THE WILL OF VILLONJOAN FULLER

Winner of 1943 League of American Pen Women Prize

On a fall evening in 1462 the greybegan to creep up the narrow twistingstreets of Paris and filled with blackness thecarved mouths of the leering gargoyleswhich danced on the lower wooden storiesof the houses. As the boy Jean called"Bon sOir," to his master, the keeper of thehot baths, he could see over the roofs thepointed towers of Notre Dame, tintedscarlet by the setting sun. Paris was settlingfor the evening, the criers, like himself,were folding their wares and setting off forhome. The streets were filled with bourge-ois in cloth and furred velvet, with ladies intheir high coifs, with men-at-arms, raggedand bearded, a juggler leading an ass withcymbals, with monks and harlots and beg-gars, all going off for the evening. Jeanwas new in Paris and the noisy crowdexcited him, but it also slowed him and hechose a back street which the master saidled to the Pomme de Pin.

But he frowned as he hurried up thenarrow street past a pair of bourgeois ladiesin tight-waisted bodices and heart-shapedheaddress. He was late for his appointmentwith Pierre Metal at the tavern because hehad stopped after work to take one of thehot baths he spent his day crying. But hewasn't thinking of Pierre, though the pros,pect of wine in a famous tavern like thePomme de Pin was exiting and he hadnever been to any tavern. He was think-ing it would be wise for him to go straighthome and his steps slowed as he considered.If he were late his father Would beat him,and besides it wasn't safe for a fellow togo about alone at night if he didn't knowwhich street to take. He stopped and look-ed around. He wasn't even sure which

street he was on now. Slowly he liftedone foot to scratch the calf of his other leg,thinking. Then suddenly, he felt a push onthe shoulder and lost his balance to sitsprawling in the mud of the gutter."Man dieu," he gasped, picking himself upquickly.

As he stood up he saw that one of threestudents in long black robes had pushedhim. The man had a thin dark face and along nose which creased ashe laugheddown at the boy, "I didn't know craneshad such bad balance," he cried to hisfriends.

"Brat. Watch out for your betters,"growled one of them.

"Poor child. Has tIeas no doubt," saidthe other, and he linked his arms throughhis friends' and they went on laughing,their thumbs thrust in their belts, theirhoods pulled low.

Jean, his face hot, quivered inside withfury and Iooked after them. How couldthey be so smug and cruel in their blackgowns. He would be in the University inOctober but never, never would be behavelike that. The new breeches his motherhad made him were ruined and his fatherwould certainly beat him. His throattightened as he looked down and saw thedamage he had suffered. All 'Ofone leg, theinside of the other and the seat of hisbreeches were coated with the evil-smellingblackness of the slime and his hands werestiffening with it. Desperately he lookedup and down the darkening street butthere was no one in sight now save a beggardragging himself back to his hole and, inthe next block, a squad of the Guet Bourge-ois going on night duty. The thud of their

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feet tramping on the stones had a hollowsound in the settling quiet of the evening."Mary help me," he thought miserably.

For a few minutes he stood there think-ing. For fear of his father he couldn't gohome now, but he would have to find someplace to stay. Idly he watched some menlight a smoky cresset at the corner.

"Fine night tonight, Jules," said one ofthem, looking up at the sky.

"Aye. Fine for a job like ours. Butwith the moon they won't need the light."

"Maybe we could let it go and take astroll in the Charnal des Innocents," saidthe other laughing as they moved off."Mopsies out by the score tonight."

Jean stuck his thumbs into his beltthe way the students did and swaggered ondown the street. The only way to goaround covered with mud was to pretendyou didn't care. Perhaps they'd think hewas from the Quartier.

For about a block he succeeded in mak-ing himself feel nonchalant and walk asthough mud were a part of his regularcostume. But then he began to be afraidagain. The spectre of his long-chinnedfather sitting inside the door with a stickplagued him. And it seemed stupid thatsince he was out he couldn't be having afine time at the Pomme de Pin with Pierre.His legs began to be stiff and uncomfortableand he didn't know where he was. Oh,why had they ever come to this disease of

a Paris.Then he came out at an intersection in

front of a walled enclosure with a gate.Over it were letters; St. Benoit de Bien-tourne, it said. Jean sighed. This must bea cloister of some sort, he thought. At leastit was a definite place. He could stay hereand in the morning ask someone how to

get back to the baths.In the square in front of the gate there

was a canopied stone fountain, and hestopped to wash his hands. Then a young

I

priest and a gallant in soft fawn Cordova-leather boots came out of the gate andlooked him over curiously and he felt hiswhole body grow hot with the shame ofhis filth. But they had left the gate a littleopen and Jean decided to go in. Pushingthe gate cautiously he went in and up thepaved road. Then he saw a stone seatwith a carved head-piece under the lightedclock of the chapel of St. Benoit. He couldspend the night here, he thought with asmile. It was exactly ten minutes less thannine o'clock, and the moon had risen.

For a long time he sat there, thinking.When he told his father he had been lost,perhaps he wouldn't beat him. It was apleasant evening.' It would be wonderfulto go into the University in October. Forfive years he had been clerk to FatherMourne in the little village of Corbeil nearParis and the priest had arranged for hisentrance. But in the meantime his fathersaid that if thirteen were old enough forthe University it was too old to be idle anduntil he started to school he must earn hisliving. So he had gotten him the job atthe baths. Father Mourne had protested,but he had said it wouldn't be bad for theboy to get some taste of life.

It wasn't a bad job, crier of the baths.He was learning about life with an almostdizzying rapidity, and even though histhroat grew dry from chanting

Seignor, qu'or vous alez baignierEt estuver sans delaier:Li bain sont chaut; c'est sans mentir,

there was no monotony to the work yet.And it wouldn't last long. In little morethan a month he would be wearing a blackrobe and taking his minor orders in thechurch: That was the necessary prerequi-site for enrollment. He picked up a stickand in the light of the flambeau under theclock began to write in the dirt. Jean

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Poulet, he wrote, Student of the University.It would look well. Father Jean Poulet ...Bishop of Paris, Jean de Poulet, he wrote.It would not be impossible. He would rideon a milk-white mule, purple-gloved andamethyst-ringed, blessing the people, withorgans thundering and bells clashing andsinging, and men chanting Tu es sacerdoe.Then he laughed aloud. Jean Poulet; hewrote, Estuver, caller of the hot baths.

