Our good Duke Charles, you tell me, fain would know
Where bides this other rhymer. Be it so.
I might have said, I know not: for to lie
Is easy, natural, and hath brevity
To win its hearing favor, whilst the truth
Spins out forever like a woman's youth,
And lacks the world for ally. But mere pride
Would make me honest. Let the duke decide
'Twixt boor and noble. Ah! 't was gay, I think,
When we were lads together. What! not drink?
Then, by St. Bacchus, here 's to you, my lord!
Men say that luck, a liberal jade, has poured
Her favors on you: lordships half a score,
Castles and lands, that vineyard on the Loire;
Something too much for one who lightly leaves
Such wine as this. Alas! who has, receives.
DE LILLE.
Come when you will and share it. I have served
God and the King. What fortune I 've deserved
The good saints know; through many a year I 've played
The games of war and peace. My father's blade
Has no stain on it. That, it seemeth me,
Were pleasant to the conscience, when, set free
From war and council and grown old and gray,
Fades in monastic peace one's life away.
These war-filled years gone by since last we met
Have had their griefs. What of yourself? Forget
My fates and me. I think the latter wars
Have missed your helping. As for me, my scars
Count half these years.
DE LUCE.
Well, as chance willed, I fought
In Spain, or Italy, or France, and brought
Some pretty plunder back; have killed my share,
Dutch, Don, or Switzer, any—everywhere
That bones were to be broken and the fare
And game were good; have taken soldier pay
On this side and on that. In wine or play
Spent gaily; found life but a merry friend
That lent, and then forgot the debt. To end,
Came home. And now my tale. On Easter-day
It lost its hero.
Silence, once 't is broke,
Can no man mend. 'T was thus this fellow spoke
Of whom I talk. I never owned the thing
Folks like to label conscience, which the king
Packs wisely on his chancellor. My device,
'Suivez le Roi,' suits well with life. Not nice
Need one to be who Louis, or the rest,
Loyally follows,—taking what is best
Each good day offers;yet, sometimes, De Lille,
Woman or wine, or one's too ready steel,
Lures one a trifle past the line of sport,
And then,—you see my point,—a friend at court
Perchance is needed. Gossip, hereabout,
Which spreads like oil on water, leaves no doubt
That I should speak. That wastrel had a way,
A trick of speech, as when he said, one day,
'The pot of Silence cracked, 't were best to break.'
Strange how his words stay with me! Half awake
Last night, I saw him, laughing too, and gay,
A grinning ghost, De Lille. What priest could lay
A rhyming, jesting fiend? I have killed men,
Ay, and some pretty fellows too, but then
None troubled sleep. This dead man, like an owl,
Roosts, wide-eyed, on my breast,—a feeble fowl—
Mere barnyard fowl at morn,—a carrion ghost.
The devil has bad locks to keep his host
Of poets, thieves, and tipplers.
DE LILLE.
Think you so?
No man can tell, De Luce, when some chance blow
Shall give him memories none may care to know.
Once, when we charged nigh Burgos, sorely pressed,
I drove my rapier through a youngster's breast
In wild fierce mellay when none think,—and yet
I see him,—see him reeling; never can forget
His large eyes sudden change, that one long cry!
'T was but a moment, and the charge went by.
Some unknown woman curses me in sleep,
Mother or mistress; why does memory keep
These nettles, let the roses fall? Well! well!
What more, De Luce? The tale you have to tell
Is told a friend!
DE LUCE.
Three bitter years ago
A woman, every year more fair, one Isabeau,
A Demoiselle De Meilleraye, began
To twist this coil which later cost a man
A pleasant reckless life, and you my tale.
Maids I have loved a many, widows frail
Loved par amour, but this one gaily spun
A pretty net about me. It was done
Before I fully knew, and once begun,
No fly more surely netted. Ever still
The web is on me. At her merry will
What pranks she played!—and I, a fettered slave,
Was black or white, was all things, blithe or grave,
As met her humor. Many a suitor came
Because her lands were broad, and, too, the game
Worth any candle. She but laughed. Some flared,
Or sputtered, and went out. My lady shared
Their woe but little. As for me, I fought
A good half dozen lordlings, also caught
A hurt or two. But then, ah! that was worse,
A fellow came who wooed my dame in verse,
And did it neatly,—made her triolets
Rhyming her great blue eyes to violets;
Wrote chansons, villanelles, and rondelettes,
Sonnets and other stuff, and chansonnettes,
And jesting, rhymed the color of my nose
With something,—possibly an o'erblown rose.
