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
an 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 Nicolas 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.
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