argenton! that was strange, so strange that i started on my stool at the end of the table, and half rose. of course they were passwords, but why argenton? argenton was the lordship of monsieur de commines, to whom i looked for protection; why argenton?

bowing again, but with a warmer courtesy, he motioned her to take his place at the inner side of the table while he, drawing the end of stool a foot or two back towards the corner, sat, half-concealed by her shrouded bulk.

"mademoiselle will excuse me uncovering?" he said, touching his slouched hat, "and will also remember we are not alone."

turning, she glanced down at us as we sat in the light of our one guttering candle. it was my first glimpse of her face, but so deep was her hood i saw no more than an oval of pallor in the darkness of its cavity.

"i think," said she contemptuously, with a glance at the scattered group in the alcove, "we could soon be alone if monseigneur thought it desirable."

of the hint and the contempt i alike took no notice, of the latter because of the former; the threat that underlay it fixed me to my seat. to have moved then, was to move upon compulsion. but as we continued our play with the dice as if the words had never been said, her companion interposed hastily.

"no, no. i confess i thought of that before you came. but brawling would serve neither you nor me, no, nor those who—who—trust us."

"that there is trust between us, monseigneur, i am glad to know," she answered, "for as yet, i have not seen much of it—on one side."

so far they had spoken with no pretence at concealment, their object, i surmised, being to disabuse us of all suspicion of deep matters. but now their voices fell to a murmur, over which the click of the dice on the wood of the table sounded to my tense nerves like a clash of swords. let it be remembered that i was but a country lad. all this was new to me, and the pricking threat of danger, the secrecy, the very air of paris itself, fired my blood.

and so the minutes passed; the girl—i was sure she was a girl, so sweet was her voice, so gentle, and with a stirring music in it that was strange to me in women's voices. since then i have heard a like music throbbing from a bird's song in the pure blue of a summer's noon, and been thrilled by it as i was then; yes, i was sure it was a girl.

the girl it was who spoke most, spoke with a varying mood that charmed and angered me; even when mechanically flinging the dice i feigned not to see the eagerness, the insistence, the passion, the pleading whose murmured words fell like tears. what right had that stolid clod—clod was what paris had called us in her streets, and the name stuck—what right had he to be so coldly unmoved, so silent, that he only answered her by a word or a gesture of denial? but she would take no denial, and with the brave spirit of a good woman returned to her pleading, pushing the petition home urgently, even strengthening her arguments by two outstretched arms, and a hand upon his shoulder. how did i know all that? ah! every clod on which the sun strikes has a soul within it, and so i knew.

yet what did he answer?

"all must be as the king wills," said he, his words roughening with distinctness as if he were not altogether sorry to be overheard. "all as the king wills, remember that, mademoiselle. he is the potter, i the clay; he is everything, i nothing—nothing."

"nothing!" she echoed, her voice rising level with his own, "why! all france knows that you are the king in everything but name. what you say to-day, louis says to-morrow; why deny it? let us come to the bare truth. we desire peace, desire it with all our heart, and you say you will do nothing. is that to be your answer, monseigneur?"

"not that i will do nothing, but that i am nothing. if all france thinks it knows better, then all france is a fool. i sleep in his chamber, i tend him, i wait upon him, i valet him—i think no shame of that; he is the greatest king and wisest man in christendom—i do these things, but—i am nothing. or," he went on, after a pause, "if i am something—anything, it is because i am careful to be nothing. by a breath he undoes me, and i would not have it different. france grows great by the greatness of its kings, and if france falls, it will be because the king has let the shadow of the people fall upon the throne."

"then—is it ruin?" i do not think she meant the words to be heard, but she was shaken out of herself, and spoke louder than she knew. "must a great house fail that greatness may grow yet a little greater? and so little greater, so very little! much to us, monseigneur, ah! you can never guess how much, but so little to france. is that your answer, ruin, ruin, ruin?"

a silence fell, and i will not deny that though i still fingered the dice my breath was held to catch the reply. it came slowly, gravely, spoken as a man speaks who knows his own weight, and the weight his words cannot help but carry.

"i, too, desire peace, but all is as the king wills."

whether she would have urged him afresh i do not know, but opportunity was wanting. all through supper, and afterward, sounds of carousals had come across the courtyard from the common room, hoarse bursts of song, hoarser laughter, roared out oaths, and the occasional scuffle of feet stamping on the sanded floor. then came a time of quiet, and had i but known my paris better i would have guessed that then was the time of danger. while paris is noisy, paris, by a paradox, is safe and tranquil; when paris thinks, and speaks under its breath, then paris is dangerous.

but of the many wild beasts that couch in france, paris was the one of which i knew the least, and when i thought the night drew to peace, paris was already on the spring. a door opened more quietly than a door is commonly opened with a half-drunk reveller's hand upon the latch; from the courtyard a voice or two spoke out, spoke shortly and without clamour. then, unheralded by warning, came the third interruption of the night. both wings of the door were flung open, and in the space a figure showed itself, which, apart from its sudden appearance, must still have drawn our eyes.

