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Robert Louis Stevenson
It was late in November， 1456. The snow fell over Paris with rigorous， relentless persistence； sometimes the wind made a sally and scattered it in flying vortices； sometimes there was a lull， and flake after flake descended out of the black night air， silent， circuitous， interminable. To poor people， looking up under moist eyebrows， it seemed a wonder where it all came from. Master Francis Villon had propounded an alternative that afternoon， at a tavern window： was it only pagan Jupiter plucking geese upon Olympus？ or were the holy angels moulting？ He was only a poor Master of Arts， he went on； and as the question somewhat touched upon divinity， he durst not venture to conclude. A silly old priest from Montargis， who was among the company， treated the young rascal to a bottle of wine in honour of the jest and grimaces with which it was accompanied， and swore on his own white beard that he had been just such another irreverent dog when he was Villon's age.
The air was raw and pointed， but not far below freezing； and the flakes were large， damp， and adhesive. The whole city was sheeted up. An army might have marched from end to end and not a footfall given the alarm. If there were any belated birds in heaven， they saw the island like a large white patch， and the bridges like slim white spars on the black ground of the river. High up overhead the snow settled among the tracery of the cathedral towers. Many a niche was drifted full； many a statue wore a long white bonnet on its grotesque or sainted head. The gargoyles had been transformed into great false noses， drooping toward the point. The crockets were like upright pillows swollen on one side. In the intervals of the wind there was a dull sound dripping about the precincts of the church.
The cemetery of St. John had taken its own share of the snow. All the graves were decently covered； tall white housetops stood around in grave array； worthy burghers were long ago in bed， be—nightcapped like their domiciles； there was no light in all the neighbourhood but a little peep from a lamp that hung swinging in the church choir， and tossed the shadows to and fro in time to its oscillations. The clock was hard on ten when the patrol went by with halberds and a lantern， beating their hands； and they saw nothing suspicious about the cemetery of St. John.
Yet there was a small house， backed up against the cemetery wall， which was still awake， and awake to evil purpose， in that snoring district. There was not much to betray it from without； only a stream of warm vapour from the chimney—top， a patch where the snow melted on the roof， and a few half—obliterated footprints at the door. But within， behind the shuttered windows， Master Francis Villon， the poet， and some of the thievish crew with whom he consorted， were keeping the night alive and passing round the bottle.
A great pile of living embers diffused a strong and ruddy glow from the arched chimney. Before this straddled Dom Nicolas， the Picardy monk， with his skirts picked up and his fat legs bared to the comfortable warmth. His dilated shadow cut the room in half； and the firelight only escaped on either side of his broad person， and in a little pool between his outspread feet. His face had the beery， bruised appearance of the continual drinker 's； it was covered with a network of congested veins， purple in ordinary circumstances， but now pale violet， for even with his back to the fire the cold pinched him on the other side. His cowl had half fallen back， and made a strange excrescence on either side of his bull—neck. So he straddled， grumbling， and cut the room in half with the shadow of his portly frame.
On the right， Villon and Guy Tabary were huddled together over a scrap of parchment； Villon making a ballade which he was to call the “Ballade of Roast Fish，” and Tabary sputtering admiration at his shoulder. The poet was a rag of a man， dark， little， and lean， with hollow cheeks and thin black locks. He carried his four and twenty years with feverish animation. Greed had made folds about his eyes， evil smiles had puckered his mouth. The wolf and pig struggled together in his face. It was an eloquent， sharp， ugly， earthly countenance. His hands were small and prehensile， with fingers knotted like a cord； and they were continually flickering in front of him in violent and expressive pantomime. As for Tabary， a broad， complacent， admiring imbecility breathed from his squash nose and slobbering lips； he had become a thief， just as he might have become the most decent of burgesses， by the imperious chance that rules the lives of human geese and human donkeys.
