CHAPTER IX
FRANCOIS VILLON, POET AND GALLOWS-CHEAT
La Mothe stared up at him incredulously. "You Francois Villon?" hebegan; "Francois Villon the--the----"
The gallows-cheat, the human pitch whose very touch is defilement waswhat was in his mind, but with those clear luminous eyes looking downunashamed into his own he could not put the brutal thought into thenaked brutality of words. But Villon read something of his meaning inhis eyes and rounded off the sentence for him.
"The King's Jackal!" he said, not without a sour resentment.
"Necessite faict gens mesprendre: Et fain sallir le loup des boys!
You don't believe it? But you have been dandled on the knees ofrespectability all your little life: what do you know of necessity orhunger? I know both, and I tell you necessity and hunger are two godsbefore whom all who meet them bow down. Better a live jackal than adead poet. Besides, is he not the greatest of kings? Bishop Thibaulthad me in gaol for a mere slip of the fingers and talked of a judicialnoose--the third I've looked through--but the King fetched me out--Godsave the King!"
"God save the King!" echoed La Mothe, for want of something better tosay. His mind was still confused by this sudden upheaval of hisideals. All that was best in Villon's poetry had stirred hisenthusiasm, while all the much which was worst had left his sanewholesomeness untainted. To the half-dreamer, half-downright,practical lad in Poitou, Villon, with his jovial, bitter humour andeven flow of human verse, had been something of an idol, and when ouridols crash into ruin the thunder of the catastrophe bewildersjudgment. But there was more than bewilderment, there was aninevitable disgust. The frankness of this disgust Villon discovered.
"Besides, again, my very young friend," he went on, "what are you inAmboise at all for, you and your lute? Is Villon the only King'sJackal here in the Chien Noir? Do we not hunt in a couple, and haveyou as good an excuse for your hunting as poor Francois Villon, wholooked through a halter, and found the eternity beyond unpoetical to aman of imagination? What brought you to Amboise, I say?"
"The King's orders: the peace of France," began La Mothe, but thoughthe words were fine swelling words in the mouth they somehow failed tofill the stomach of his sense. Nor did Villon let him finish.
"And I say the same. What is more, I say them openly, and do not drownthe words with the twanging of a lute. Not that I blame you--not I,
'Toute beste garde sa pel,'
or, as a greater poet than Francois Villon has said, Skin for skin, allthat a man hath will he give for his life. Whose hide you guard, yourown or another's, I don't know and don't care. Mine was that of barelife, and there you sit and look disgust at me as if to cling fast tothis good gift of God which comes to a man but once were a sin. Andwhat are you doing in Amboise? No!" he interrupted himself hastily,emphasizing the negative with a rapid gesture of both hands, "don'ttell me. If there is one thing more dangerous than knowing too littleit is knowing too much. Tell me, rather, what you want me to do foryou and tell me nothing more."
"Gain me a footing in the Chateau."
"I can open the doors, but the footing you must gain and hold foryourself. I warn you Amboise is well guarded. Oh! not with pikes,cross-bows, and such-like useless things in which our beloved King putshis faith, but by eyes that see and hearts that love, and so Amboise isa hard nut to crack. But your teeth are strong, and if the good Godhad made no peach stones there would be no peaches, and, my faith!peaches are worth the eating."
He drew a long breath and sat silent, the horn mug, which he had againfilled and emptied, tilted against his thigh. A smile flickered hisloose mouth, and the full bright eyes, turned toward the vacancy of theempty fireplace, were sparkling with reminiscences.
And who should have reminiscences if not Francois Villon? There wasnot such another judge of peaches in all France, no such authority upontheir eating, and few who had broken more teeth over their stones. Thesmile broadened into a soft chuckle, laughter deepened into puckers themany wrinkles of his crow-footed temples, and he wagged his grey headin the warm appreciation of a happy memory. Dipping a finger-tip intoa pool of spilt wine he wrote on the table reflectively, and as LaMothe watched his leering face he understood Commines' outspokencontempt of this old man unashamed of his shamefulness.