The sound of dry, racked coughing dis-turbed him and he looked up. A man hadcome in through the gate to the cloister andwas leaning, bent against the wall, his wholebody shaking with the cough, and Jean'smuscles tightened hearing the pain of it.Then the man spat and gave his head alittle shake. He began to pace up and downby the gate and Jean squirmed a little. Hewas a devilish-looking fellow in rustyblack and he seemed to be muttering some-thing. He walked disjointedly with a limp.Maybe he was mad. Then he gave a sortof shrug and came over to sit down byJean. The boy wanted to go, but he wasafraid that would be impolite, so he satthere and picked at the mud on his leg,studying the man out of the corners of hiseyes.

He was a long man, and very thin, sothin and so limp on the bench, he lookedlike a skeleton. The skin was stretchedtautly over the cheek-bones and hungaround his jaw in folds, and there wasabsolutely no hair on his face. His eyeslooked dreadfully sunken and bitterbeneath his hairless brows. .Jean stared atthe man and was vaguely disgusted, but alittle fascinated. He was whispering some-thing in a language which sounded likeFrench but which had almost no compre-hensible words. Every once in a while hismouth twisted up in a smile. He had ascar on his upper lip.

"Leuez au bec, que ne soiez grefjiz,

et que vos empz n'en ayent du pis,"

he was muttering. "Eschec, esch-" sud-denly he stopped and looked at Jean."Well?" he demanded.

"W--well, Monsieur?" stammered Jean."I'm interesting, I hope,"the man said.

His voice was very deep and satiric."I - I'm sorry, Monsieur," said Jean

and swallowed stilly."It's poetry," said the man bitterly. "It

boils in me, and when I can't write it downI grow mad."

"That's dreadful," said Jean, feelingsomething was expected of him.

"Eschec, escnec, pour le fardis!" he said,and then ran his hand over his bald head."Do you have any wine?" he asked.

"No, Monsieur," said Jean.The man shook his head impatiently.

"No. No, of course you don't," he said.Then he put his elbows on his knees andleaned his chin in his palms, looking downat the ground. "Eschec, eschec, pour Ie far-Did you write that?" he demanded excit-edly, pointing to the letters in the dirt.Jean flushed, thinking of the conceit of thewords.

"You can write?" he demanded.Jean thrust out his foot and quickly

erased the lines. "No, Monsieur," he saidand rose.

"I will pay you to write something forme," the man said.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," said Jean.But the man grabbed his arm with one

hand and held out the other. "See'" hesaid. Jean looked at it and his throat clos_ed with horror. It was bent and stiff, thejoints so enlarged they looked as if thebones were twisted into knots understretched yellow skin. "I burn with Wordsand I cannot write for long," the man saidfeverishly.

"I -- I can't," said Jean miserably. Hewasn't afraid of the man any more, but he

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wanted to get away from him."Please," cried the man. "I'll pay you.

It won't be much, but I'll pay you!"Jean hesitated. It was foolish to trust

strangers in Paris, his father said, but thisman wanted only a small thing, and per-haps it might lessen his father's anger ifhe came home with extra sous.

"You -_ you want. me to write foryou?" he asked.

"Yes," said the man eagerly. "My--testament." He smiled a bit like a boythinking of a hidden treasure.

"Will it take long'?" asked Jean, frown-

ing.The man shrugged. "A month, per-

haps _" he said.Jean's eyes bulged. "A month?" he

gasped."Possibly longer. Possibly not so long.

Some I can do myself.""Monsieur, I can't stay away from

home a month." His mother might be soft-ened into agreement but his father wouldlock him in a monastary first.

"Come during the day," he said im-patiently.

"Monsieur, I have a job and I go intothe University next month."

"Vierge cochon!" he swore. "Come inthe evening then. Or not if you wish.Diable, I don't care," he said with a fierceweariness, and he hid his face in thoseterrible broken hands. Then he began tocough again and spat a great mouthful ofphlegm between his legs. His knees, too,were enlarged, Jean saw. His eyes widen-ed. This man must have been stretched onthe rack, he thought coldly.

The man looked up then. "Well, goon. Waddle!" he said. "Go on!"

Jean still hesitated. "I -- I can't," hesaid reluctantly.

"Why not?" sneered the man. "Afraid?""I'm lost," admitted Jean.He made a pushing motion with his

hand. "Aach," he snorted, "ask someone.""I -- I've ruined my breeches with

mud and I can't go home." Jean felt him-self grow hot again and wondered why he'dsaid that. He scrubbed his toe in the dirt.

The man looked at him a second andthen began to laugh, and Jean shriveledinside. When he threw his head back, theboy saw he had very fine white teeth; buthe hated him for his mockery. The croakof laughter ended in another coughingspell which left the man weak and panting.But his eyes still danced as he looked upat Jean. "You make me young again," hesaid weakly. "I spilled my first wine onmy front and was afraid to go home."

It suddenly occurred to the boy thatthe man wasn't mocking him any longer.There was sympathy in his face. In spiteof its decadence you could see it had beenhandsome in a lean way once. Jean wasabruptly very sorry for him and the pitystuck in his throat like a lump.

The man pushed himself up with hispalms. "Come with me," he said.

"Why?" asked Jean blankly."We'll get you dry and you can go

along. It's too late for a child like you."Jean raised his chin. "I'm not a child,"

he said.The man smiled. "Come on," he said.Jean didn't know why he followed this

stranger. He started without thought as ifthe man were his destulY, as though he'dfollowed him always. Then it did occurto him as strange but after all he hadnothing a thief would want, and this offereda chance to clean his breeches. And maybethe man would show him which way to gohome. He had to do something about it.

