"I will drink but I cannot be merry. What's the good of building a
noble gallows if nobody looks at it? One might as well be building a
church."
Petit-Jean laughed good-naturedly.
"All Paris is on the walls watching the battle. Lucky Paris!"
Trois-Echelles laughed ill-humoredly.
"Not so lucky if we don't win the battle."
Petit-Jean was complacent.
"Whichever wins will need us to hang the losers. Look at the bright
side, man."
Trois-Echelles fumbled his beads furtively.
"I've lost heart, I tell you. I haven't hanged a man for a week."
As he mourned over this melancholy retrospect, the door of a little
house hard by the church opened and an old woman, propping herself
on a crutch stick, came hobbling slowly across the open space
towards the church. Petit-Jean knew her well enough, for they both
lodged in the same house and both on the same floor of attics. He
knew she was the mother of the greatest scapegrace in all Paris, a
rascal named Fran?ois Villon, who had disappeared, Heaven alone knew
where, to the old lady's great despair. He saluted her good
humoredly.
"Good morrow to your nightcap, mother.
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