At the monk's other hand， Montigny and Thevenin Pensete played a game of chance. About the first there clung some flavour of good birth and training， as about a fallen angel； something long， lithe， and courtly in the person； something aquiline and darkling in the face. Thevenin， poor soul， was in great feather； he had done a good stroke of knavery that afternoon in the Faubourg St. Jacques， and all night he had been gaining from Montigny. A flat smile illuminated his face； his bald head shone rosily in a garland of red curls； his little protuberant stomach shook with silent chucklings as he swept in his gains.
“Doubles or quits？” said Thevenin.
Montigny nodded grimly.
“Some may prefer to dine in state，” wrote Villon， “on bread and cheese on silver plate. Or， or—help me out， Guido！”
Tabary giggled.
“Or parsley on a golden dish，” scribbled the poet.
The wind was freshening without； it drove the snow before it， and sometimes raised its voice in a victorious whoop， and made sepulchral grumblings in the chimney. The cold was growing sharper as the night went on. Villon， protruding his lips， imitated the gust with something between a whistle and a groan. It was an eerie， uncomfortable talent of the poet 's， much detested by the Picardy monk.
“Can't you hear it rattle in the gibbet？” said Villon. “They are all dancing the devil's jig on nothing， up there. You may dance， my gallants； you'll be none the warmer. Whew， what a gust！ Down went somebody just now！ A medlar the fewer on the three—legged medlar—tree！ I say， Dom Nicolas， it'll be cold to—night on the St. Denis Road？” he asked.
Dom Nicholas winked both his big eyes， and seemed to choke upon his Adam's apple. Montfaucon， the great， grisly Paris gibbet， stood hard by the St. Denis Road， and the pleasantry touched him on the raw. As for Tabary， he laughed immoderately over the medlars； he had never heard anything more light—hearted； and he held his sides and crowed. Villon fetched him a fillip on the nose， which turned his mirth into an attack of coughing.
“Oh， stop that row，” said Villon， “and think of rhymes to 'fish' ！”
“Doubles or quits？” said Montigny， doggedly.
“With all my heart，” quoth Thevenin.
“Is there any more in that bottle？” asked the monk.
“Open another，” said Villon. “How do you ever hope to fill that big hogshead， your body， with little things like bottles？ And how do you expect to get to heaven？ How many angels， do you fancy， can be spared to carry up a single monk from Picardy？ Or do you think yourself another Elias—and they'll send the coach for you？”
“Hominibus impossible，” replied the monk， as he filled his glass.
Tabary was in ecstasies.
Villon filliped his nose again.
“Laugh at my jokes， if you like，” he said.
Villon made a face at him. “Think of rhymes to 'fish，'” he said. “What have you to do with Latin？ You'll wish you knew none of it at the great assizes， when the devil calls for Guido Tabary， clericus—the devil with the humpback and red—hot fingernails. Talking of the devil，” he added， in a whisper， “look at Montigny！”
All three peered covertly at the gamester. He did not seem to be enjoying his luck. His mouth was a little to a side； one nostril nearly shut， and the other much inflated. The black dog was on his back， as people say， in terrifying nursery metaphor； and he breathed hard under the gruesome burden.
“He looks as if he could knife him，” whispered Tabary， with round eyes.
The monk shuddered， and turned his face and spread his open hands to the red embers. It was the cold that thus affected 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 fortune. Would it were still snowing！ Now， wherever he went， he left an indelible trail behind him on the glittering streets； wherever he went， he was still tethered to the house by the cemetery of St. John； wherever he went， he must weave， with his own plodding feet， the rope that bound him to the crime and would bind him to the gallows. The leer of the dead man came back to him with new significance. He snapped his fingers as if to pluck up his own spirits， and， choosing a street at random， stepped boldly forward in the snow.
Two things preoccupied him as he went： the aspect of the gallows at Montfaucon in this bright， windy phase of the night's existence， for one； and for another， the look of the dead man with his bald head and garland of red curls. Both struck cold upon his heart， and he kept quickening his pace as if he could escape from unpleasant thoughts by mere fleetness of foot. Sometimes he looked back over his shoulder with a sudden nervous jerk； but he was the only moving thing in the white streets， except when the wind swooped round a corner and threw up the snow， which was beginning to freeze， in spouts of glittering dust.