They went through the Cloister of St.Benoit, the main building a dark bulkagainst the sky, and crossed the grass underthe trees to a little lane between houses.The air, in spite of the stench of Paris, hada spicy autumn smell and a leaf floated

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down to brush Jean's face as it fell, Thenthey came out of the cloister onto a street oflarger houses, their windows gay orangesquares, and across the street Jean sawthe wide lighted door of a tavern, anddimly he could hear voices and singing."The Mule," said the man with a sweepinggesture.

As they crossed the street a great mancame to stand in the door. When he sawthem he gave a loud whoop. "Villon!" hecried. Then to the people in the roombehind him, "It's Francois Villon!"

"Hello Denis, you long-tailed frog,"said the poet as they reached the door.Villon pushed Jean inside and followed tothrow his arm about the boy's shoulder.Standing in the door he bellowed abovethe noise of the crowd, "Friends, this is mynew clerk _" he looked at Jean andfrowned. "My clerk, Fremin," he cried.

Jean blinked. He hadn't agreed toanything. "My name's Jean," he said mildly.

"Fremin," said Francois Villon.

/

Jean pushed back the hood of his blackrobe and loosed the cloth at his neck. Itwas so hot inside the Mule you'd neverknow it was snowing outside. He tippedthe tankard of mulled wine to his lips andlooked around at the noisy, roaring crowd.It was early and no one was very drunkas yet, but they were noisy. There wereother University students there, one ofwhom he knew, shouting lines from theMetamorphoses. One of them choked andhad to be pounded loudly on the back, asJean watched them. There were many ofthe evil-faced friends of Villon's thievingdays, and looking at them Jean felt histhroat tickle with laughter. Since he hadbeen transcribing the Grand Testament forVillon, he couldn't look at these men with-out thinking of them in terms of the poet'smock will. Worn-out seat mats for funnylittle Pernet, the Bastard de la Barre; the

fourteen casks of wine they'd stolen to-gether for fat Denis Hesselin, cheatingcards for the lean fingers of Chollet. Andsomewhere else he had left Chollet "myboots with uppers worn away." CaptainRiou of the Archers was sitting with afrousy girl at a corner chair. Jean smiled.Six wolves-head stewed in slop had beenbequeathed to him.

Someone began to bellow a song in athick voice and everyone took up therefrain. Jean looked at Villon, folded inthe corner of the bench, his deep eyesmoody and sullen as he peered out overthe room. Now and then he shook Violentlywith that ague which gripped him at intoi-;vals. What a strange man this Villon was,thought Jean. He was lewd, a drinker, athief, afraid of God and of death, and byturns cruel and gay and melancholy. Hebad beaten Jean and laughed at him andwept on his shoulder these two monthsJean had worked for him. And he'd spentthe first week of November in the Chateletbeing prosecuted for a small theft andanother crime he'd committed years before.The old priest his foster-father had gothim out of it and he'd come home, craWlingwith self-reproach, to write a bitter balladwhich ended "Ill-gotten good is nobody'sgain," and another with a verse that wentsomething like:

Turn from your evil Course I prayThat smell so foul in a decent nose.Rhyme, rail, wrestle and cymbals play,Flute and fool it in mummer's shows:Along with the strolling players strayFrom town to city without repose;Act mysteries, farces, imbroglios:Rob and ravish: what profit it?Who gets the purchase, do you SUppose?Taverns and wenches, every whit!

Jean wasn't quite sure why he hadleft his home and his work to write for

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Francois Villon, but the poet's wit was sobrilliant, his need of a clerk so great thatJean felt he couldn't leave him. Besidesthere was a fascination to working for thisgreat unpredictable man. However, theboy knew deep inside himself that whenVillon was in prison he would have lefthim in spite of everything if it hadn't beenfor the fact that his working for the notori-ous Villon gave him an aura of greatnessat the University and even the older stu-dents cultivated him. It was rather funt,) brag about the nights spent at all thefamous averns, even though really no onepaid any attention to him at the tavernsand Villon let him have very little wine.He smiled. If his mother had knownwhere he would spend much of his timeand with what kind of people, she wouldn'thave been so willing to help him run away.She'd only thought of the degradation ofhaving her son stand in the streets cryingthe virtue of hot baths.

Jean looked out over the room again.The rush-lights were guttering and theplace already reeked with the odour ofunwashed bodies and wine and greasymeat. Over-turned cups littered the tablesand near him a young student had slippedto the floor and was snoring rhythmically,his head in a pool of wine. It was ratherdisgusting, decided Jean, but exiting. Hesmiled to see the expression of stoic endur-ance on the faces of two burgesses in afront corner.

Suddenly Villon sat up and poundedon the table with his fist. "I have a newBallade du. Jargon," he bellowed over thenoise of the room, and the shout doubledhim up with the cough.

"Wine! Wine for Villon!" shouted theBastard de la Barre.

"Wine and he'll sing!" cried someoneelse and in a moment the whole room wasroaring, "Wine for Villon!"

Jean smiled and held out his tankard

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but a rouged young woman with lines inher forehead snatched the mug from him.With a seductive swing of the hips she slidto Villon and, with one hand behind hishead, held the tankard to his lips. "Winefor Villon - " Jean heard her murmer asshe pressed herself against him. He felthis neck grow hot.

The poet took a great gulp of theliquor, Ioolcing up sardonically at the wo-man, and then fiercely seized her aroundthe waist and bent her back over his knee.As he kissed her violently, someone shouted"Vive Perette!" and Jean laughed with therest. But his insides crawled. This wasone thing he hadn't got used to.

Then Villon lifted the girl onto thetable and climbing on a stool, his rightfoot up beside her, began to sing, and thewoman waved her tankard wildly to the

rhythm.The poet had taught Jean a little of

the jargon of the streets since they hadworked together and it was somewhat com-prehensible to him, but he still couldn'twrite it. Villon sat by the fire and pain-fully with his stiff hands scribbled someof his poems out himself. This one Villonhad translated to him. Jean rememberedthe strange lines he'd hear him whisperthat day on the bench. Eschec, eschec pourle f(~rdis, he'd said. That meant watch our,watch out for the hangman's rope.

