrance."
"It is a poet's privilege to use what words he chooses, and I choosepresentation. Or," he pushed out his loose lips as he leered up at LaMothe with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, "shall I call it anotherintelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do better--aremembrance. The King--God bless him!--will presently die in earnest;the Dauphin, being King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen LaMothe, forget the race for life on Grey Roland's back, forget thestairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are common diseases inprinces. When, lo!--a wise youth you are, La Mothe--a remembrance jogshis recollection, and the King who had forgotten rewards MonsieurStephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin's life twice over.Monsieur La Mothe's fortune is made all through his intelligentanticipation in bringing a presentation to Amboise by way ofremembrance. Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and prophetsfare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues! Look at Saxe! That ten-footrope may be infectious after all."
"Villon, you are quite wrong."
"Pray God!" answered Villon soberly. "It's an ill of the flesh fewrecover from. But let us go to the Chateau." Pushing the unemptiedbottle from him he rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour hadchanged; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles upon his face werethose of age, not laughter.