Petit-Jean laughed good-naturedly.
"All Paris is on the walls watching the battle. Lucky Paris!"
Trois-Echelles laughed ill-humoredly.
"Not so lucky if we don't win the battle."
Petit-Jean was complacent.
"Whichever wins will need us to hang the losers. Look at the bright side, man."
Trois-Echelles fumbled his beads furtively.
"I've lost heart, I tell you. I haven't hanged a man for a week."
As he mourned over this melancholy retrospect, the door of a little house hard by the church opened and an old woman, propping herself on a crutch stick, came hobbling slowly across the open space towards the church. Petit-Jean knew her well enough, for they both lodged in the same house and both on the same floor of attics. He knew she was the mother of the greatest scapegrace in all Paris, a rascal named François Villon, who had disappeared, Heaven alone knew where, to the old lady's great despair. He saluted her good humoredly.
"Good morrow to your nightcap, mother. Have you found your lost sheep?"