Paris: The Novel

great value, but it was given to me by my grandmother just before she died, and for that reason I would not lose it for all the world.”
    “But why do you come here, monsieur, to the tavern of the Rising Sun, where there are only honest men and poets?”
    If there was some ironic humor in this, the young man ignored it.
    “I saw the man who robbed me. I followed him. And I am sure he came in here.”
    “No one has come through the door in the last hour, except yourself,” Le Sourd answered blandly. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the room, and forty throats echoed his sentiments, until Le Sourd raised his hand and they instantly fell silent.
    Young Guy de Cygne let his gaze travel around the tavern. It was hard to see into the shadows.
    “You will not mind, then, if I satisfy myself that the man I seek has not slipped in by some other entrance,” he replied coolly.
    Le Sourd gazed at him. This young aristocrat might be a stranger, but he could not fail to realize that he was at their mercy. The cool effrontery, the reckless courage of the fellow appealed to the ruler of thieves.
    “Please do so,” he said.
    Guy de Cygne moved swiftly around the big room. He knew he might be about to die, but he could not go back now. In the shadows, he found the stooping man.
    “This is him,” he said. “He’s tonsured like a priest, but this is him.” He’d heard there were cutpurses and other rogues in Paris who tonsured themselves in the hope of being tried by the protective Church courts instead of the harsher provost. He assumed this fellow must be one of them.
    “Connard!”
Le Sourd called out to the stooping man. “Let this gentleman search you.”
    The stooping man submitted. Guy de Cygne found nothing.
    “This man of God has been here all day,” declared Le Sourd. “But I can think of others in the quarter who resemble him. It must have been one of them.” He paused. And now his voice became soft and dangerous. “I hope you will not call me a liar, monsieur.”
    Guy de Cygne had been made a fool of. He knew it and they knew it. But there could be no mistaking Le Sourd’s meaning: call him a liar in this den of iniquity, and he’d be dead.
    Yet he must retain some honor.
    “I have no reason to call you a liar,” he answered calmly. He moved carefully to a place where he could draw his sword and use it. If they attacked him, he could probably kill two or three before they brought him down. The men in the room noticed, but nobody moved.
    And now Le Sourd had an idea. He glanced at his son, who was watching carefully. Richard knew that his father’s word was law. He knew thathis father could kill this young noble if he chose. This was his father’s power.
    Should he show the boy something even better? Should he humiliate this noble, make him apologize to the stooped man before he left? The young noble might refuse, in which case he’d have to kill him. Or he might accept and leave with his tail between his legs. But either way, it was a petty gesture, unworthy of a father who, in his own way, still wanted to be a hero to his son.
    No. He would show the boy his father’s magnificence. For wasn’t he a monarch in his own small kingdom? And weren’t the great nobles men like himself, but on a larger scale?
    “Perhaps I may be able to help you, monsieur. I invite you to sit at my table.”
    Guy de Cygne stared at him. This was obviously a trap. He’d be unable to see behind him, or to draw his sword. The quickest way to get his throat cut. Le Sourd read his thoughts.
    “You are my guest, monsieur, and under my protection. It would be an insult to refuse me.”
    Still de Cygne hesitated. But then the scholarly-looking man sitting on Le Sourd’s right came to his aid.
    “You may safely sit, sir,” he said in a voice that was clearly educated. “And I advise you to do so.”
    Thinking that this might be the last thing he did, Guy de Cygne sat down in the place offered, opposite Le Sourd, with half the tavern behind him.
    Le Sourd ordered his son, like a young squire, to pour their guest a goblet of wine.
    “I am Jean, called Le Sourd,” he introduced himself. “This gentleman”—he indicated the scholar—“is my friend Master François Villon. He is a notable poet, his uncle is a professor at the university”—he grinned—“and he has twice been banished for murder.”
    “Which I did not commit,” said the poet.
    “Which he did not commit,” Le Sourd continued. “So you see,