Wise in crimesWho at all time

Have your hands in pockets deep,(Alawys tight)And in the night

Shear the wool from the poor sheep,Only to live and care to keep:Your comrades are deprived of care.

For all our prayerNone hears us where

We're left in dungeons night and dayBy friends who are so far away.

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EnvoiBut fear of the bootsAnd scolding coots

Forbid this toil and drudgerySo, happily,

You'll risk no more the dungeons greyFor friends who are so far away.

After the first verse the whole roomwas rocking back and forth to the swingof the words and on the second envoi every.,one bellowed the lines. Jean laughed as hesang and the faces in the room began toslip a little. He was rather glad he hadgiven up his wine. Villon's face seemedvery large and distorted like a devil's ashe looked at him. And the man Who couldwrite Such jargon could also turn out apoem of pious prayer for his old motherwhich had the carved beauty of a rosary.He was unbelievable. It suddenly occurredto Jean that it was wicked for one SWornin the minor orders of the ChUrch to sit inthis brawling room with Such a man.Eschec, eschec pour le fardis. Villon wasthe occasion of sin. Villon was the devil.He felt a little ill and shut his eyes.

After a while he felt better and lookedup again. Villon was folded into his cornerof the bench staring at the fire and absentlyrubbing the back of Perette's neck as shesat on the floor beSide him. Why on earthhe ever bothered with women Jean Couldn'tUnderstand. He looked away delicately andbegan to cut pictUres in the table with histhumb nail. Villon must have had a greatmany women, he thought. But just yester-day he'd written, "no more desire in me ishot. I've put my lute beneath the seat."Jean look back at his master and bit hislip. Why did Villon have to be SUcha fool.

But the poet Suddenly thrust his footinto Perette's back and pushed her, Over."Come on, Fremin," he snarled and startedfor the door. Jean was startled but hejumped up to follow him. The girl sat up

on the floor and cried "Francios!" but Villon. hi allyhad already disappeared. Phflosop IC •

she shrugged and went to perch on DerusHesselin's knee.

The poet was all the way across t~estreet and Jean picked up the skirt of hISrobe and ran through the snow after him."Wait, Villon," he called. Francois slowedto wait for him.

"Where are we going?" asked Jean."I'm hungry," said Villon."So am I," said Jean.Francois fingered his chin thoughtfully.

"Robin Dogis said he was giving supper to. ht did 't he? Let'sa couple of fellows tonig ,In .

go there," Dogis was fat and jolly andJean rather liked him. But the other two,Hutin du Moustier and Roger Pichart, wererat-faced little men, and the boy knew theySUffered the reputation of being rank badhats. He wished Villon would keep awayfrom people like those. His past hadbrought enough trouble and he was weak.

They were quiet as they made theirway through the silent streets. Once Villonsaid, "Fremin, I'm sad tonight."

"Are you Monsieur?" asked Jean. Thepoet's face looked drawn and ill in thelight of the Windows they passed.

"What am I gOing to do, Fremin?" heasked then, desperately. "I never get outof one scrape but I'm in another."

"Eschec, eschec POUr le fardis," mur-mured Jean SUddenly. Then he cried, "Let'sgo home, Monsieur. It's your friends whoget you in trOUble."

ViUon struck him, a .slap that sent theblOod stinging to his face and rocked himon his feet. Tears started to his eyes withthe pain and be blinked. "I'm sorryMonsieur," he said.

Villon looked like a man who has kick-ed a dog in the dark. "Oh, Fremin," hecried, putting his hand on the boy's should-er. "I'm sorry," he ran his hand over thetop of his head in a futile gesture. "I __ I

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don't know what I'm doing. I'm no good.Oh, Dieu, what will become of me?" Thepoet was almost weeping and Jean swallow-ed stiffly.

"It's all right, Monsieur. I forgiveyou. 1 spoke out of turn."

Villon sighed. "Sometimes 1 don't seehow 1 can be such a wretch ... 'Fools thatfat on cates have grown: Wine by the caskI can compare: I know all save myselfalone'," he murmured. Then he straighten-ed his shoulders. "I'm hungry. Let's hurry."

J can sighed and quickened his step andthe falling' snow felt coolon the hottness ofhis cheek.

The supper was as bad as Jean hadanticipated and he drank more wine andgrew sleepy. But Villon had suddenlyturned very gay.

"Little Fremin," he cried, "I will nowteach you how you can eat though yourpurse is flat as a sucked egg."

Jean laughed a little fuzzily. "If I hadto live on what you pay me, I'd be emptyas an egg all the time," he said. There wasa strange tight feeling in the back of hisneck and he felt as if he were weaving alittle in his chair. He nodded and his headfelt very heavy.

"Wine's easy," said Villon judicially."Many's the time you've fooled old

Robin Turgis," laughed Moustier."He's a well-filled egg."Item: "If Robin Turgis come to meI'll pay him fairly for his wine:But soft; if where I lodge find he,He'll have more wit than any rine,"

quoted Villon dreamily. All the men laugh-ed loudly and Jean almost fell off his seat.Just as the table was slipping away fromhim, he grabbed its edge. He looked at thefaces of the men around the table and theyall had a tendency to slide. All this fright-ened him a little and he pushed his tankardaway. "1 don't want to learn how to getany more wine," he said.

Villon laughed. "Well, fish then. Youlike fish."

Jean considered. His stomach feltqueasy but he usually liked fish. "Fish-no thank you," he decided.

"Why not?""I'm not hungry.""You're drunk," said Moustiers, "have

some more wine.""No thank you," said Jean, and Pichart

pushed him and he floated down onto thefloor and banged his head. But the floorwas nice and soft and he was feelingstrange turnings in his stomach, so he laythere quietly. Above him he heard the talkgoing on but it was growing blurred andJean felt as though his stomach were leav-ing him, being pulled slowly down anddown into blackness, and the rest of himwith it.

Some time later Jean was aware thathe was being propelled down a street be-tween two men while two more did astaggering sort of dance in front of him.They kicked their legs and reeled fromone side of the walk tothe other in a wayvery disturbing to Jean's stomach. "Don'tdo that," he said crossly after a moment.

