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 come trepidation, the result. Nor
had he to wait long. A window was suddenly opened, and a pailful
of slops splashed down upon the doorstep. 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. He
could only see one way of getting a lodging, and that was to take
it. He had noticed a house not far away, which looked as if it
might be easily broken into, and thither he betook himself
promptly, entertaining himself on the way with the idea of a room
still hot, with a table still loaded with the remains of supper,
where he might pass the rest of the black hours, and whence he
should issue, on the morrow, with an armful of valuable plate.
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