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Page 30
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high;
HE in his meagre, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den--
HE with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men!
His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!--
``Go, fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!
. . . . . . .
So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality--
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
My acquaintance with Master Villon was made in Paris during my
second visit to that fascinating capital, and for a while I was
under his spell to that extent that I would read no book but his,
and I made journeys to Rouen, Tours, Bordeaux, and Poitiers for
the purpose of familiarizing myself with the spots where he had
lived, and always under the surveillance of the police. In fact,
I became so infatuated of Villonism that at one time I seriously
thought of abandoning myself to a life of crime in order to
emulate in certain particulars at least the example of my hero.
There were, however, hindrances to this scheme, first of which
was my inability to find associates whom I wished to attach to my
cause in the capacity in which Colin de Cayeulx and the Baron de
Grigny served Master Francois. I sought the companionship of
several low-browed, ill-favored fellows whom I believed suited to
my purposes, but almost immediately I wearied of them, for they
had never looked into a book and were so profoundly ignorant as
to be unable to distinguish between a folio and a thirty-twomo.
Then again it befell that, while the Villon fever was raging
within and I was contemplating a career of vice, I had a letter
from my uncle Cephas, apprising me that Captivity Waite (she was
now Mrs. Eliphalet Parker) had named her first-born after me!
This intelligence had the effect of cooling and sobering me; I
began to realize that, with the responsibility the coming and the
christening of Captivity's first-born had imposed upon me, it
behooved me to guard with exceeding jealousy the honor of the
name which my namesake bore.
While I was thus tempest-tossed, Fanchonette came across my
pathway, and with the appearance of Fanchonette every ambition to
figure in the annals of bravado left me. Fanchonette was the
niece of my landlady; her father was a perfumer; she lived with
the old people in the Rue des Capucins. She was of middling
stature and had blue eyes and black hair. Had she not been
French, she would have been Irish, or, perhaps, a Grecian. Her
manner had an indefinable charm.
It was she who acquainted me with Beranger; that is why I never
take up that precious volume that I do not think, sweetly and
tenderly, of Fanchonette. The book is bound, as you see, in a
dainty blue, and the border toolings are delicate tracings of
white--all for a purpose, I can assure you. She used to wear a
dainty blue gown, from behind the nether hem of which the most
immaculate of petticoats peeped out.
If we were never boys, how barren and lonely our age would be.
Next to the ineffably blessed period of youth there is no time of
life pleasanter than that in which serene old age reviews the
exploits and the prodigies of boyhood. Ah, my gay fellows,
harvest your crops diligently, that your barns and granaries be
full when your arms are no longer able to wield the sickle!
Haec meminisse--to recall the old time--to see her rise out of
the dear past--to hear Fanchonette's voice again--to feel the
grace of springtime--how gloriously sweet this is! The little
quarrels, the reconciliations, the coquetries, the jealousies,
the reproaches, the forgivenesses--all the characteristic and
endearing haps of the Maytime of life--precious indeed are these
retrospections to the hungry eyes of age!
She wed with the perfumer's apprentice; but that was so very long
ago that I can pardon, if not forget, the indiscretion. Who
knows where she is to-day? Perhaps a granny beldame in a
Parisian alley; perhaps for years asleep in Pere la Chaise. Come
forth, beloved Beranger, and sing me the old song to make me
young and strong and brave again!
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