-on, so you're awake," asked the bigman on his right whose voice was vaguelyfamiliar.

"No," said Jean.The man on the other side of him

stopped to cough deeply and jarringly, andJean knew that was Villon. But the fat onehad gone on and by the pull of his walking,jerked the boy's arm from around Villon'sneck. He staggered to his knees. "I'mdrunk," he said then, "my father wouldn'tlike that. My father's a pious man."

Villon came up and hoisted his armback around his neck. "Yes," he said, "andyou'll go home after this in the evening.I've no patience with a man who can't holdhis liquor. 1 didn't learn to till too late.But you're me too and you will, my child."

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EnvoiBut fear of the bootsAml scolding: ~~ts

F011'tilili tbois tpl:l :and drudgerySo, happily,

You'l1.fisk no more the dungeons greyFor friends who are so iar fJW:ay.

After the first verse the whole roomwas rocking back and forth to the swingof the words and on the second envoi every;one bellowed the lines. Jean laughed as hesang and the faces in the room began toslip a little. He was rather glad he hadgiven up his wine. Villon's face seemedvery large and distorted like a devil's ashe looked at him. And the man who couldwrite such jargon could also turn out apoem of pious prayer for his old motherwhich had the carved beauty of a rosary.He was unbelievable. It suddenly occurredto Jean that it was wicked for one swornin the minor orders of the Church to sit inthis brawling room with such a man.Eschec, eschec pour Ie [ardis, Villon wasthe occasion of sin. Villon was the devil.He felt a little ill and shut his eyes.

After a while he felt better and lookedup again. Villon was folded into his Cornerof the bench staring at the fire and absentlyrubbing the back of Perette's neck as shesat on the floor beside him. Why on earthhe ever bothered with women Jean couldn'tunderstand. He looked away delicately andbegan to cut pictures in the table with histhumb nail. Villon must have had a greatmany women, he thought. But just yester-day he'd written, "no more desire in me ishot. I've put my lute beneath the seat."Jean look back at his master and bit hislip. Why did Villon have to be such a fool.

But the poet suddenly thrust his footinto Perette's back and pushed her over."Come on, Fremin," he snarled and startedfor the door. Jean was startled but hejumped up to follow him. The girl sat up

on the floor and cried "Francios!" but Villonbad ah-eady disappeared. Philosophicallyshe shrugged and went to perch on DenisHesselin's knee.

The poet was all the way across thestreet and Jean picked up the skirt of hisrobe and ran through the snow after him."Wait, Villon," he called. Francois slowedto wait for him.

"Where are we going?" asked Jean."I'm hungry," said Villon."So am I," said Jean.Francois fingered his chin thoughtfully.

"Robin Dogis said he was giving supper toa couple of fellows tonight, didn't he? Let'sgo there," Dogis was fat and jolly andJean rather liked him. But the other two,Hutin du Moustier and Roger Pichart, wererat-faced little men, and the boy knew theysuffered the reputation of being rank badhats. He wished Villon would keep awayfrom people like those. His past hadbrought enough trouble and he was weak.

They were quiet as they made theirway through the silent streets. Once VilIonsaid, "Fremin, I'm sad tonight."

"Are you Monsieur?" asked Jean. Thepoet's face looked drawn and ill in thelight of the windows they passed.

"What am I going to do, Fremin?" heasked then, desperately. "I never get outof one scrape but I'm in another."

"Eschec, eschec pour le fardis," mur-mured Jean suddenly. Then he cried, "Let'sgo home, Monsieur. It's your friends whoget you in trouble."

Villon struck him, a .slap that sent theblood stinging to his face and rocked himon his feet. Tears started to his eyes withthe pain and be blinked. "I'm sorryMonsieur," he said.

Villon looked like a man who has kick-ed a dog in the dark. "Oh, Fremin," hecried, putting his hand on the boy's should-er. "I'm sorry," he ran his hand over thetop of his head in a futile gesture. "I -- I

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don't know what I'm doing. I'm no good.Oh, Dieu, what will become of me?" Thepoet was almost weeping andJean swallow-ed stiffly.

"It's all right, Monsieur. I forgiveyou. I spoke out of turn."

Villon sighed. "Sometimes I don't seehow I can be such a wretch ... 'Fools thatfat on cates have grown: Wine by the caskI can compare: I know all save myselfalone'," he murmured. Then he straighten-ed his shoulders. "I'm hungry. Let's hurry."

Jean sighed and quickened his step andthe falling snow felt coolon the hottness ofhis cheek.

The supper was as bad as Jean hadanticipated and he drank more wine andgrew sleepy. But Villon had suddenlyturned very gay.

"Little Fremin," he cried, "I will nowteach you how you can eat though yourpurse is flat as a sucked egg."

Jean laughed a little fuzzily. "If I hadto live on what you pay me, I'd be emptyas an egg all the time," he said. There wasa strange tight feeling in the back of hisneck and he felt as if he were weaving alittle in his chair. He nodded and his headfelt very heavy.

"Wine's easy," said Villon judicially."Many's the time you've fooled old

Robin Turgis," laughed Moustier."He's a well-filled egg."Item: "If Robin Turgis come to meI'll pay him fairly for his wine:But soft; if where I lodge find he,He'll have more wit than any rine,"

quoted Villon dreamily. All the men laugh-ed loudly and Jean almost fell off his seat.Just as the table was slipping away fromhim, he grabbed its edge. He looked at thefaces of the men around the table and theyall had a tendency to slide. All this fright-ened him a little and he pushed his tankardaway. "I don't want to learn how to getany more wine," he said.

Villon laughed. "Well, fish then. Youlike fish."

Jean considered. His stomach feltqueasy but he usually liked fish. "Fish-no thank you," he decided.

"Why not?""I'm not hungry.""You're drunk," said Moustiers, "have

some more wine.""No thank you," said Jean, and Pichart

pushed him and he floated down onto thefloor and banged his head. But the floorwas nice and soft and he was feelingstrange turnings in his stomach, so he laythere quietly. Above him he heard the talkgoing on but it was growing blurred andJean felt as though his stomach were leav-ing him, being pulled slowly down anddown into blackness, and the rest of himwith it.

