Villon brushed them both aside.
"Go to the devil," he said angrily, and passed them. Once again
Jehan's hand sought his weapon and once again he was restrained.
"He is in one of his bad moods," said Isabeau. "Leave him to
himself," and she drew her reluctant companion back to the table,
while Villon seated himself in a corner of the settle, staring into
the fire.
At the moment the tavern door was thrust open violently and Guy
Tabarie rushed into the room, his great moon face sweating, his eyes
bulging, his fringe of crimson locks flaming out from the eggshell
dome of his bald head, his mighty belly swaying with a passion of
excitement.
"Friends!" he shrieked, at the top of his voice, "there's a fight at
Fat Margot's between two wenches. They are stripped to the waist and
at it hammer and tongs. Come and see for the love of God!"
The whole band was afoot in an instant, clamantly agog. Guy Tabarie
turned as he finished speaking and rushed through the open door into
the shining moonlit street. The rest trailed after him, wandering
stars in the tail of a dishonourable comet, shouting, screaming,
laughing, pushing, panting, eager for the promised sport.
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