it was a man so beragged, and so variously bepatched as to be ridiculous, were it not that aged poverty is always pathetic. every stuff of the looms had gone to his clothing, every shade of the dyer, faded and weatherstained, peeped and twinkled in the mendings of his tatters. but the eye soon shifted from these frank advertisements of starved penury, and wandering to his face, stayed there, fixed by a fascination that defies analysis. let a soul but look out of window, and whether it be naked priapus plastered to the crown with filth, or saint francis of the birds—are there not many gods in the olympus of the mind?—they who see it must needs look back, and never heed what are the drapings of flesh through which it peers.

from under a dirty linen cap, from which, in a derision of gaiety, drooped a draggled red feather, three or four grey locks strayed across a noble forehead till they met and thickened a line of delicate brows. the nose was thin, hooked, and cruel, pinched in at the nostrils to a fixed sneer; the cheeks lean and smooth, but covered with a network of fine wrinkles branching from below the eyes. over a loose, full-lipped mouth, red, sensuous, and smiling, fell an almost white moustache, caught up into an audacious curve at the ends; the chin was bearded by a straggle of thin silver hair drawn to a point.

but, more than all the rest, the eyes marked him for a man of brains, so full were they, so lustrous, and yet so piercing; age might whiten him, shrivel him; an evil life, hard lived, might shake his nerve, but the eyes and the brain and the soul of the man bated no jot of their strength. behind him—strangely like, and yet strangely unakin—tiptoeing or stooping low to see the better, was such a gathering of rabble as a casting of nets will draw from the denser, fouler slums of any great city.

laying a long-fingered, delicate, much-soiled hand upon his breast, he bowed satirically.

"mesdames and messieurs, and you, the disguised princes of the blood in the dark yonder, you sweepings of the hedgerows who cannot eat in the presence of men more like almighty god in intelligence than yourselves, you are welcome every one of you. we looked for tribute from two of earth's scum," he went on, posing himself negligently, one foot advanced, a fist doubled on a hip, the fingers of the other playing with his straggled beard point, "and lo! there are seven great and small; therefore, as seven is to two, and the product to the emptiness of our pockets, so is our welcome."

by this time all, whether within the room, or without, were on their feet, but the seven of which he spoke so gibingly were still in three groups. but he who called himself narbonne was naturally the spokesman of us all and he it was who answered.

"take your jest elsewhere, and your filthy crew with it," he said coldly. "piff! your very smell is an offence."

but the other never stirred, nor did the smile leave his face; only his eyes narrowed, and his full mouth grew hard, the lips tightening till the stumps showed in the gums.

"'tis the oil of the student," he answered suavely; "the literary flavour as we in paris know it, or maybe, your nostrils are unaccustomed to the sweet-smelling flowers of parnassus? to some poor souls the perfume of poesy is as strange as the odour of sanctity. they have my pity!"

"again, i tell you, take your jest elsewhere."

"jest! my friend, you cannot have lived in courts. now, i know court life as i know my barren pouch. jest? does our brother louis jest when he knocks at the door of high and low and says, pay me my taxes? his is a door of wood, mine that yet harder, more tightly fitting door, the human heart! you do not understand? listen then! francis the first, king of divine song, prince of all poets, elder brother to the nine muses and father of the lord knows what, levies tribute, and by god! messieurs and mesdames, he'll see it paid! these," and he pointed, thumb across shoulder, to the tattered slum bullies, thieves, cut-throats, and night-walkers, who had pushed him forward almost to the edge of the table, "these are our honourable tax-collectors, lambs almost as gentle as our brother louis' own. do you pay, messieurs, or must the law take its course?"

from his place in the alcove, he who had been the women's attendant stepped forward.

"let me deal with the rabble, monseigneur."

"silence, sir, know your place—and mine," he added significantly. then, turning to the fellow across the table he went on sternly, "and you, leave the king's name out of your mummery, or your fool's wit may not save your neck."

"i have looked through a halter ere now, and come away neither sadder nor wiser than you see me. god forbid i should ever be one or other. i have even given my testament to the world, a thing few men do and live. alas! how the world changes. but that is past and the bird sings no longer.

ou sont les gratieux gallards

que je suy voye au temps jadis,

si bien chantans, si bien parlans,

si plaisans en faicts et en dicts?

hung, i sadly fear, hung, every mother's son of them! but the bird still sits upon the bough, and if in age it sings less, still needs must that it fills its craw, so, come, sir, pay up! like my brother louis, i try smooth means first, but, also like my brother louis, i do not stop there; and, again like my brother louis, when i squeeze i squeeze hard.

necessité fait gars mesprendre,

et faim saillir le loup des boys,

"fran?ois, the one and only king of song, has spoken!"

"fran?ois? what? art thou that fran?ois villon?"

the fellow laughed as he bowed with a flourish.

"monsieur has said it!"