Some time later Jean was aware thathe was being propelled down a street be-tween two men while two more did astaggering sort of dance in front of him.They kicked their legs and reeled fromone side of the walk tothe other in a wayvery disturbing to Jean's stomach. "Don'tdo that," he said crossly after a moment.

"Oh, so you're awake," asked the bigman on his right whose voice was vaguely

familiar."No," said Jean.The man on the other side of him

stopped to cough deeply and jarringly, and.Jean knew that was Villon. But the fat onehad gone on and by the pull of his walking,jerked the boy's arm from around Villon'sneck. He staggered to his knees. "I'mdrunk," he said then, "my father wouldn't

. '"like that. My father's a pIOUSman.Villon came up and hoisted his arm

back around his neck. "Yes," he said, "andyou'll go home after this in the evening.I've no patience with a man who can't holdhis liquor. I didn't learn to till too late.But you're me too and you will, my child."

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.:

"I'm not a child," said Jean.Villon snorted. Pichart and the other

man in the uniform began to sing raucouslyand dance that disturbing dance again.Jean shut his eyes. The man on his rightstarted to sing with the 'Others and Jeansuddenly remembered his name was Dogis,Robin or Robert Dogis, And the secondlittle man was Hutin du Moustier, Sergeantof the Archers. He smiled and opened hiseyes again. Then suddenly a window abovePichart opened and a boot came hurtlingdown. A night-capped head appeared inthe casement and a voice bawled, "Be stilldown there. Let decent Christians sleep."

Pichart laughed shrilly. "Give us theother one, father," he called stooping un-steadily to pick up the boot, "Then we'llhave a pair!"

They went on a moment and turnedthe corner. Jean heard Villon say, "Well,the Rue St.. Jacques. It won't be long."The boy wondered why he sounded breath-less.

Then suddenly Pichart gave a sort ofwhoop. "Look," he cried and Jean openedhis eyes to see the little man was pointingto a middle-sized house with gargoyles bythe doors and a light in the window. Itwas the house of the distinguished andpompous Master Francois Ferrebourg whichstood next to Mule tavern.

"What is it," asked Hutin du Moustlerthickly.

"Ferrebourg's still up." He ran instaggering little steps to the lighted windowand looked in. Jean blinked and wishedthey'd get 'On. But they'd all stopped.

"Well," cried Roger Pichart heavily.He hiccoughed and went on, "So the slavesof M. Ferrebourg work all night. Pap-fedblue-livers, work all night." Jean shut hiseyes again. This was very silly. He'dknown Villon shouldn't go to supper withthose men. They all smelled dirty too.Even now in the open street Dogis smelled

dirty. "Seignhor, qu'or vous alez baing-nier .. " he thought, and begain to chant itsoftly.But a rising uproar from inside the house

made him look up again. Pichart was stilltaunting M. de Ferrebourg's clerks but Jeancouldn't hear what he said because the meninside had opened the casement and wereshouting too now, and the invective buzzedin his ears. But then Pichart hoisted him-self on the window-sill and spat into theroom. Jean saw that quite clearly, and heheard the outraged shout of the clerks.Then Villon was bracing him against thewall and running, long-legged, to Pichart."What are you trying to do, fool?" he criedas he ran. "You know I can't get mixedup in a brawl."

Pichart laughed his shrill laugh andbegan to dance again. He was like a Satan'simp and Jean wished for a confessor. Itseemed to him that he had had a verywicked evening.

Then the door opened and Jean couldsee some men with a lighted candle. "Whatdo you want, pigs?" demanded the foremostclerk.

Pichart gave a howl of rage. "Pig,you call me?" he screamed. "Do you wantto buy any fiutes?" And he danced forwardjerkily, like a puppet.

"Fight?" sneered the clerk. "You cer-tainly deserve a drubbing."

Apparently Pichart struck him, andthen the clerks were tumbling down thesteps and the sound of thudding blows andscuffling bodies on the crunching snow daz-ed Jean's ears. The men were grapplingeach other and weaving back and forth,cursing and grunting. Jean slipped slowlydown with his back to the wall to sit inthe snow. There was too much movement.He felt sick. Then someone was knockeddown into his lap, a pug-nosed little manwith a lace collar and pimples. Becausehe felt he ought to do something to help

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his friends, he doubled up his fist and beganto pound the face of that man rhythmically,with his eyes on the fight.

With a shout two of the clerks draggedHutin du Moustier up the steps of thehouse. "First blood! First booty!" shoutedthe clerks joyously.

But Hutin du Moustier struggleddrunkenly with them and screamed. Theypicked him bodily off the ground andcarried him by the arm-pits into the housekicking and shrieking, "Murder! Theyare killing me! I'm dead!"

Dogis bellowed "Hutin!" and dashedup the steps after them, but at that momentMait1·e Francois Ferrebourg himself ap-peared in the door. He was a tall, graveman and he had on a long green velvet robeand a nightcap. Calmly he stood on thesteps waiting for the man to rush up tohim and then thrust out his hand andsimply pushed Dogis back down the stepsagain. The big man sprawled backwardsinto the gutter and Master Ferrebourg fol-lowed him down to the street, very digni-fied, the light shining emerald on the backof his robe.

Then, like a wounded bear, Dogis hadpicked himself up and was rushing towardthe Maitre' with a knife in his hand, andthe next thing Jean knew Do'gis wasstumbling past his feet, almost falling onthe body of the clerk whose head he held,and Ferrebourg was lying on the ground.

The clerks chased after Dogts and in amoment the street was still again. Jeanclosed his eyes dizzily for a instant andthen looked to where Master Rerrebourglay in the snow. Carefully as eggs hepushed the man in the lace collar off hislegs and pulled himself up.

Very slowly he crept up to the body inthe green robe, and his legs had a tendencyto want to collapse under him. But hemade them take him to the thing and hestood for a while staring down at it. The

green robe was turning brown and therewas a sticky crimson pool on the snow.The grave face was twisted a little and themouth hung open, the jaw loose andcrooked.

