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Updated: May 18, 2025
Why if you won't think my curiosity impertinent why Francois Villon?" "Why not?" said Peter. "He made such a tremendous outcry when he was condemned to death, for one thing. You should have heard him. He has a voice! Then, for another, he takes such a passionate interest in his meat and drink. And then, if you come to that, I really had n't the heart to call him Pauvre Lelian."
"A brawl?" "Well, something of that sort," Villon admitted with a quaver. "Perhaps a fellow murdered?" "Oh, no, not murdered," said the poet, more and more confused. "It was all fair play murdered by accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me dead!" he added fervently. "One rogue the fewer, I dare say," observed the master of the house.
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.
Besides what he has to give in this manner, Montaigne seems to express French character, to explain the French genius and the French way of looking at life, more clearly and completely than any other writer. He has at bottom the intense melancholy, the looking forward to the end of all, which is the ground-note of the poetry of Villon, and of Ronsard, as of the prose of Chateaubriand.
Villon, in a remarkably bad ballad, written in a breath, heartily thanked and fulsomely belauded the Parliament; the envoi, like the proverbial postscript of a lady's letter, containing the pith of his performance in a request for three days' delay to settle his affairs and bid his friends farewell.
Villon began to laugh, a loud, mirthless laugh that had no human warmth in it. "A fellow like a page boarded me here three days ago. He asked me if I had sent certain verses to a certain quarter. If so I was to follow him at once. I followed like a sheep with my heart drumming till we came to a quiet place, and there four boobies with yard-long cudgels fell upon me.
"May I ask you a question?" Villon said, and the girl answered: "Surely." "Are you content with me?" "You have done much." "I have more to do. For seven days I have wrestled with greatness as Jacob wrestled with the angels; I have made the king popular, the Parisians loyal, the army faithful " "Then why do you linger here where courtiers feast and ladies dance?"
The rooms above the gate were used till within quite recent times, and the poor inmates used to let down a greasy old hat from the window in front of the passers-by, and cry, "Pity the Bocardo birds": "Pigons qui sont en 1'essoine, Enserrez soubz trappe voliere," as a famous Paris student, Francois Villon, would have called them. Of Bocardo no trace remains, but St.
Go and gather yourself roses, my roses, to take back to what, Heaven pity you! you call your homes." Jehanneton gave a little gasp of surprise. "Are we free?" Villon answered her sadly, "Free? Poor children! Such as you are never free. Go and pray Heaven to make men better, for the sake of your daughter's daughters."
"She does not know me," Villon's delight cried in his heart, and at the thought his spirit fluttered with fierce exaltation. The Lord of Moncorbier, who was Grand Constable of France, might say many things that were denied to the lips of François Villon. Katherine pleaded warmly: "There is a man in prison at this hour for whom I would implore your clemency. His name is François Villon.
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