Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance of carelessness, but the unctuous complacency was wiped from his face, and the narrow eyes and mouth showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe's disgusted contempt.
"How, but as my friend, pupil, and protégé," he replied, with evident enjoyment of the other's discomfiture at the unwelcome association. Then with incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery passed from his voice and he went on bitterly, "Do you think I love my life? Perhaps I do—at times. But not always, no, not always. You see that fly there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt wine, the ragout with its spices, the salad with its oil and its vinegar, everything within reach which tickles its palate: then it rubs its stupid head with its forelegs and trots back to the wine again. Presently"—and Villon suited the action to the word—"a great hand turns an empty tumbler over it and there it is: all the delights of the world it has lost clear within sight, but out of reach—always out of reach. That, my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blame the fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life? Perhaps if the great hand is merciful it draws the glass to one side, thus, and still to one side, thus and thus and thus, until, phit! there is a little red patch and no fly; yes, perhaps. Aye, aye, I have seen life. But it is better for the fly to laugh as it runs round and round under the glass than to sulk and cry its heart out for the snows of Yester Year. God save the King!"
The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe so irrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instant comprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shot through the disgust.
"Perhaps the hand will lift the glass," he said, "and let the fly back to its spilt wine and spices?"
Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. "Will that give me back my twenty years? Bah! the palate is as stale as the spilt wine, and when the good of life is gone life itself may go. There is Saxe knocking at the door. My faith! but you have indeed scared him into discretion; he never knocks for me. Perhaps he has brought that second bottle."
But Saxe was empty-handed, and by the light of the candle La Mothe could see a quizzical grin upon his face.
"Monsieur," he began, but which of the two he addressed was uncertain, "they are dull at the Château."
"And have sent for Francois Villon to make sport! I have dropped the 'de,' Monsieur La Mothe, there are so many rascals amongst the nobility nowadays that I find it more distinguished to be the simple commoner. Dull at the Château! Good Lord! don't I know it!" He paused, lifting his head with a quick, bird-like motion: a cunning smile wrinkled his face and he smote the table with his open hand. "Dull, are they? There, my hedge-minstrel from Valmy, is your welcome ready made. Bring your lute and make pretty Ursula's grey eyes dance to a love song, prude that she is."
"To-night?" said La Mothe doubtfully. "Surely not to-night: the
Dauphin might resent a stranger's coming so late."
"The Dauphin? Phit! Little Charles is pretty Ursula's echo and nothing more. Come, let us go."