Then suddenly Jean heard voices inthe street behind him and he stepped overthe body and began to run, the snowcrunching dryly beneath his feet.

Villon lived just across the street andhe could have run home, but his horror wasa sickness in his throat and he couldn't seethe poet again. He'd go home, but he didn'tknow the way. There was nowhere to go-And as he ran he began to be afraid. Thatman was dead and men he knew hadkilled him. He had beaten the face of oneof his supporters. Maybe - maybe thatman had been dead too. He couldn't tell.Mon Dieu, what have I done, he thoughtdesperately as he ran. I've killed a man.I'm a murderer-And sobbing, he stumbledon and on through the dark pursued by atwisted pimpled face with a crooked jaw.And the snow began to fall again and hedidn't notice, and he grew sicker and sickerand the tears froze on his cheeks. Eschec,

eschec pour Ze fardis, rang a dirge in his

ears.Then he saw he was at the river and

the spired bulk of Notre Dame rose in frontof him. He staggered on across the PontNotre-Dame and on up the paved streetuntil the vastness of the cathedral wasabove him. And he stumbled up the stepsand into the nave and fell panting on hisface. Never, never would he see that man

again. Never!

The January sun was pale yellow overthe roofs of Paris and pallid in the streetsas Jean went slowly down the street fromchurch, his mother leaning stiffly on hisarm. "Father Froguet is a good man," she

said."Yes," said Jean.

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/

"SOIile day you'll be like Father Fro-guet, Jean," she said looking up at him. Itwas nice to have your mother look up atyou. Made you feel like a man, though ofcourse she wasn't very tall herself."Someday maybe I'll be Bishop of Paris,

mother," he said, and grinned inside re-membering Jean de Poulet, Bishop of Paris

scribbled in the dirt. Well, it still wasn'timpossible, though you had to laugh tothink it.

The sun on the Pont Notre-Dame wasalmost warm as they walked along betweenthe high-gabled houses. When he'd firstcome to Paris they had seemed strange andbeautiful with their ornate fronts and carv-ed door-jambs. Now they were common-place. Pigeons were making soft cooingsounds in the eaves and waddling stiff-necked in the street. Men and women,laughing and loud-voiced, bustled by butthe birds unconcernedly avoided them. Be.,tween the peaked gables of the houses Jeancould see gulls sailing against the white-blue sky. There was a rare spring qualityto the sun, but the wind was cold. Hepulled his cloak tight about his neck.

As they approached the end of thebridge, a Royal crier stopped in the squareand blew a minor note. on his curved horn."Well, I wonder What's happened now,"said Jean's mother and they stopped withthe rest of the crowd to hear the news.Jean wasn't very interested and he stoodwatching the pigeons scrabble for a pieceof bread. They were like the bravos of thePomme de Pin, he though, grabbing withdirty fingers for the meat in the centerbowl.

The crier, after the usual preface, wasshouting the usual sort of news. Fishwould be taxed a sou on each member.Jean sighed. That meant they WOUldn'thave fish so often now. He grinned. Ofcourse there was always Villon's way.

"Notice on pain of imprisonment," the

crier was bellowing, "Francois de Mont-corbier, dit Villon of the city of Paris ishereby banished by order of his MostGracious Majecty Louis XI, from the saidcity of Paris for a period of ten years.Anyone after five o'clock of the third dayhence, Wednesday-"

But Jean lost the rest of it in a waveof blankness. He hadn't heard anythingdefinite of Villon for almost two monthsand to hear his name like that, out of theblueness of the winter sky, so to speak,took him by surprise. He shut his eyes try-ing to think. The last he'd seen of Villonwas the sight of him wrestling like a bearwith one of the clerks, the bodies rockingback and forth as they staggered in thesnow. And that was before Hutin duMoustier had been captured. But Villoncertainly hadn't been there at the end ofthe fight so he must have ducked out some-time previously. Of course Jean had rea-soned all this out before, and even if hehadn't been u~able to keep from askingquestions, his friends at the Universitywould have told him Villon was in prisonagain. But because the trials hadn't been'public he hadn't been able to find out whathad happened. Some said he was to behanged, others that he had been releasedand had gone to the country. In spite ofthe fact that he had determined not to seethe poet again, the thought of his goingaway had left a strange empty feeling inthe boy. But perhaps he had been in prisonthese months. Jean shuddered, and hismother said. "Cold, son?"

He shook his head. At the trial theymust have thought him so unimportant awitness that it wasn't even necessary tocall him. Perhaps the men thought he hadbeen unconscious, or had even forgottenabout him. But how horrible if Villon hadbeen in a cell all this time. He had lainin a dungeon at Meun for five years andthings he had told the boy of the tortures

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they had put him through and the horrorof the dark and crawling hell of the placehad given Jean more than one nightmare.And it must have been worse this timebecause it was unjustified. He had runaway. Jean's mind was suddenly filledwith chasing impressions of the poetcoughing and bent with despair in a dampand air less cage, undergoing the water-torture and writhing with fear. And howwould he live without Paris. It was hissoul, his entire existence, the city with itslife, the flux and mystery of it, wine andlaughter and song. Jean was dimly aware01 all those things as he stood on thebridge and watched the crier come to theend of his scroll and move on to anothercorner.

"Villon's that poet isn't he'!" Jean'smother asked as they began to move ofIthe bridge again.

"Yes," said Jean absently."He seemed pleasant enough when I

spoke to him, but there was something-""I know.""And he was such an ugly young man.

He looked dissipated.""Yes.""He probably deserves it though he did

have nice manners. I'm glad you left himJean."

"Yes," said Jean."Too bad they're raising the tax on fish.

You like fish so well. So do the rest of usfor that matter."

Jean stopped. "Mother,': he said,"would you mind going on home alone.1'1 like to _ to say goodbye to M. Villon."

His mother looked up at him. "But-to the prison'!"

"He'll be home by now. I must seehim."

"Well - I don't think you shouldYou're sure you can find your way?"