Suddenly he saw， a long way before him， a black clump and a couple of lanterns. The clump was in motion， and the lanterns swung as though carried by men walking. It was a patrol. And though it was merely crossing his line of march he judged it wiser to get out of eyeshot as speedily as he could. He was not in the humour to be challenged， and he was conscious of making a very conspicuous mark upon the snow.
Just on his left hand there stood a great hotel， with some turrets and a large porch before the door； it was half ruinous， he remembered， and had long stood empty； and so he made three steps of it， and jumped into the shelter of the porch. It was pretty dark inside， after the glimmer of the snowy streets， and he was groping forward with outspread hands， when he stumbled over some substance which offered an indescribable mixture of resistances， hard and soft， firm and loose. His heart gave a leap， and he sprang two steps back and stared dreadfully at the obstacle. Then he gave a little laugh of relief. It was only a woman， and she dead.
He knelt beside her to make sure upon this latter point. She was freezing cold， and rigid like a stick. A little ragged finery fluttered in the wind about her hair， and her cheeks had been heavily rouged that same afternoon. Her pockets were quite empty； but in her stocking， underneath the garter， Villon found two of the small coins that went by the name of whites. It was little enough， but it was always something； and the poet was moved with a deep sense of pathos that she should have died before she had spent her money. That seemed to him a dark and pitiable mystery； and he looked from the coins in his hand to the dead woman， and back again to the coins， shaking his head over the riddle of man's life. Henry V. of England， dying at Vincennes just after he had conquered France， and this poor jade cut off by a cold draught in a great man's doorway before she had time to spend her couple of whites—it seemed a cruel way to carry on the world. Two whites would have taken such a little while to squander； and yet it would have been one more good taste in the mouth， one more smack of the lips， before the devil got the soul， and the body was left to birds and vermin. He would like to use all his tallow before the light was blown out and the lantern broken.
While these thoughts were passing through his mind， he was feeling， half mechanically， for his purse. Suddenly his heart stopped beating； a feeling of cold scales passed up the back of his legs， and a cold blow seemed to fall upon his scalp. He stood petrified for a moment； then he felt again with one feverish movement； then his loss burst upon him， and he was covered at once with perspiration.
To spendthrifts money is so living and actual—it is such a thin veil between them and their pleasures！ There is only one limit to their fortune—that of time； and a spendthrift with only a few crowns is the Emperor of Rome until they are spent. For such a person to lose his money is to suffer the most shocking reverse， and fall from heaven to hell， from all to nothing， in a breath. And all the more if he has put his head in the halter for it； if he may be hanged to—morrow for that same purse， so dearly earned， so foolishly departed！ Villon stood and cursed； he threw the two whites into the street； he shook his fist at heaven； he stamped， and was not horrified to find himself trampling the poor corpse.
Then he began rapidly to retrace his steps toward the house beside the cemetery. He had forgotten all fear of the patrol， which was long gone by at any rate， and had no idea but that of his lost purse. It was in vain that he looked right and left upon the snow； nothing was to be seen. He had not dropped it in the streets. Had it fallen in the house？ He would have liked dearly to go in and see； but the idea of the grisly occupant unmanned him. And he saw besides， as he drew near， that their efforts to put out the fire had been unsuccessful； on the contrary， it had broken into a blaze， and a changeful light played in the chinks of door and window， and revived his terror for the authorities and Paris gibbet.
He returned to the hotel with the porch， and groped about upon the snow for the money he had thrown away in his childish passion. But he could only find one white； the other had probably struck sideways and sunk deeply in. With a single white in his pocket， all his projects for a rousing night in some wild tavern vanished utterly away. And it was not only pleasure that fled laughing from his grasp； positive discomfort， positive pain， attacked him as he stood ruefully before the porch. His perspiration had dried upon him； and although the wind had now fallen， a binding frost was setting in stronger with every hour， and he felt benumbed and sick at heart. What was to be done？ Late as was the hour， improbable as was his success， he would try the house of his adopted father， the chaplain of St. Benoit.
