Literature
of the skittish sort must deplore the monastic reticence, but
history can do no more than accept it and leave imagination to fill
in the blank as best it pleases.
All history is certain of is that the girls gathered together,
chatting like sparrows, each speaking rapidly:
"The gentleman is a wizard. Why, he told me--"
"Enne, a miracle; he reminded me--"
"Why, he knows--"
"What do you think he said?"
Each girl was whispering to the other what Villon had told her, when
Villon interrupted them.
"Young women, young women, the world is a devil of a place for those
who are poor. I could preach you a powerful sermon on your follies
and frailties, but, somehow, the words stick in my gullet. Here is a
gold coin apiece for you. Go and gather yourself roses, my roses, to
take back to what, Heaven pity you! you call your homes."
Jehanneton gave a little gasp of surprise.
"Are we free?"
Villon answered her sadly,
"Free? Poor children! Such as you are never free. Go and pray Heaven
to make men better, for the sake of your daughter's daughters."
His extended hands were full of gold pieces, but they were soon
emptied by the eager girls who pounced upon them.
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