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Updated: September 14, 2025
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! François de Montcorbier, alias François des Loges, alias François Villon, alias Michel Mouton, Master of Arts in the University of Paris, was born in that city in the summer of 1431.
He was amusing himself immensely with the threads of the fairy tale he was spinning. "You shall have audience with him." The king paused. He caught sight on the steps of the dark familiar figure of the royal barber, who was approaching him deferentially. He called to him: "Olivier, by and by, when my Lord of Montcorbier takes the air in the garden, bring this lady to him. You understand?"
The priest kissed it, and then began to laugh. Shortly afterward he died, still gnawing at the glove. Francois and Rene had vanished. "Good riddance," said the Rue Saint Jacques. But Montcorbier was summoned to answer before the court of the Chatelet for the death of Philippe Sermaise, and in default of his appearance, was subsequently condemned to banishment from the kingdom.
He was only conscious that a great prize lay temptingly within his grasp, that he might win his heart's desire. Louis interrupted his reverie: "The Count of Montcorbier, Constable of France, is my counsellor. His voice delivers my mind. Speak, friend, and give this messenger his answer." He touched Villon on the arm and Villon turned to him in astonishment. "As I will, sire?"
There went about the Rue Saint Jacques a notable shaking of heads on the day that Catherine de Vaucelles was betrothed to Francois de Montcorbier. "Holy Virgin!" said the Rue Saint Jacques; "the girl is a fool. Why has she not taken Noel d'Arnaye, Noel the Handsome? I grant you Noel is an ass, but, then, look you, he is of the nobility. He has the Dauphin's favor.
Rene lied up-hill and down-dale, while in a corner of the room Francois monotonously wept. Fate grinned and went on with her weaving. "Necessite Faict Gens Mesprende" The Rue Saint Jacques had toothsome sauce for its breakfast. The quarter smacked stiff lips over the news, as it pictured Francois de Montcorbier dangling from Montfaucon.
It was on this day that Noel d'Arnaye blasphemed for a matter of a half-hour and then went to the Crowned Ox, where he drank himself into a contented insensibility; that Ysabeau de Montigny, having wept a little, sent for Gilles Raguyer, a priest and aforetime a rival of Francois de Montcorbier for her favors; and that Philippe Sermaise grinned and said nothing.
But in a way we are able to piece together from Dorn Gregory's later statements, and from certain traditions which still linger here and there in the highways and byways of Poitou, enough material to enable us to ascertain with something like sufficient accuracy, what it was that Master François Villon did accomplish as Count of Montcorbier in those seven days of splendour which his mocking king accorded to him.
After a gracious invocation of many saints and angels, the very elect of the company of heaven, Dom Gregory, in a fine spirit of rectitude, proceeds to applaud the Count of Montcorbier for the high example he set to his fellow-men.
"Catherine de Montcorbier. Was there ever a sweeter juxtaposition of sounds? It is a name for an angel. And an angel shall bear it, eh, yes, an angel, no less. O saints in Paradise, envy me! Envy me," he cried, with a heroical gesture toward the stars, "for Francois would change places with none of you."
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