"Peaches," he said, scratching his chin with a wet forefinger; "myfaith! yes! I have climbed walls for them, robbed gardens of them,found them in market baskets--the gutter even. What matters where theycome from so long as the cheek is warm, the bloom fresh, the skinsmooth, and the sweetness full in the mouth. And where are they now?Aye! aye! 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' My young friend, myvery young friend, you have but one life, and when you drop it behindyou see that only the husks of its possibilities are left: crush thegrapes while you may and drink the wine."
"I thought," said La Mothe, "that the rascality of Francois Villon wasdead? Leave it in its grave, if you please. It is decenter buried outof sight and does not interest me. How am I to gain entrance toAmboise?"
Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance of carelessness, butthe unctuous complacency was wiped from his face, and the narrow eyesand mouth showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe's disgustedcontempt.
"How, but as my friend, pupil, and protege," he replied, with evidentenjoyment of the other's discomfiture at the unwelcome association.Then with incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery passedfrom his voice and he went on bitterly, "Do you think I love my life?Perhaps I do--at times. But not always, no, not always. You see thatfly there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt wine, theragout with its spices, the salad with its oil and its vinegar,everything within reach which tickles its palate: then it rubs itsstupid head with its forelegs and trots back to the wine again.Presently"--and Villon suited the action to the word--"a great handturns an empty tumbler over it and there it is: all the delights of theworld it has lost clear within sight, but out of reach--always out ofreach. That, my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blamethe fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life? Perhaps ifthe great hand is merciful it draws the glass to one side, thus, andstill to one side, thus and thus and thus, until, phit! there is alittle red patch and no fly; yes, perhaps. Aye, aye, I have seen life.But it is better for the fly to laugh as it runs round and round underthe glass than to sulk and cry its heart out for the snows of YesterYear. God save the King!"
The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe soirrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instantcomprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shotthrough the disgust.
"Perhaps the hand will lift the glass," he said, "and let the fly backto its spilt wine and spices?"
Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. "Will that give me back my twenty years?Bah! the palate is as stale as the spilt wine, and when the good oflife is gone life itself may go. There is Saxe knocking at the door.My faith! but you have indeed scared him into discretion; he neverknocks for me. Perhaps he has brought that second bottle."
But Saxe was empty-handed, and by the light of the candle La Mothecould see a quizzical grin upon his face.
"Monsieur," he began, but which of the two he addressed was uncertain,"they are dull at the Chateau."
"And have sent for Francois Villon to make sport! I have dropped the'de,' Monsieur La Mothe, there are so many rascals amongst the nobilitynowadays that I find it more distinguished to be the simple commoner.Dull at the Chateau! Good Lord! don't I know it!" He paused, liftinghis head with a quick, bird-like motion: a cunning smile wrinkled hisface and he smote the table with his open hand. "Dull, are they?There, my hedge-minstrel from Valmy, is your welcome ready made. Bringyour lute and make pretty Ursula's grey eyes dance to a love song,prude that she is."
"To-night?" said La Mothe doubtfully. "Surely not to-night: theDauphin might resent a stranger's coming so late."
"The Dauphin? Phit! Little Charles is pretty Ursu
la's echo andnothing more. Come, let us go."
"Then Mademoiselle de Vesc may object."
"Mademoiselle de Vesc? So you know her name, do you? And what girlobjects to a love song? I never yet knew one who did, and FrancoisVillon has lived his life. If they pout and turn aside don't believethem: it's just that you may not see how the heart beats. Black eyes,blue, grey, hazel, brown; Fat Meg and Lean Joan, wrinkled fifty andsmooth sixteen, their eyes have all the same sparkle, the same dearlight in them when the heart melts. I should know, for I have madelove to every colour under the sun. Except Albino," he addedreflectively and with the conscientious air of one who desires to tellthe whole truth. "I wonder what it would be like to make love to anAlbino. But now I shall never know, the fly must run round and roundits glass until the day of the red blotch. It is a mercy I tasted theoil and vinegar in time. That disgusts you, does it? My young friend,you must learn not to say more with your face than you do with yourtongue if you are to keep your secrets and the King's. Come, I talktoo much and they are waiting for us."
