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 Cygne.

“Master Villon is fine, is he not?”

“I agree.”

Le Sourd gazed around the room, and nodded to himself thoughtfully, then shrugged.

“This is our life,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then, after another sip of wine, he turned to his guest and the matter still in hand. “So, Monsieur de Cygne, let us return to the question of your missing pendant. Can you describe it to me?”

“It is gold. There’s a design upon it, from Byzantium, I believe. My grandmother always told me her father got it in the Holy Land.”

“I cannot tell you where this pendant is, monsieur,” said Le Sourd, “but if I make inquiries in this quarter, I may find the man who has it. But theft is like war. Whoever has your pendant will want a ransom before he yields it up.”

“I can offer a hundred francs,” said de Cygne. When one of the king’s new francs was officially the same as an old-fashioned livre, a pound of silver, it had once been a lot of money. But time and devaluation had done their work. A hundred francs was now a modest sum.

“I should think it’s worth more than that,” said Le Sourd.

“It may be, but that’s all I can afford.”

“Well then,” said his host, “I promise nothing, but let me see if I can recover it for you. I have influence in this quarter. Would this be agreeable to you?”

Guy de Cygne gazed at him. He wasn’t deceived. This rogue probably knew where the pendant was at this very moment. But if courtesy was the way to get it back, then so be it.

“You are very kind,” he said. “I should be in your debt.”