No need to say we fought, but luck went hard:
I thrust in tierce; he parried, broke my guard,
And then, I slipped,—St. Denis; but I lay
A good six weeks to ponder on the way
The rascal did the thing. And he the while
Had to himself my lady's gracious smile;
Whereon we played the game again, and time
Was that to which my rhymer ceased to rhyme.
A pretty trick there is, De Lille, you see
I learned in Padua; this way, on one knee
To drop a sudden; then a thrust in quarte
Settles the business. You shall learn the art.
'T is very simple. Ah! before he died
He fumbled at his neck, and vainly tried
To snatch at something, till at last I took
A locket from him, for his own hand shook,
As well might be. He had but only breath
To mutter feebly 'Isabeau', then death
Had him, and I the locket—have it still,
And some day she shall have it—in my will,
For scourge of memory. This same Isabeau
Wept as a woman does, whilst to and fro
I wandered, waiting till the mood should go,
Then came again and found my lady fair
Reading my dead man's chansons. Little care
Had she for others. I, a love-fool, spent
The summer days like any boy, intent
To fit my will to hers. I laugh again
To think I vexed my battle-wildered brain
In search of rhymes.—You smile, my lord? 'T is so,
To find me gallant rhymes to Isabeau.
Pardie, De Lille, she rhymed it thrice to—No!
Swore none could love who lacked the joyous art
To love in song.
Now, really, when the heart
Gives out, and knows no more, one asks the head
To help that idiot ass. Some one has said,—
Ah! that man said it,—said, ''T is heads that win
In love's chuck-penny game.' And I had been
The heart's fool quite too long.—
At last, one day,
Hunting by St. Rileaux, I lost my way,
And wandering, lit upon a man who lay
Drowsing, or drunk, or dreaming mid the fern.
Quite motionless he stayed, as in I turn,
And say, 'Get up there, villein! Ho! in there,—
Get up, and pilot me the way to Claire!'
On this rose lazily a lean, long man;
Yawned, stretched himself,—with eyes as brown as tan,
And somewhat insolent, regarded me; a nose
Fine as my lady's; red, too, I suppose,
With sun, or just so much of sun as glows
Shut up in wine: and thus far not a word.
Till I, not over gay, or somewhat stirred
By this brute's careless fashions, wrathful said,
'Art dumb, thou dog?' But he untroubled laid
His elbow 'gainst a tree-trunk, set his hand
To prop his head, and then,—
'I understand.
You lost the way to Claire, whilst I have lost
The gladdest thought that haply ever crossed
A poet's brain. Think what it is, fair sir,
To feel within your soul a gentle stir,
To see a vision forming as from mist,
And just then as your lips have almost kissed
This thing of heaven, to have a man insist
You show the way to Claire. A man may die
And still the world go on, but songs that fly
From laughing lip to lip, and make folk glad,
Have more than mortal life. 'T is passing sad.
You 've killed a thing had outlived you and me,
Bishops and kings, and danced, a voice of glee,
On lovers' tongues.' Loudly I laughed and long.
'Mad! mad!' I cried; 'the whole world's mad in song.
Out-memory kings? What noble trade have you
That rate a king so lo? Speak out, or rue
The hour we met. Your name, your name, man, too,
Unless you like sore bones.' At this he stayed,
No more disturbed than I, and undismayed
Said, 'François Villon de Montcorbier
Men call me; but I really cannot say
I have not other names to suit at need,
As certain great folks have; and sir, indeed
As to my trade, I am a spinner, and I spin,
As please my moods, gay songs of love or sin,
Sonnets or psalms—could make a verse on you.
Hast ever heard my 'Ballade des Pendus'?