He ran all the way， and knocked timidly. There was no answer. He knocked again and again， taking heart with every stroke； and at last steps were heard approaching from within. A barred wicket fell open in the iron—studded door， and emitted a gush of yellow light.
“Hold up your face to the wicket，” said the chaplain from within.
“It's only me，” whimpered Villon.
“Oh， it's only you， is it？” returned the chaplain； and he cursed him with foul， unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such an hour， and bade him be off to hell， where he came from.
“My hands are blue to the wrist，” pleaded Villon； “my feet are dead and full of twinges； my nose aches with the sharp air； the cold lies at my heart. I may be dead before morning. Only this once， father， and， before God， I will never ask again！”
“You should have come earlier，” said the ecclesiastic， coolly. “Young men require a lesson now and then.” He shut the wicket and retired deliberately into the interior of the house.
Villon was beside himself； he beat upon the door with his hands and feet， and shouted hoarsely after the chaplain.
“Wormy old fox！” he cried. “If I had my hand under your twist， I would send you flying headlong into the bottomless pit.”
A door shut in the interior， faintly audible to the poet down long passages. He passed his hand over his mouth with an oath. And then the humour of the situation struck him， and he laughed and looked lightly up to heaven， where the stars seemed to be winking over his discomfiture.
What was to be done？ It looked very like a night in the frosty streets. The idea of the dead woman popped into his imagination， and gave him a hearty fright； what had happened to her in the early night might very well happen to him before morning. And he so young！ And with such immense possibilities of disorderly amusement before him！ He felt quite pathetic over the notion of his own fate， as if it had been someone else 's， and made a little imaginative vignette of the scene in the morning when they should find his body.
He passed all his chances under review， turning the white between his thumb and forefinger. Unfortunately he was on bad terms with some old friends who would once have taken pity on him in such a plight. He had lampooned them in verses； he had beaten and cheated them； and yet now， when he was in so close a pinch， he thought there was at least one who might perhaps relent. It was a chance. It was worth trying at least， and he would go and see.
On the way， two little accidents happened to him which coloured his musings in a very different manner. For， first， he fell in with the track of a patrol， and walked in it for some hundred yards， although it lay out of his direction. And this spirited him up； at least he had confused his trail； for he was still possessed with the idea of people tracking him all about Paris over the snow， and collaring him next morning before he was awake. The other matter affected him quite differently. He passed a street—corner where， not so long before， a woman and her child had been devoured by wolves. This was just the kind of weather， he reflected， when wolves might take it into their heads to enter Paris again； and a lone man in these deserted streets would run the chance of something worse than a mere scare. He stopped and looked upon the place with an unpleasant interest—it was a centre where several lanes intersected each other； and he looked down them all， one after another， and held his breath to listen， lest he should detect some galloping black things on the snow or hear the sound of howling between him and the river. He remembered his mother telling him the story and pointing out the spot， while he was yet a child. His mother！ If he only knew where she lived， he might make sure at least of shelter. He determined he would inquire upon the morrow； nay， he would go and see her， too， poor old girl！ So thinking， he arrived at his destination—his last hope for the night.
The house was quite dark， like its neighbours； and yet after a few taps he heard a movement overhead， a door opening， and a cautious voice asking who was there. The poet named himself in a loud whisper， and waited， not without some trepidation， the result. Nor had he to wait long. A window was suddenly opened， and a pailful of slops splashed down upon the door—step. Villon had not been unprepared for something of the sort， and had put himself as much in shelter as the nature of the porch admitted； but for all that he was deplorably drenched below the waist. His hose began to freeze almost at once. Death from cold and exposure stared him in the face； he remembered he was of phthisical tendency， and began coughing tentatively. But the gravity of the danger steadied his nerves. He stopped a few hundred yards from the door where he had been so rudely used， and reflected with his finger to his nose.
