This is a hard world in winter for wolves and wenches and
poor rogues like me."
"I," said the old man, "am Enguerrand de la Feuillee, seigneur de
Brisetout, bailly du Patatrac. Who and what may you be?"
Villon rose and made a suitable reverence. "I am called Francis
Villon," he said, "a poor Master of Arts of this university. I
know some Latin, and a deal of vice. I can make chansons,
ballades, lais, virelais, and roundels, and I am very fond of wine.
I was born in a garret, and I shall not improbably die upon the
gallows. I may add, my lord, that from this night forward I am
your lordship's very obsequious servant to command."
"No servant of mine," said the knight; "my guest for this evening,
and no more."
"A very grateful guest," said Villon politely; and he drank in dumb
show to his entertainer.
"You are shrewd," began the old man, tapping his forehead, "very
shrewd; you have learning; you are a clerk; and yet you take a
small piece of money off a dead woman in the street. Is it not a
kind of theft?"
"It is a kind of theft much practised in the wars, my lord."
"The wars are the field of honour," returned the old man proudly.
"There a man plays his life upon the cast; he fights in the name of
his lord the king, his Lord God, and all their lordships the holy
saints and angels."
"Put it," said Villon, "that I were really a thief, should I not
play my life also, and against heavier odds?"
"For gain, but not for honour.
Pages:
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329