"fran?ois villon? and not hanged yet?"

again he laughed, but this time without merriment; the gibe and the contempt were alike bitter.

"again monsieur has said it! twice, no, when i come to think of it, thrice montfau?on has sighed for me, and yet i live. by my faith! i begin to think i shall die in my bed if i do not first starve in the streets!"

"fran?ois villon——"

"i have said it, i have said it; king fran?ois villon, fran?ois the first, fran?ois the last, fran?ois villon, the lover of all the muses and every pretty woman in the world! and now that you know me, monsieur, your purse, that fran?ois villon the man and his tax collectors may drink and bless you. what? you will not? ah, be persuaded, be gently persuaded, what is a purse or two, a handful of beggarly coins, compared with—mademoiselle is with you, is she not? then god forbid that i should finish the comparison. as a poet i hate ugly realities, as a man i love pretty women, and fran?ois villon the man—alas! we all have our passions, our frailties, you understand; eh? look at us, we can be rough at times, just as our brother louis can, and not having seen mademoiselle's face i do not know if it is worth our while to quarrel. one peep, mademoiselle, one little glimpse for the poet; the man, whose delights are not altogether pleasures of the mind, can come later if it is worth his while; one look, just one," and leaning across the narrow table he stretched out a long arm as if to twitch her hood aside.

"mon dieu! monseigneur," she cried, not shrinking back, but holding herself erect just out of reach of the foul and twitching fingertips. "is there no one to kill this infamous wretch?"

in a flash her neighbour's sword was out, and with its point at villon's throat he cried;

"another inch, and she shall see it done!"

to do him justice, villon never flinched, but stood there silent, rigid as a statue, his loose lips parted in an evil smile, his eyes searching the shaded faces of the two fronting him. but if he held his peace, those about him did not. look on us! he had said, and said wisely. it was a frank warning, a cynical invitation to repulsion and disgust. from noisome cellars and crazy garrets, down rotting stairways, by crooked sunless lanes, from thieves' dens and nameless stews of vice where neither law, honour, or sweetness of life ever went, they had come, these garbage rats of the sewers of paris, of which he said, look on us! and the brand of their lives was red on them, as if stamped by the hangman's iron. weasel face, rat face, wolf face; look on us! human brutes every one. and like brutes they bore themselves, growling, snarling, spitting; their teeth bared to bite.

little by little they had pressed in after villon, little by little they had spread themselves through the room, but mostly at the upper end, guessing that the sweetest pickings lay there, and in a herd, as if they drew a natural brute courage from the feel and jostle of numbers. never for an instant were they still, but shifted restlessly like wolves in a cage; never for an instant were they silent, and when the chief brute of them all, he of the god-given brain, laid upon the altar of service to the devil, said, look on us! a guttural chorus rose that gave point and barb to the menace. they knew the power of evil and gloried in it. arms were shaken in the air, arms in sleeves, arms in tatters, arms bare, women's arms, men's arms, and in every fist was a weapon, a knife, a cleaver, a bludgeon, anything that could maim or bruise, even cobble stones torn from the streets were flourished above shock heads, the slime of the kennel still wet upon them.

with the blade at villon's throat the chorus swelled to a roar, and i was passing up behind martin's back, my own sword half drawn, when he stopped me.

"no, no, monsieur gaspard," he whispered, clinging to my sleeve as he had clung to roland's bridle the day solignac was burned. "let them settle it among themselves; our way is by the window opposite. what have we to do with other men's brawls. once in the courtyard and——" he stopped short and swung round on his heel. "dame! there is the fellow who struck ninus across the muzzle! with you, monseigneur, with you! a hellewyl! a hellewyl! only for heaven's sake, let the women stand back." and before i could follow his change of mood he had flung our candle into a corner and was leaning across the table side by side with him i have called monsieur narbonne. "we pay no debts in paris, do we not?" he cried, jerking a knee on to the table with his left hand while he lunged with the right, "my faith! but we do, we of flanders!" and his blade went home.

it was first blood for us. from behind villon was drawn back out of reach of the point at his throat, over went the table between us—martin saving himself by a backward leap—and what happened thereafter i cannot tell. twice i was hurt; once by a stone on the shoulder, and once by a stab instinctively parried in the dark by my left arm. but the putting out of the light saved us. through the windows a straggle of moonbeams fell on the yelling, rascally mob, but left us in gloom. if they were outlines we were shadows, so like the fuller darkness as to be hardly visible, and the shadows had the advantage. of two things the room seemed full; noise, the din of cursing voices, shuffling feet, groans, obscenities, and a faint play of light like the flight of dull fireflies as the moon caught the twisting flats of steel.

then the end came, but from without, not from within; a knocking at the inn door that grew louder and louder, and as it grew the babel within sobered. the kennel crew knew its meaning better than we. by ones and twos, and then in a swarm, the mob fled. fran?ois the first and last, king of song, and high priest of all the rest of his blatancy, heard montfau?on call for the fourth time, and had no heart to dance upon nothing to the music of that sinister voice.