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Updated: June 2, 2025
This is a hard winter for wolves and wenches and poor rogues like me." "I," said the old man, "am Enguerrand de la Feuillee, seigneur de Brisetout, bailie 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.
That's where you go, Mister. To Hell. And he cut rope. Down he go, patatrac! round and round in air, like firework wheel, on to first rock pa-pa-pa-paff! Six hundred feets. After that he arrive, all messy, in water. That so, gentlemens. Gone where to? Swim to Philadelphia? I don't think! Him drownded, sure. Ha, ha, ha! Nice old man, when he come home that morning, he laugh. He laugh.
What the devil! Man is not a solitary animal CUI DEUS FAEMINAM TRADIT. Make me king's pantler make me abbot of St. Denis; make me bailly of the Patatrac; and then I shall be changed indeed. But as long as you leave me the poor scholar Francis Villon, without a farthing, why, of course, I remain the same." "The grace of God is all-powerful."
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