ere not so coldly contented in the good old days of the Paris
pavements. Soul of the world! but there is no talk like Paris talk.
La Mothe, you will never be a man till you hear it. Cling-clang go the
feet, and cling-clang sing the flags under them, cling-clang,
cling-clang, and I'll never hear it again--never. Content, d'you say?
I'll not believe it. I'll not think so little of you. The Good God
never meant man to be content. How would the world move?"

"I'm winning what I came to Amboise to win."

"A snap of the finger," and Villon filliped his own noisily, "for what
you came to Amboise to win. The garden grows more flowers than
fleurs-de-lis, and better worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? I
think there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily----"

"No Paris jests, Villon."

"Trust Francois Villon! Jest?" His eyes twinkled humorously over the
edge of his tilted horn cup as he finished the second bottle. "In all
divine creation there is nothing so solemn as the heart of youth in its
first love. It is the first, is it not, La Mothe? Gods of Olympus!
was I ever as young as you? I think Paris aged me before I was
breeched. But to go back to my garden. Do you dislike the simile--a
Madonna lily?"

"The subject is distasteful."

"Mademoiselle de Vesc distasteful? Monsieur La Mothe, I apologize. In
all my Paris days I was never such a hypocrite as to make love to a
woman who was distasteful. But then, is any woman distasteful if a man
be only in the right mood?"

"Villon, that is untrue------"

"My friend, I know my past better than you do. Distasteful? Pah! it
is an ugly word."

"What you say of me is untrue. I honour Madedoiselle de Vesc----"

"Much she cares for that! 'No, thank you!' said the cat, when they
gave her frozen milk. Honouring is cold love-making. And now you have
proved that you don't go the right way about it. 'Mademoiselle,'"; and
Villon minced a melancholy falsetto, "'I respect you deeply;
mademoiselle, I honour you humbly from a distance; you are the highest
star in the heavens, and I a worm of the earth! Permit me to kiss your
venerated finger-tips.' Honour! Bah! get nearer to them, man; nearer
to them; the closer the better; honour is too far off. Listen, now,
while I teach you a better way."

"Thank you for nothing," said La Mothe drily, but unoffended. In these
ten days he had learned which of Villon's jests were innocent of
intention to hurt, and which