Paris: The Novel

he said, “I may be able to help you there.”

    It took only a few moments for Guy to explain what he required. One of the party, a young squire, volunteered to go with him. Then, leaving the others in the market, Guy and the young squire set out.
    They moved swiftly and by the most direct way, to a street where they could see the door of the Rising Sun. They hadn’t long to wait. Having taken a more circuitous route, the stooped man appeared from an alley, and having glanced behind him furtively, went in through the tavern door.
    Guy gave him time to get well inside, and then, keeping the squire with him, he strolled casually to the tavern and opened the door.

    Jean Le Sourd was in a good mood. He sat with his son beside him at his table, on which the leather purse had just been placed. He poured out the gold and silver coins and quickly reckoned. Thirty francs’ worth. He scooped the money back into the purse, and nodded to the stooping man.
    “You’ll get your share,” he said.
    “How much?”
    “Whatever I give you,” said Le Sourd sharply. “Sit down.”
    As the stooped man was about to turn away, there was a movement atthe door, and Le Sourd looked up in surprise to see the fair-haired young noble who’d come there three months ago enter with a youth.
    Was it possible the stooped man had stolen from him again? He looked inquiringly at the cutpurse, who gave a shrug which said, “I’ve no idea.”
    De Cygne was looking at him and smiling.
    “I hoped I’d find you here,” he said. “I am in Paris only another day.” He paused. “You said I was welcome at your table. Is the offer still good?”
    Le Sourd kept his eyes on him thoughtfully, at the same time taking the purse off the table and placing it at his feet.
    “Of course.” He glanced at the door, and one of his men slipped out.
    De Cygne turned to the youth.
    “Go to my father and say I shall return in an hour or two. Tell him I am dining with friends.”
    He advanced toward the table, gave a friendly nod to young Richard, and addressed his host again.
    “I have not forgotten your kindness to me, you see. And I came to tell you my good fortune. I was married, two days ago, here in Paris.”
    “Ah.” Le Sourd nodded. “To the heiress.”
    “It turns out she is an angel. I am taking her down to our poor manor this week.”
    “An angel of mercy. The fields will rejoice.”
    “No doubt. May I sit down?”
    The man at the door came back in and signaled that the coast was clear, and the visitor had come alone.
    “Of course.” Le Sourd smiled expansively. “Wine for our friend,” he called.
    It seemed he could relax a little. This show of courtesy was more than he’d expected, but one never knew with these nobles. He gave his son a look that told him to take note of this courtesy to his father.
    “Master Villon is not here?” de Cygne asked.
    “No, monsieur. He is away.”
    So they talked of this and that. De Cygne could not ask Le Sourd much of what he’d been doing, since he’d only been robbing people. But young Richard wanted to know about the wedding, and so, without making too much of the disparity between the richness of the scene and the poverty of the tavern, he was able to describe the bright clothes of the men and women, and the food. “A great haunch of venison. A boar’s headstuffed with sweetmeats, a huge pie made from—I don’t know—a hundred pigeons. Ah,” he told the boy cheerfully, “the smell of it …”
    “And wine, monsieur?”
    “All you could drink.”
    “And many guests?” asked his host.
    “I never realized,” Guy smiled, “I had so many friends.”
    “Keep your money, monsieur, that your friendships may last.”
    “I know,” Guy answered quietly. “Remember, I have been poor.” And reading the other’s thoughts: “The estate has value, of course, but not until money is spent on it.”
    They continued awhile. They discussed the doings of the king. Guy even suggested that perhaps, one of these days, he might be in a position to have the verses of Master Villon printed. And this, he noted, seemed to evoke a response of genuine enthusiasm in his host.
    And then the tavern door burst open.

    Le Sourd looked up. Through the door came a young man with a drawn sword. Moving swiftly forward he gave a loud cry: “In the name of the king, nobody move!”
    The man by the door leaped toward his back with his knife, but let out a scream as a second swordsman, coming through the door, put