It was good to breathe the mingled odor of roses and mignonette that was thick about him. It was good to sing to her a wailing song of unrequited love and know that she loved him. François dallied with his bliss, parodied his bliss, and lamented in the moonlight with as tuneful a dolor as Messire Orpheus may have evinced when he carolled in Hades.
Sang François:
"O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone !
O Grace of her, that hath no grace for me!
O Love of her, the bit that guides me on
To sorrow and to grievous misery!
Beauty of her, my poor heart's enemy!
O Pride of her, that slays! O pitiless, great,
Sweet Eyes of her! Have done with cruelty!
Have pity upon me ere it be too late!
"Happier for me if elsewhere I had gone
For pity—ah, far happier for me,
Since never of her may any pity be won,
And, lest dishonor slay me, I must flee.
Haro! I cry (and cry how uselessly!):
Haro! I cry to folk of all estate,
For I must die unless it chance that she
Have pity upon me ere it be too late.
"A time draws on 'neath whose disastrous sun
Your beauty's flower must fade and wane and be
No longer beautiful, and thereupon
I may not mock at you—not I, for we
Shall both be old and vigorless;—ma mie,
Drink deep of love, drink deep and do not wait
Until love's spring run dry. Have pity on me!
Have pity upon me ere it be too late!
"Lord Love, that all love's lordship hast in fee,
Lighten, ah, lighten thy displeasure's weight,
For all true hearts should, of Christ's charity,
Have pity upon me ere it be too late."
Then, from above, a voice fluted in the twilight—a high, sweet, delicate voice: "You have mistaken the window, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Ysabeau de Montigny dwells in the Rue du Fouarre."
"Ah, cruel!" sighed François. "Will you never let that kite hang upon the wall?"
"It is all very well to groan like a bellows. Guillemette Moreau did not sup here for nothing. I know of the verses you made her—and the gloves you gave her at Michaelmas, too. St. Anne!" cried the voice, somewhat sharply; "she needed gloves badly enough. Her hands are raw beef. And the head-dress at Easter, too—she looks like the steeple of St.-Benoît in it. But every man to his taste, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Good night, Monsieur de Montcorbier." But for all that the window did not close.
"Catherine—" he pleaded; and under his breath he expressed uncharitable aspirations as to the future of Guillemette Moreau.
"You have made me very unhappy," said the voice, with a little sniff.
"It was before I knew you, Catherine. The stars are beautiful, ma mie, and a man may very reasonably admire them; but the stars vanish and are forgotten when the sun appears."
"But Ysabeau is not a star," the voice pointed out; "she is simply a lank, good-for-nothing, slovenly trollop."
"Ah, Catherine—"
"I believe you are still in love with her."
"Catherine—"
"Otherwise, you will promise me for the future to avoid her as you would the Black Death."
"Catherine, her brother is my friend. Catherine—"
"René de Montigny is, as all the Rue St.-Jacques knows, a gambler and a drunkard, and in all likelihood a thief. But you prefer the Montignys to me, it appears. An ill cat seeks an ill rat. Very heartily do I wish you joy of them. You will not promise? Good night, then, Monsieur de Montcorbier."
"Mother of God! I promise, Catherine."
From above, Mademoiselle de Vaucelles gave a luxurious sigh. "Dear François!" said she.
"You are a tyrant," he complained. "Madame Semiramis was not more cruel. Madame Herodias was less implacable, I think. And I think that neither was so beautiful."
"I love you," said Mademoiselle de Vaucelles.
"But there was never any one so many
