Stories By English Authors: France (Selected by Scribners) | Page 3

Dom Nicolas, and not
any excess of moral sensibility.
"Come now," said Villon--"about this ballade. How does it run so far?"
And beating time with his hand, he read it aloud to Tabary.
They were interrupted at the fourth rhyme by a brief and fatal
movement among the gamesters. The round was completed, and
Thevenin was just opening his mouth to claim another victory, when
Montigny leaped up, swift as an adder, and stabbed him to the heart.
The blow took effect before he had time to utter a cry, before he had
time to move. A tremor or two convulsed his frame; his hands opened
and shut, his heels rattled on the floor; then his head rolled backward
over one shoulder, with eyes wide open; and Thevenin Pensete's spirit
had returned to Him who made it.
Every one sprang to his feet; but the business was over in two twos.
The four living fellows looked at each other in rather a ghastly fashion,
the dead man contemplating a corner of the roof with a singular and
ugly leer.
"My God!" said Tabary, and he began to pray in Latin.
Villon broke out into hysterical laughter. He came a step forward and

ducked a ridiculous bow at Thevenin, and laughed still louder. Then he
sat down suddenly, all of a heap, upon a stool, and continued laughing
bitterly, as though he would shake himself to pieces.
Montigny recovered his composure first.
"Let's see what he has about him," he remarked; and he picked the dead
man's pockets with a practised hand, and divided the money into four
equal portions on the table. "There's for you," he said.
The monk received his share with a deep sigh, and a single stealthy
glance at the dead Thevenin, who was beginning to sink into himself
and topple sideways off the chair.
"We're all in for it," cried Villon, swallowing his mirth. "It's a hanging
job for every man Jack of us that's here--not to speak of those who
aren't." He made a shocking gesture in the air with his raised right hand,
and put out his tongue and threw his head on one side, so as to
counterfeit the appearance of one who has been hanged. Then he
pocketed his share of the spoil, and executed a shuffle with his feet as if
to restore the circulation.
Tabary was the last to help himself; he made a dash at the money, and
retired to the other end of the apartment.
Montigny stuck Thevenin upright in the chair, and drew out the dagger,
which was followed by a jet of blood.
"You fellows had better be moving," he said, as he wiped the blade on
his victim's doublet.
"I think we had," returned Villon, with a gulp. "Damn his fat head!" he
broke out. "It sticks in my throat like phlegm. What right has a man to
have red hair when he is dead?" And he fell all of a heap again upon the
stool, and fairly covered his face with his hands.
Montigny and Dom Nicolas laughed aloud, even Tabary feebly
chiming in.

"Cry-baby!" said the monk.
"I always said he was a woman," added Montigny, with a sneer. "Sit up,
can't you?" he went on, giving another shake to the murdered body.
"Tread out that fire, Nick!"
But Nick was better employed; he was quietly taking Villon's purse, as
the poet sat, limp and trembling, on the stool where he had been
making a ballade not three minutes before. Montigny and Tabary
dumbly demanded a share of the booty, which the monk silently
promised as he passed the little bag into the bosom of his gown. In
many ways an artistic nature unfits a man for practical existence.
No sooner had the theft been accomplished than Villon shook himself,
jumped to his feet, and began helping to scatter and extinguish the
embers. Meanwhile Montigny opened the door and cautiously peered
into the street. The coast was clear; there was no meddlesome patrol in
sight. Still it was judged wiser to slip out severally; and as Villon was
himself in a hurry to escape from the neighbourhood of the dead
Thevenin, and the rest were in a still greater hurry to get rid of him
before he should discover the loss of his money, he was the first by
general consent to issue forth into the street.
The wind had triumphed and swept all the clouds from heaven. Only a
few vapours, as thin as moonlight, fleeted rapidly across the stars. It
was bitter cold; and, by a common optical effect, things seemed almost
more definite than in the broadest daylight. The sleeping city was
absolutely still; a company of white hoods, a field full of little alps,
below the twinkling stars. Villon cursed his