I gave the verse a certain swing, you see,
To read it really shakes one; many a thief
That verse has set a-praying. To be brief—
Ah, you'll not hear it?—then, sir, by my sword,—
But that's in pawn,—or better, by my word,—
I can't pawn that,—ye saints! if I but could!
Now just to pay your patience,—leave the wood
At yonder turning; then the road to Claire
Lies to the left; but you must be aware
The day is somewhat warm, and pray you try
To think how very, how unnatural dry
I am inside of me; for outwardly,
Thanks to the dews, I 'm damp; but could I put
My outside inside,—Ah! your little 'but'
Is really quite a philosophic thing
For lords who lose their way, and men who sing.
The simple fact is, I am deadly dry—
And that mere text once out, the sole reply,
The sermon, lies within your purse.' I said,
'Had you not put a notion in my head,
I long ago had broken yours. Instead,
Sell me its use awhile?' 'If talk be dull,'
Cried he, ''twixt one who fasts and one who 's full,
St. George! 't is duller than the dullest worst
When one of them is just corpse-dry with thirst.
Once, by great Noah! a certain bishop-beast
Kept me for three long summer months at least
On bread and water,—water! Were wine rain,
I never, never could catch up again.'
Well, to be brief, De Lille, just there and then
We drove an honest bargain. He, his pen
Sold for so long as need was,—I, to get
Three times a week some joyful rondelette,
Sirventes satiric, competent to fit
The case of any wooing, versing wit,
Dizains, rondeaux, and haply pastourelles,
With any other rhyming devil-spells
A well-soaked brain might hatch, whilst I agreed
To house, clothe, wine the man, and feed.
That day we settled it at Claire. A tun
Of Burgundy it took before 't was done.
And then, to ease him at his task, you know,
Smiling he queried of this Isabeau:
Her eyes, her lips, her hair; because, forsooth,
'The trap of lies were baited best with truth.'
Quoth I, half vexed, 'Brown—red, her hair.' 'I know,'
My poet says; 'gold—darkened, like the glow
The sunset casts, to crown a brow of snow.'
Then I, a love-sick fool!—' She has a way—
Of'—'Yes, I understand; as lilies sway
When south winds flatter, and the month is May,
And love words has the maiden rose to say.'
Here pausing, suddenly he let his head
Rest on his hands, and, half in whisper, said,
'Alack! Full many a year the daisies grow
Where rests at peace another Isabeau.'
'The devil take thy memories! Guard thy—tongue!'
Said I. What chanced was droll, for quick tears, wrung
From some low love-past, tumbled in his wine:
Cried he, 'The saints weep through us. Can these tears be mine?
The dead are kings and rule us'—drank the liquor up,
Laughed outright like a girl, and turned the cup,
With 'Never yet before, since life was young,
Did I put water in my wine,' then flung
The glass behind him, shouted, 'Quick, a bottle!—
Another; grief is but a thief to throttle.
Ho! let the ancient hangman Time appear
And tuck it a neat tie beneath the ear.
Many a trade has master Time.
He sits in corners, and spinneth rhyme.
He is a partner of master Death,
Puffs man's candle out with a breath,
Leaves the wick to sputter and tell
In a sort of odorous epitaph
How foul the thought of a man may smell
For the world that lives, and has its laugh.
Ha! but Time has many trades!
Something in me now persuades
Master Time, grown debonair,
Hath turned for me a potter rare,
And made him a vase beyond compare:
Here below, a rounded waist,
Fit with roses to be laced;
Rising, ripely curved above
Into flowing lines of love.
Thinking, too, how sweet 't would grow,
Time called the proud vase Isabeau.'
'By every saint of rhyme,' laughed I, 'good fellow,
If this a man can do when rather mellow'—
'What shall he do ripe-drunk?' he cried; 'erelong
The vine shall live again a flower of song.'
How much he drank that six months who may know?
He kept his word. There came a noble flow,—
Rondels and sonnets, songs, gay fabliaux,
Tencils, and virelais, and chants royaux,
That turned at last the head of Isabeau.
For, by and by, he spun a languid lay
Set her a weeping for an April day.