"I've done it often enough.""Of course. Well - If you must, go

on then," she said, but she frowned in atroubled way.

He bent to kiss her on the cheek gently."Goodbye mother," he said.

"Don't be late," she called after him.The old priest was with Francois when

Jean went in to the familiar room in thehouse with the Porte Rouge, but he leftthem together and went down stairs toread his breviary. Villon looked ratherdreadful. He was more ragged and thinthan he had been before, but his eyes weredancing with life.

"Jean!" he cried, "Petit Fremin!" andmuch to Jean's embarrasment threw hisarms around the boy.

"I'm sorry you were put in prison,Monsieur," said Jean 'formally, disengaginghimself.

"But you didn't come to see me," re-proached the poet.

"I'm - I'm sorry. I didn't even knowwhere you were."

"Well, that's all past. I'm free, Fremin.And the sun is green-gold on the roofs."He laughed. "A pretty bit of sentiment.You should write it down."

"But don't you mind leaving?" asked

Jean curiously.Villon shrugged. "One stays, one goes.

And there's a little girl named Chouquette

in Lyons-""Oh," said Jean. Somehow he was dis-

appointed . He had come to make a greatgesture and the man only prattled of girls.

Villon went to the carved-faced cabinetand pulled out the pile of parchment thatwas the Testament. "I've got new versesto add now," he said, and his face darkenedas he stared down at them a moment. Allthe life had left his voice as he added, "Iwrote them in prison."

"May I read them?" Jean asked morefrom politeness than curiosity. He wished

he hadn't come.Villon gave him a rather strange look,

i:1I'

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satiric and bitter, and began to read abrupt-ly in the middle of a verse, taking lines hereand there, his scarred lip twisting up alittle,

"'You see us five or six hung up tocure,

With all this flesh that once we fedtoo well

* * * *Sun dried, black to caricature;Magpies and crows have 'had our eyes

to riveAnd made of brows and beards their

nouriture.

:]: * * *Always we swing like clapper of a bellPitted as thimble is our bird-pecked

skin .. "He looked up. "Do you like it'?".he demand-ed harshly.

"I -- I don't know," said Jean weakly."Well, here's another. Maybe you'll

like it better.

/ I am Francois that's here shown,Born of Paris, near Pontoise town.Now in a six-foot noose of brown,My neck will know what my nates

weigh down.' "

Jean flushed hotly. He had wrongedthe man. Villon had suffered and wassuffering now. "Let me see," he begged.Villon shrugged and tossed the poems into

.' the boy's lap. They were horrible things,tortured and despairing, and they made hisskin crawl. But there was a weird beautytoo, and sincere faith in them that evenFather Froguet would have approved. Jeancould see the horror of the imagery in thedeath poem; the withered corpses againstthe moon, the writhing of the torturedsouls, but the rest of the verse left himbewildered and awed, moved almost with-out comprehension of the cause.

He looked up at the poet, to meet histhoughtful gaze. "What shall I do with-out you, Fremin. Those few lines took metwo months. And my hands are more pain-ful now because of the dampness of thecell."

"There are other boys," said Jean."But I'm used to you.""It won't be hard to find someone else,"

he said uncomfortably.Villon examined his hands and chewed

his lip a moment. "I depend on you,Fremin." Then he looked up. "Why don'tyou come with me'?" he asked.

Jean had almost known he was goingto ask that from the first, but still it tookhim by surprise. "Leave Paris?" he askedblankly.

"I'll take to the lute and pay you agood wage," said the poet eagerly.

"You - you can't play the lute withthose hands."

"I'll teach you.""I -- I couldn't leave home and my

mother. I won't go, so let's stop arguing."Villon sat down and looked into the

fire, and his face was lighted with it andwith a sort of flame from within him."Think of it, Fremin," he said softly, hisvoice deep and beautiful. "Think of it, awood in the spring, the trees green andscented ,birds singing above you, the grasssoft and fragrant beneath your back. Andthere's a good cold lunch of venison andwine and white bread ... Then there're thecities. You know you have a better timewith me. The lights dim in the room, themoon pale through the window, good talkand warm smells and laughter and winewarm as spice on your throat. Taverns inLyons and Marseilles. Why, there's allFrance, boy, and you've not been fifty rodsfrom Paris."

His voice wove a sort of spell for Jean.He'd lived most of his life in a suburbanvillage and he really loved the country.

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PORTRAIT OF BILL BY EDMUND BHUCKER

John Herron Art Museum.

.:

BY V,! AYMAN j~DAlVIS

And life with Villon had an exitementand glamour such as he'd never knownbefore. The University was as dead anddusty as the Latin in which the textswere given, and Villon was life. Besides,the poet really needed him. They under-stood each other.

"Monsieur, I really can't," he said withdifficulty.

"I'll be lonely, Fremin," said Villonsoftly, looking at him.

"I -- I'm sorry.""Very well then," he said coldly and

stood up. "Now get out. I've made mylast appeal to you."

Jean stood up very slowly. "You'resure there's nothing I can do for you," heasked wistfully.

"No!""Well - goodbye, Monsieur Villon.

Good luck." he held out his hand but thepoet ignored it and stared into the fire witha set mouth.

Jean went very slowly out of the room

•

and down the narrow boxed stairs. Histhroat ached with tears as he thought ofVillon's thin slouched figure going lonelyoff into the night. But he couldn't leave.Why, it would blast all his mother's poorhopes for him and destroy forever thevision of the purple robe and the amethystring. "I'll be lonely, Fremin," he had saidsoftly, he who never let people see thesoftness of the heart of him.

Swiftly he turned and, ran back intothe house and up the steps. When heburst into the room, Villon was coughingdismally, his thin body bent painfully overthe fire. The boy waited a moment. Thenhe said. "If you will talk to my mother,perhaps I can go with you Monsieur."

Villon turned, his eyes wet from thepain of his cough. For just a second hestared at Jean, almost as if he were sorry.Then he came over and clapped the boy onthe shoulder. "You can make her a copyof that ballad I made for my mother," hecried gayly. "I'll give her that."

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