"Do you by any chance love this Villon?"
A little wave of disdain rippled over the girl's calm face.
"Great ladies do not love tavern bravos. But I pity him, and I do
not want him to die, though, indeed, life cannot be very dear to him
if he would fling it away to please a woman."
She had held a rose in her hand, and as she spoke she flung it from
her in dainty symbolism of the life which the poor tavern poet had
risked so bravely for her sake. A mad resolve came into Villon's
mind. If he was, indeed, all that this woman thought him to be, all
that those with whom he had spoken had assured him he was, now was
his chance to play the lover to his heart's desire. If the Grand
Constable had the power to pardon, surely the Grand Constable had
also the right to woo. She had drawn a little way from him and he
followed her up, standing so close to her that with a little
movement he might have kissed her on the cheek.
"Even when you are the woman? If I had stood in this rascal's shoes,
I would have done as he did for your sake."
The girl gave a joyous cry.
"If you think this, you should grant the poor knave his freedom.
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