Paris: The Novel

merchant family, and Guy’s parents had been well satisfied with the dowry offered. But his father had left Guy a choice. “Go to Paris and meet the girl,” he’d instructed. “If you truly dislike each other, we’ll call it off. Although,” he added, “I’ve known couples who got on perfectly well for years without liking each other in the least.” He shrugged. “However, I suppose you may as well like each other at first.” Guy was due to meet the girl the following day.
    “Your bride is noble?” asked Le Sourd.
    “She is of a merchant family,” de Cygne said quietly. His lack of enthusiasm was evident.
    Villon, who’d been listening carefully, shook his head.
    “Take care, young man,” the poet cautioned. “This is Paris, not the countryside. Do not despise the Third Estate.” Of the Three Estates that the kings of France occasionally summoned to advise them and vote them taxes, the first two, the nobles and the Church, had traditionally been more important. But times had changed. “Even back in the days of Crécy and Poitiers,” Villon continued, “don’t forget that Étienne Marcel, the city provost and leader of the merchants and artisans, practically ruledParis. It was he who made the great ditch and ramparts that became the new wall. Even the king had cause to fear him. Today, the richest merchants live like nobles, and you despise them at your peril.”
    “It is true,” Le Sourd said quietly, “but I have a feeling that Monsieur de Cygne would rather marry a woman of noble birth.”
    And Guy de Cygne blushed.
    Le Sourd glanced up at his son. Young Richard was taking everything in, that was clear. He was learning about the world. He had seen a noble blush from embarrassment, and now he should see his father save the noble further embarrassment by changing the subject. And amazed at his own fineness, Le Sourd now turned to the poet, like a king in his court, and said: “Give us one of your verses, Master Villon.”
    “As you like,” said the poet. He reached down into a leather satchel at his feet and drew out some sheets of paper on which long columns of verse could be seen in his spiky, scholarly hand. “Last year,” he explained, “I finished a long poem called ‘The Testament.’ It has several parts. Here is a pair of ballads from it.”
    The first was a short, clever ballad asking what had become of the classical gods, of Abelard and Héloïse, and even Joan of Arc. It was simple, but elegant, and a little melancholy as it echoed the passing of time. At the end of each verse came the haunting refrain: “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”
    Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?
    The second was similar in form, and spoke of the vanished rulers of the earth, not without humor. Where was the famous Pope Callixtus, the king of Scots, the Bourbon duke; where was the worthy king of Spain, of whom he did not know the name? And again, with each verse, a refrain: “And where is mighty Charlemagne?”
    “Excellent,” said his host. “And is there anything new?”
    “I have started something. Some fragments so far.” He shrugged. “I hope to finish it before my ruin.”
    Frères humains qui après nous vivez
    N’ayez les cœurs contre nous endurcis
    Car, si pitié de nous pauvres avez
    Dieu en aura plus tôt de vous mercis
    Brothers who are alive today, when we
    are gone, do not be hard, but pity us
    Beg God’s forgiveness for us now, that He
    may sooner pity you, when you are dust.
    It was a poem about a group of men in jail, awaiting execution. He had written only a couple of verses so far. But as he read them, a strange quiet fell over all the men listening. For it was a fate, like as not, that awaited themselves one day, and his words were sad, and dark, yet full of pity.
    And as Guy de Cygne heard Villon recite his verses, he could not help being struck by the haunting melody in them. Whoever he might be, this fellow was clearly a scholar, yet one who lived with murderers. He might be a thief himself, yet he could write poetry that moved the other thieves.
    When Villon was done, there was a brief silence.
    “Master Villon,” said Le Sourd, “your poems should be printed.”
    “I agree,” said the poet with an ironic smile, “but I can’t afford it.”
    “Could your uncle the professor help?”
    “He can tolerate me, occasionally. That is all.” Villon shrugged. “It is my fault.”
    Le Sourd nodded, took a long sip of his wine, then turned to de