Ere another
sunset, if a woman's heart were not his for the winning, he would be
swinging, grisly enough, with his tongue through his teeth, and the
ravens wheeling about his ears, upon the Paris gallows. It was but
to let Thibaut d'Aussigny play out his play and snare the old black
fox, and then Villon had Paris to himself, was absolved from all
penalty, might in the light of the new love the people had for him,
do, or at least try to do, pretty much as he pleased with the
kingless kingdom. It was a dazzling prospect.
"Why not?" he asked himself. Then, in a moment, the reasons why not
rose up against him--not to be cheated, not to be banished. He had
given his word; he had sworn fealty to the fantastic monarch who had
played with him and to whom he owed at least the--realization of
great dreams and the golden chance of winning his heart's desire. He
had given his word. That would not have meant much to him eight days
ago when he lived in a sick atmosphere of lies and dodges and tricks
and meannesses, where the lips were as ready to deceive as the
fingers to filch, and where a successful falsehood was almost as
much applauded as a successful theft.
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