I was not done with my discourse when a book was brought in from Judge Methuen; the interruption was a pleasant one. ``I was too busy last evening,'' writes the judge, ``to bring you this volume which I picked up in a La Salle street stall yesterday. I know your love for the scallawag Villon, so I am sure you will fancy the lines which, evidently, the former owner of this book has scribbled upon the fly-leaf.'' Fancy them? Indeed I do; and if you dote on the ``scallawag'' as I dote on him you also will declare that our anonymous poet has not wrought ill.
FRANCOIS VILLON
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly?
HE would in sweaty anguish toil the days and nights away, And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay!
But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie;``Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!''
He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuff-box and his cane--``Now back, my boon companions, to our bordel with our gain!''
And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high;HE in his meagre, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den--HE with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men!
His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!--``Go, fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!
. . . . . . .
So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality--If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
My acquaintance with Master Villon was made in Paris during my second visit to that fascinating capital, and for a while I was under his spell to that extent that I would read no book but his, and I made journeys to Rouen, Tours, Bordeaux, and Poitiers for the purpose of familiarizing myself with the spots where he had lived, and always under the surveillance of the police. In fact, I became so infatuated of Villonism that at one time I seriously thought of abandoning myself to a life of crime in order to emulate in certain particulars at least the example of my hero.
There were, however, hindrances to this scheme, first of which was my inability to find associates whom I wished to attach to my cause in the capacity in which Colin de Cayeulx and the Baron de Grigny served Master Francois. I sought the companionship of several low-browed, ill-favored fellows whom I believed suited to my purposes, but almost immediately I wearied of them, for they had never looked into a book and were so profoundly ignorant as to be unable to distinguish between a folio and a thirty-twomo.
Then again it befell that, while the Villon fever was raging within and I was contemplating a career of vice, I had a letter from my uncle Cephas, apprising me that Captivity Waite (she was now Mrs. Eliphalet Parker) had named her first-born after me!
This intelligence had the effect of cooling and sobering me; Ibegan to realize that, with the responsibility the coming and the christening of Captivity's first- born had imposed upon me, it behooved me to guard with exceeding jealousy the honor of the name which my namesake bore.
While I was thus tempest-tossed, Fanchonette came across my pathway, and with the appearance of Fanchonette every ambition to figure in the annals of bravado left me. Fanchonette was the niece of my landlady; her father was a perfumer; she lived with the old people in the Rue des Capucins. She was of middling stature and had blue eyes and black hair. Had she not been French, she would have been Irish, or, perhaps, a Grecian. Her manner had an indefinable charm.
It was she who acquainted me with Beranger; that is why I never take up that precious volume that I do not think, sweetly and tenderly, of Fanchonette. The book is bound, as you see, in a dainty blue, and the border toolings are delicate tracings of white --all for a purpose, I can assure you. She used to wear a dainty blue gown, from behind the nether hem of which the most immaculate of petticoats peeped out.
If we were never boys, how barren and lonely our age would be.
Next to the ineffably blessed period of youth there is no time of life pleasanter than that in which serene old age reviews the exploits and the prodigies of boyhood. Ah, my gay fellows, harvest your crops diligently, that your barns and granaries be full when your arms are no longer able to wield the sickle!
Haec meminisse--to recall the old time-- to see her rise out of the dear past--to hear Fanchonette's voice again--to feel the grace of springtime--how gloriously sweet this is! The little quarrels, the reconciliations, the coquetries, the jealousies, the reproaches, the forgivenesses--all the characteristic and endearing haps of the Maytime of life--precious indeed are these retrospections to the hungry eyes of age!
She wed with the perfumer's apprentice; but that was so very long ago that I can pardon, if not forget, the indiscretion. Who knows where she is to-day? Perhaps a granny beldame in a Parisian alley; perhaps for years asleep in Pere la Chaise. Come forth, beloved Beranger, and sing me the old song to make me young and strong and brave again!
Let them be served on gold--The wealthy and the great;
Two lovers only want A single glass and plate!
Ring ding, ring ding, Ring ding ding--Old wine, young lassie, Sing, boys, sing!