And then a reverdie, I scarcely knew
Just what it meant; by times the damsel grew
Pensive and tender, till at last she said,—
You see the bait was very nicely spread,—
'How chances it, fair sir, this gift of song
Lay thus unused? You did yourself a wrong:
But now I love you,—love as one well may
A heart that hides its treasures, yet can say
At last their sweetness out. This simple lay!—
How could you know my thoughts?'
On this in haste
I cast an arm around her little waist,
And kissed her lips, and murmured tenderly
Some pretty lines my poet made for me
And this occasion's chance.
So there, the dame
Well wooed and married, ends this pleasant game.
DE LILLE.
I knew your poet once,—of knaves the chief,
A gallows-mocking brawler, guzzler, thief,—
This orphan of the devil won with song
Our good Duke Charles, who thinks of no man wrong,
And least of all a poet. Once or twice
Duke Charles has saved his neck. One can't be nice
With poet friends, nor leave them in the lurch
Because they stab a man, or rob a church.
Also, that hog-priest-doctor, Rabelais, you know,
Kept him a while, then bade the vagrant go
For half a nightingale and half a crow.
So there he slips from sight. Then comes a tale
That stirs our rhyming Duke. I must not fail
To know the sequel.
DE LUCE.
Months went by. My man
I had no need for; soon my dame began
To droop and wilt, and, too, I knew not why,
To watch me sidewise with attentive eye,
Or stay for silent hours cloaked with thought,
Laughing or weeping readily at naught.
What changes women? A wife is just a wife.
The thing tormented me, for now her life
Faced from me ever, and, her head bent low,
She lived with some worn sonnet or rondeau
Had served its purpose. Vexed at last, I took
The wretched stuff, the whole of it, and shook
The fragments to the winds. Now, by St. George!
The thing stuck ever bitter in my gorge,
That such a peasant-slave's mere words should be
The one strong bond that held this love to me,
That was my life, and is. Alas! in vain
I played the lover over, till in pain
Because she pined, poor feel, I sought again
My butt of verse and wine, and gaily said,
'Here, fellow, there 's for drink! Set me your head
To verse me something honest, that shall speak
A strong man's love, and to my lady's cheek
Fetch back its rose again.' But as for him,
This hound, he studied me with red eyes, dim
And dulled with wine, and lightly laughing cried,
'Not I, my lord. Not ever, if I tried
The longest day of June. Your falcon caught,
Be sure no jesses by another wrought
Will hold a captive;' and with rambling talk
Put me aside, sang, hummed, took up the chalk
The landlord wont to score his drinks withal,
A moment paused, and scribbled on the wall,
'If God love to a sexton gave,
Surely he would dig it a grave;
If God fitted an ass with wings,
What would he do with the pretty things?'
I cursed him for a useless sot, but he,
Leering and heedless, scrawled unsteadily
Just 'Wallow, wallow, wallow; this from me
To all wise pigs that on this mad earth be;'
Wrote 'François Villon' underneath, and there,
Smitten with drink, dropped on the nearest chair
And slept as sleep the dead. I in despair
Went on my way.
But she, my gentle dame,
Grew slowly feebler, like an oilless flame,
Until this cursed thing happened. On a day
I chanced upon her singing, joyous, gay;
Glad leapt my hopes. I kissed her, saw her start,
Grow sudden pale, a quick hand on her heart.—
'Fore God, I love her dearly, but I tore
A paper from her bosom, yet forbore
One darkened moment's time to read it, then
Saw the wild love verse, knew what drunken pen
Had dared.
Fierce-eyed she stayed a little space,
Then struck me red with words, as if my face
A man had struck, said, 'What can be more base
Than bribe a peasant soul to win with thought
Above your thinking what you vainly sought?
I love you? No—I loved the man who knew
To tell the gladness of his love through you;
A thief, no doubt; and pray what was he who
Thus stole my love? You lied! and he, a sot!
A sot, you say, could rise above his pot,—
You, never! Love me! Could one like you know
In love's sweet climate truth and honor grow?'
But I, seeing my folly clear, said, 'Isabeau,
What matters it if I but used the flow
Of this man's fantasies to word the praise
I would have said a hundred eager ways
And moved you never? Is it rare one pays
A man to sing?'
