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Villon saluted the king again. "My latest duty, sire," he answered, and once again he turned to address the multitude: "Soldiers who have served under me, friends who have fought with me, and you, people, whom I have striven to succour, listen to my amazing swan song. You know me a little as Count of Montcorbier, Grand Constable of France.
"I desire to speak with her," he said earnestly, and again his eyes travelled in the direction of the lady. Olivier came close to him and touched him respectfully on the wrist. "Remember, my lord," he said, very softly, "that you are François of Corbeuil, Lord of Montcorbier, Grand Constable of France, newly come to Paris from the Court of His Majesty of Provence.
I tell you Necessity pounds us in her mortar to what shape she will. I tell you that Montcorbier loved you, but Francois Villon prefers Fat Peg. An ill cat seeks an ill rat." And with this, tranquillity fell upon his soul, for he knew that he had won. Her face told him that. Loathing was what he saw there. "I am sorry," Catherine said, dully. "I am sorry. Oh, for high God's sake! go, go!
"Rene de Montigny is, to the knowledge of the entire Rue Saint Jacques, a gambler and a drunkard and, in all likelihood, a thief. But you prefer, it appears, the Montignys to me. An ill cat seeks an ill rat. Very heartily do I wish you joy of them. You will not promise? Good-night, then, Monsieur de Montcorbier." "Mother of God! I promise, Catherine."
"The Count of Montcorbier is luckier than François Villon. But the lady has a high mind and a fierce spirit. She may not relish the deception, pardon the cheat his lie!" Something in the king's words struck upon Villon's fiery hopes like a stream of ice-cold water and seemed to quench them.
How unsubstantial is this projection of a man's existence, which can lie in abeyance for centuries and then be brushed up again and set forth for the consideration of posterity by a few dips in an antiquary's inkpot! Francois de Montcorbier, ALIAS Francois des Loges, ALIAS Francois Villon, ALIAS Michel Mouton, Master of Arts in the University of Paris, was born in that city in the summer of 1431.
Afterward you might have heard a long, awed sibilance go about the windows overhead as the watching Rue Saint Jacques breathed again. Francois de Montcorbier ran. He tore at his breast as he ran, stifling. He wept as he ran through the moon-washed Rue Saint Jacques, making animal-like and whistling noises. His split lip was a clammy dead thing that napped against his chin as he ran.
"You loved Francois de Montcorbier. Francois de Montcorbier is dead. The Pharisees of the Rue Saint Jacques killed him seven years ago, and that day Francois Villon was born. That was the name I swore to drag through every muckheap in France. And I have done it, Catherine. The Companions of the Cockleshell eh, well, the world knows us.
Yet for the sake of old time, come home, Ysabeau; your brother is my friend, and the hour is somewhat late for honest women to be abroad." "Enne?" shrilled Ysabeau; "and yet, if I cannot strike a spark of courage from this clod here, there come those who may help me, Francois de Montcorbier. 'Ware Sermaise, Master Francois!" Francois wheeled.
Ah, boy, boy!" she cried, with a pitiable wail; "come back to me, boy that I loved!" It was a difficult business. But he grinned in her face. "He is dead. Let Francois de Montcorbier rest in his grave. Your voice is very sweet, Catherine, and and he could refuse you nothing, could he, lass? Ah, God, God, God!" he cried, in his agony; "why can you not believe me?
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