"
The drift of the music seemed sadder than before, and there was a
little silence when the last words floated away into the blackened
rafters, a silence broken by one of the girls.
"Enne, that was a sad song, Abbess," Isabeau sighed, and her face
seemed to have paled beneath its false colours and the lines about
her mouth and eyes to have grown older in surrender to inevitable
thoughts. She whom the girl called Abbess laughed, and her mirth
sounded harshly after the dreamy sweetness of her song.
"Master Fran?ois Villon made it for me t'other day," she answered.
"' You will grow old, Idol,' he said, 'and I make you this song to
teach you true things.'"
Guy Tabarie, whose red hair bunched out like little flames from the
fiery sun of his countenance, clapped his hands to the girl's waist
and thrust his face near to hers. "Kiss me and forget it," he
hiccoughed. The girl gave importunacy a little push which sent him
staggering back to his seat. "I have no kisses for any Jack of you
all but Fran?ois," she said, while the others roared at the man's
discomfiture. "Ah, there is no one of you that can write songs like
him, or make one sad as he can in the midst of gladness.
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