'Henceforth, my lord,' said she,
'We talk tongues strange to each, but ever he
Talked that my heart knows best. Your wife am I,
That 's past earth's mending; what is left but try
To weary on to death? What else?' I turned,
Cried, 'But I loved you well! This boor has earned
A traitor's fate.'
'And you,' she moaned; nor more,
Save, 'Let all traitors die,' and on the floor
Fell in a heap.
Thenceforward half distraught
I sought my poet-thief, but never caught
The cunning fiend, till as it chanced one night,
My horse fallen lame, I, walking, saw the light
Still in her window. There below it stood
A man where fell the moonlight all aflood,
And suddenly a hand of mastery swept
The zittern, and—a whining love-song leapt.
Ah! but too well knew I the song he sang;
I smiled to think it was his last. It rang
Mad chimes within my head. 'Now then,' I cried,
'A dog-life for a love-life!' Quick aside
My poet cast his zittern, drew his sword,
Tried as he stood his footing on the sward,
And laughed. He ever laughed, and laughing said,
'Before we two cut throats, and one is dead,
And talk gets quite one-sided, let me speak,
Perchance it may be this rat's final squeak;
Even a cat grants that, my lord, you know.
Speak certain words I must of this dame Isabeau.
And if you will not, this have I to say,
These legs of mine have ofttimes won the day,
And may again if I have not my way.
My thanks. You're very good, and now,—what if
Full twenty dozen times a week a whiff
Of some sweet rose is given just to smell,
The rose unseen,—you catch my meaning?—Well,
One haply gets rose-hungry, and erelong
Desires the rose. You think I did you wrong
Who bade you see her as one sees in song,
Her neck, her face, the sun-gloss of her hair,
Eyes such as poets dream, the love-curves fair;
These have you seen; but as for me, they were,
Unseen of sense, more lovely.
Mark, my lord,
How sweet to-night the lilies. Pray afford
A moment yet to my life out of yours. Believe
A thing so strange you may not, nor conceive:
This woman, on the beauty of whose face
I never looked, nor shall,—whose virgin grace
I sold to you,—is mine while time endures.
Yea, for your malady earth has no cures;
A brute, a thief am I that caged this love.
A sodden poet! Some one from above
Looks on us both to-night; you nobly born,
I in the sties of life. I do repent
In that I wronged this lady innocent.
But if you live or I, where'er she bide,
One François Villon walketh at her side.
Kiss her! Your kiss? It will be I who kiss.
Yea, every dream of love your life shall miss
I shall be dreaming ever!
Well, the cat,
Patient or not, has waited. As for that,
Be comforted. Hell never lacks reward
For them that serve it. Thanks.—On guard. On guard.'
No word said I. Long had I listened, dazed.
Now scorn broke out in hatred; crazed,
Fiercely I lunged. He, laughing, scarce so rash,
Parried and touched my arm. The rapier clash
Went wild a minute; then a woman's cry
Broke from the hedge behind him, and near by
Some moonlit whiteness gleamed. He turned, and I,
By heaven! 't was none too soon, I drove my sword
Clean through the peasant dog from point to guard,
And held her as I watched him. Better men
A many have I killed, but this man!—Then
He staggered, reeling, clutched at empty air
And at his breast, and pitching here and there,
Fell, shuddered, and was dead.
By Mary's grace,
The woman kneeling kissed the dead dog's face!

Take you the Duke my tale. The woman lives.
The man is dead. None knows but she. What gives
Such needless haste to go? 'T is not yet late.
Think you the story of this peasant's fate
Will vex Duke Charles? How looks the thing to you?
No comment? None?
DE LILLE.
None I could well afford
To speak. The Duke must judge, not I.
DE LUCE.
My lord,
Your fashions like me not, and plainly, mine
Are somewhat franker.
DE LILLE.
I must ride. The wine?
DE LUCE.
I pay for that. The man who drinks must pay.
'The wine of friendship lasteth but a day,'
So said that pot-house Solomon. I suppose
'T is easily thinned with time. As this world goes,
A sorry vintage.