But Stephen La Mothe left his lute behind him. He had accepted thepart allotted to him half as a jest and half for the sake of theadventure it promised, but Villon had put a less pleasant gloss on thisopen-faced masquerade, nor had the blunt question, Why are you inAmboise? been easy of answer. Or rather, the answer was easy, but onehe did not relish in its naked truth. If to be the secret almoner ofthe King's love for the Dauphin had been the sole reply to thequestion, his scruples would have been as light as his love song. Butthat answer was insufficient: there was a second answer, an answerwhich Commines knew and these two men, Villon and Saxe, suspected, onewhich would leave a soiling on clean hands, yet which must be faced.
He found himself in the position of a circus-rider who, with one footon the white horse--which was Honour--and the other on thepiebald--which was duty and a King's instructions,--has lost control oftheir heads and feels his unhappy legs drawn wider and wider apart withevery stride. And in the emergency La Mothe did exactly what thecircus-rider would have done--he clung to both with every desperatesinew on the strain. To keep his piebald still under him he went withVillon to the Chateau, and that he might not part utterly from hiswhite he left his lying lute behind him. But he was not happy: mentaland spiritual unhappiness is the peculiar gift of compromise.
Nor did Villon make any protest at his decision. "As you will, it isbetween you and the King," he said, with all the indifference of thebeast whose one thought is for his own skin, and then immediatelyproved that he was less indifferent than he seemed. "But if I knewwhich of the two you wish to win over, the boy or the woman, I mighthelp you."
"The boy," answered La Mothe, remembering the gifts of a father's lovewhich lay in the saddle-bags Commines had brought for him to theChateau. Ursula de Vesc was but a means to an end, the Dauphin was theend itself.
"The boy?" Villon paused as they crossed the road in the sweetcoolness of the young night, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That'snot so easy. Women, of course, I know like my ten fingers, butchildren are too subtle for me. And little lathy Charles with hislong, narrow white face and obstinate chin, is no A B C of a boy. Youmust know something more than your horn-book before you understand him.To-day he received Monsieur de Commines with all the gravity of thePope: 'Where is Monsieur Tristan, Tristan of the House of Great Nails?'he asked, peering about him with those dull, tired eyes of his whichsee so much more than most men imagine. 'Tristan?' says Monsieur deCommines, very sourly for so great a man, 'Tristan does not travel withme, Monseigneur.' 'He must be somewhere near,' says little Charles,'since you come from my father, do you not? and you are both friends ofhis.' It was a sharp thrust and it was not the Dauphin who looked thefool. Now, was that more or less than the impishness that's in allboys, prince or gutter rat? More, I say. No, children are too subtlefor me: give me women for simplicity! But I may help you with him allthe same."
Though a king dwelt in Valmy and a king's son in Amboise, never wasthere a greater contrast than between the watchfulness exercised fortheir safety. At Valmy guards had thronged at every turn, morevigilant than pickets who hold the lives of a sleeping army in theirkeeping, but at Amboise the doors swung open to the touch of almost thefirst comer, though it was not easy to be certain how much of thislaxity was due to the guarantee of Villon's presence. A carelessporter kept the outer gate, a single sentinel, lounging in theguard-room, let them pass into the central court unchallenged, and theservant or two they met upon the stairs gave them no more than aheedless glance. That, at least, was La Mothe's first impressions.But when he saw the same face in the lower hall, again at thestair-head, yet again in the ante-room, and recognized that the plainlydressed serving-man had kept them under observation at every turn,unobtrusively but of evident purpose, he decided that a casual strangercould not have penetrated to the heart of Amboise without first givinga good account of himself. The watcher was Hugues, the Dauphin'svalet. And yet when Villon gently drew aside a curtain masking adoorway which opened upon the stair-head, there was no one inattendance to announce them. It was as if the King said, moresignificantly, more emphatically than in any words, "My son may be theDauphin, but I alone am France."
"There are the boy and the woman," said Villon softly, "Charles andUrsula de Vesc. Now, had I been your age I would rather have won thewoman."