"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.
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