Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 109 June to November 1904 . of tiny wrinkles,wax white, and his lower lip, puckeredby the scar of his wound, protruded inan eternal grimace. As Catherine lookedat him, his faded eyes, half covered withblue film, shifted uneasily, and with ajerk he glanced backward over his shoul-der. The movement started a coughtearing at his throat. Holy Macaire! said he. I thoughtHenri Cousin, the executioner, was atmy heels. Why do you stare so, lass?Have you anything to eat? I am fam-ished, Catherine. Silently she brought him meat andwine. He fell upon it wolfishly. Hea
Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 109 June to November 1904 . of tiny wrinkles,wax white, and his lower lip, puckeredby the scar of his wound, protruded inan eternal grimace. As Catherine lookedat him, his faded eyes, half covered withblue film, shifted uneasily, and with ajerk he glanced backward over his shoul-der. The movement started a coughtearing at his throat. Holy Macaire! said he. I thoughtHenri Cousin, the executioner, was atmy heels. Why do you stare so, lass?Have you anything to eat? I am fam-ished, Catherine. Silently she brought him meat andwine. He fell upon it wolfishly. Heate with his front teeth, like a sheep. When he had ended, Catherine cameto him and took both his hands in hersand lifted them to her lips. God, God,God! she sobbed, and her voice was thevoice of an old woman. Francois pushed her away. Then hestrode to the mirror and regarded it in-tently. With a snarl he turned about. Yes, said he, you killed Francois deMontcorbier as surely as Montcorbierkilled Sermaise. Eh, Holy Virgin! thatis scant cause for grief. You made. VILLON THE SINGER FATE FASHIONED TO HER LIKING IN NECESSITYS MORTAR. 709 Frangois Villon. What do you think ofhim, lass? She echoed the name. Heart of God! You have not heardof Francois Villon? The Rue has not heard of Frangois Vil-lon? Pigs, pigs, that dare not peer outof their sty! Why, I have capped verseswith the Duke of Orleans. The verystreet-boys know my Ballad of the Wom-en of Paris. Not a drunkard in therealm but rants my Orison for MasterCotards Soul when the bottle King himself hauled me out ofMeung gaol last September, swearing thatin all France there was not my equalat a ballad. And you have never heardof me! Once more a fit of coughingchoked him. She gave him a womans answer: Ido not care if you are the greatest lordin the kingdom or the vilest thief thatsteals ducks from Paris Moat. I loveyou, Frangois. For a long time he stood silent, blink-ing, peering into her love-lit face almost
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