Stories By English Authors: France (Selected by Scribners) | Page 7

though it were quite empty; but
these had scarcely died away before a measured tread drew near, a
couple of bolts were withdrawn, and one wing was opened broadly, as
though no guile or fear of guile were known to those within. A tall
figure of a man, muscular and spare, but a little bent, confronted Villon.
The head was massive in bulk, but finely sculptured; the nose blunt at
the bottom, but refining upward to where it joined a pair of strong and
honest eyebrows; the mouth and eyes surrounded with delicate
markings; and the whole face based upon a thick white beard, boldly
and squarely trimmed. Seen as it was by the light of a flickering
hand-lamp, it looked perhaps nobler than it had a right to do; but it was
a fine face, honourable rather than intelligent, strong, simple, and
righteous.
"You knock late, sir," said the old man, in resonant, courteous tones.
Villon cringed, and brought up many servile words of apology; at a
crisis of this sort, the beggar was uppermost in him, and the man of
genius hid his head with confusion.

"You are cold," repeated the old man, "and hungry? Well, step in." And
he ordered him into the house with a noble enough gesture.
"Some great seigneur," thought Villon, as his host, setting down the
lamp on the flagged pavement of the entry, shot the bolts once more
into their places.
"You will pardon me if I go in front," he said, when this was done; and
he preceded the poet upstairs into a large apartment, warmed with a pan
of charcoal and lit by a great lamp hanging from the roof. It was very
bare of furniture; only some gold plate on a sideboard, some folios, and
a stand of armour between the windows. Some smart tapestry hung
upon the walls, representing the crucifixion of our Lord in one piece,
and in another a scene of shepherds and shepherdesses by a running
stream. Over the chimney was a shield of arms.
"Will you seat yourself," said the old man, "and forgive me if I leave
you? I am alone in my house to-night, and if you are to eat I must
forage for you myself."
No sooner was his host gone than Villon leaped from the chair on
which he had just seated himself, and began examining the room with
the stealth and passion of a cat. He weighed the gold flagons in his
hand, opened all the folios, and investigated the arms upon the shield,
and the stuff with which the seats were lined. He raised the window
curtains, and saw that the windows were set with rich stained glass in
figures, so far as he could see, of martial import. Then he stood in the
middle of the room, drew a long breath, and retaining it with puffed
cheeks, looked round and round him, turning on his heels, as if to
impress every feature of the apartment on his memory.
"Seven pieces of plate," he said. "If there had been ten, I would have
risked it. A fine house, and a fine old master, so help me all the saints!"
And just then, hearing the old man's tread returning along the corridor,
he stole back to his chair, and began humbly toasting his wet legs
before the charcoal pan.

His entertainer had a plate of meat in one hand and a jug of wine in the
other. He set down the plate upon the table, motioning Villon to draw
in his chair, and going to the sideboard, brought back two goblets,
which he filled.
"I drink your better fortune," he said gravely, touching Villon's cup
with his own.
"To our better acquaintance," said the poet, growing bold. A mere man
of the people would have been awed by the courtesy of the old seigneur,
but Villon was hardened in that matter; he had made mirth for great
lords before now, and found them as black rascals as himself. And so
he devoted himself to the viands with a ravenous gusto, while the old
man, leaning backward, watched him with steady, curious eyes.
"You have blood on your shoulder, my man," he said.
Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon him as he left the
house. He cursed Montigny in his heart.
"It was none of my shedding," he stammered.
"I had not supposed so," returned his host, quietly. "A brawl?"
"Well, something of that sort," Villon admitted, with a quaver.
"Perhaps a fellow murdered?"
"Oh no, not murdered," said the poet, more and more confused. "It was
all fair play--murdered by accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me
dead!" he added, fervently.
"One rogue the fewer, I dare say," observed the master of the house.
"You