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 the 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 towards the point. The crockets
were like upright pillows swollen on one side. In the intervals of
the wind, there was a dull sound of 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, benightcapped
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.
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