The tune was quaint
and plaintive, tender as an ancient lullaby, the words were the
words of the tortured poet, and as he heard them a new hope seemed
to come into his heart.
"Life is unstable,
Love may uphold;
Fear goes in sable,
Courage in gold.
Mystery covers
Midnight and noon,
Heroes and lovers
Cry for the moon."
"Well," said the king; "you cried for the moon; I give it to you."
"And I take it at your hands!" Villon thundered. "Give me my week of
wonders though I die a dog's death at the end of it. I will show
France and her what lay in the heart of the poor rhymester."
Louis applauded, clapping his thin hands together gleefully.
"Spoken like a man! But remember, a bargain's a bargain. If you fail
to win the lady, you must, with heaven's help, keep yourself for the
gallows. No self-slaughter, no flinging away your life on some other
fool's sword. I give you the moon, but I want my price for it."
Villon's blood now ran warm again in its channels, and he answered
stoutly:
"Sire, I will keep my bargain. Give me my week of opportunity, and
if I do not make the most of it I shall deserve the death to which
you devote me.
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