lace to rest.

And it is of his death and not of his life or works which I wish to
tell, for it was singular. He died on Christmas Eve, 1432. The winter
that year in the north of France was, as is well known, terrible for its
severe cold. The rich stayed at home, the poor died, and the unfortunate
third estate of gipsies, balladmongers, tinkers, tumblers, and thieves
had no chance of displaying their dexterity. In fact, they starved. Ever
since the 1st of December Jean Francois had been unable to make a silver
penny either by his song or his sleight of hand. Christmas was drawing
near, and he was starving; and this was especially bitter to him, as it
was his custom (for he was not only a lover of good cheer, but a good
Catholic and a strict observer of fasts and feasts) to keep the great
day of Christendom fittingly. This year he had nothing to keep it with.
Luck seemed to be against him; for three days before Christmas he met in
a dark side street of the town the rich and stingy Sieur de Ranquet. He
picked the pocket of that nobleman, but owing to the extreme cold his
fingers faltered, and he was discovered. He ran like a hare and managed
easily enough to outstrip the miser, and to conceal himself in a den
where he was well known. But unfortunately the matter did not end there.
The Sieur de Ranquet was influential at Court; he was implacable as well
as avaricious, and his disposition positively forbade him to forgive any
one who had nearly picked his pocket. Besides which he knew that
Jean had often stolen his horses. He made a formal complaint at high
quarters, and a warrant was issued against Jean, offering a large sum in
silver coin to the man who should bring him, alive or dead, to justice.

Now the police were keenly anxious to make an end of Jean. They knew
he was guilty of a hundred thefts, but such was his skill that they had
never been able to convict him; he had often been put in prison, but he
had always been released for want of evidence. This time no mistake was
possible. So Jean, aware of the danger, fled from the city and sought a
gipsy encampment in a neighbouring forest, where he had friends. These
gipsy friends of his were robbers, outlaws, murderers and horse-stealers
all of them, and hardened criminals; they called themselves gipsies, but
it was merely a courtesy title.

On Christmas Eve--it was snowing hard--Jean was walking through the
forest towards the town, ready for a desperate venture, for i