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STORIES
STORIES
by English Authors in France
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STORIES
A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT
BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
It was late in November； 1456。 The snow fell over Paris with rigorous；
relentless persistence； sometimes the wind made a sally and scattered it in
flying vortices； sometimes there was a lull； and flake after flake descended
out of the black night air； silent； circuitous； interminable。 To poor people；
looking up under moist eyebrows； it seemed a wonder where it all came
from。 Master Francis Villon had propounded an alternative that afternoon；
at a tavern window： was it only pagan Jupiter plucking geese upon
Olympus？ or were the holy angels moulting？ He was only a poor Master
of Arts； he went on； and as the question somewhat touched upon divinity；
he durst not venture to conclude。 A silly old priest from Montargis； who
was among the company； treated the young rascal to a bottle of wine in
honour of the jest and grimaces with which it was accompanied； and
swore on his own white beard that he had been just such another irreverent
dog when he was Villon's age。
The air was raw and pointed； but not far below freezing； and the flakes
were large； damp； and adhesive。 The whole city was sheeted up。 An army
might have marched from end to end and not a footfall given the alarm。 If
there were any belated birds in heaven； they saw the island like a large
white patch； and the bridges like slim white spars on the black ground of
the river。 High up overhead the snow settled among the tracery of the
cathedral towers。 Many a niche was drifted full； many a statue wore a long
white bonnet on its grotesque or sainted head。 The gargoyles had been
transformed into great false noses； drooping toward the point。 The
crockets were like upright pillows swollen on one side。 In the intervals of
the wind there was a dull sound dripping about the precincts of the church。
The cemetery of St。 John had taken its own share of the snow。 All the
graves were decently covered； tall white housetops stood around in grave
array； worthy burghers were long ago in bed； be…nightcapped like their
domiciles； there was no light in all the neighbourhood but a little peep
from a lamp that hung swinging in the church choir； and tossed the
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shadows to and fro in time to its oscillations。 The clock was hard on ten
when the patrol went by with halberds and a lantern； beating their hands；
and they saw nothing suspicious about the cemetery of St。 John。
Yet there was a small house； backed up against the cemetery wall；
which was still awake； and awake to evil purpose； in that snoring district。
There was not much to betray it from without； only a stream of warm
vapour from the chimney…top； a patch where the snow melted on the roof；
and a few half…obliterated footprints at the door。 But within； behind the
shuttered windows； Master Francis Villon； the poet； and some of the
thievish crew with whom he consorted； were keeping the night alive and
passing round the bottle。
A great pile of living embers diffused a strong and ruddy glow from
the arched chimney。 Before this straddled Dom Nicolas； the Picardy monk；
with his skirts picked up and his fat legs bared to the comfortable warmth。
His dilated shadow cut the room in half； and the firelight only escaped on
either side of his broad person； and in a little pool between his outspread
feet。 His face had the beery； bruised appearance of the continual drinker's；
it was covered with a network of congested veins； purple in ordinary
circumstances； but now pale violet； for even with his back to the fire the
cold pinched him on the other side。 His cowl had half fallen back； and
made a strange excrescence on either side of his bull…neck。 So he straddled；
grumbling； and cut the room in half with the shadow of his portly frame。
On the right； Villon and Guy Tabary were huddled together over a
scrap of parchment； Villon making a ballade which he was to call the
〃Ballade of Roast Fish；〃 and Tabary sputtering admiration at his shoulder。
The poet was a rag of a man； dark； little； and lean； with hollow cheeks and
thin black locks。 He carried his four and twenty years with feverish
animation。 Greed had made folds about his eyes； evil smiles had puckered
his mouth。 The wolf and pig struggled together in his face。 It was an
eloquent； sharp； ugly； earthly countenance。 His hands were small and
prehensile； with fingers knotted like a cord； and they were continually
flickering in front of him in violent and expressive pantomime。 As for
Tabary； a broad； complacent； admiring imbecility breathed from his squash
nose and slobbering lips； he had become a thief； just as he might have
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become the most decent of burgesses； by the imperious chance that rules
the lives of human geese and human donkeys。
At the monk's other hand； Montigny and Thevenin Pensete played a
game of chance。 About the first there clung some flavour of good birth and
training； as about a fallen angel； something long； lithe； and courtly in the
person； something aquiline and darkling in the face。 Thevenin； poor soul；
was in great feather； he had done a good stroke of knavery that afternoon
in the Faubourg St。 Jacques； and all night he had been gaining from
Montigny。 A flat smile illuminated his face； his bald head shone rosily in a
garland of red curls； his little protuberant stomach shook with silent
chucklings as he swept in his gains。
〃Doubles or quits？〃 said Thevenin。
Montigny nodded grimly。
〃Some may prefer to dine in state；〃 wrote Villon； 〃on bread and cheese
on silver plate。 Or； orhelp me out； Guido！〃
Tabary giggled。
〃Or parsley on a golden dish；〃 scribbled the poet。
The wind was freshening without； it drove the snow before it； and
sometimes raised its voice in a victorious whoop； and made sepulchral
grumblings in the chimney。 The cold was growing sharper as the night
went on。 Villon； protruding his lips； imitated the gust with something
between a whistle and a groan。 It was an eerie； uncomfortable talent of the
poet's； much detested by the Picardy monk。
〃Can't you hear it rattle in the gibbet？〃 said Villon。 〃They are all
dancing the devil's jig on nothing； up there。 You may dance； my gallants；
you'll be none the warmer。 Whew； what a gust！ Down went somebody just
now！ A medlar the fewer on the three…legged medlar…tree！ I say； Dom
Nicolas； it'll be cold to…night on the St。 Denis Road？〃 he asked。
Dom Nicholas winked both his big eyes； and seemed to choke upon
his Adam's apple。 Montfaucon； the great； grisly Paris gibbet； stood hard by
the St。 Denis Road； and the pleasantry touched him on the raw。 As for
Tabary； he laughed immoderately over the medlars； he had never heard
anything more light…hearted； and he held his sides and crowed。 Villon
fetched him a fillip on the nose； which turned his mirth into an attack of
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coughing。
〃Oh； stop that row；〃 said Villon； 〃and think of rhymes to 'fish'！〃
〃Doubles or quits？ Said Montigny； doggedly。
〃With all my heart；〃 quoth Thevenin。
〃Is there any more in that bottle？〃 asked the monk。
〃Open another；〃 said Villon。 〃How do you ever hope to fill that big
hogshead； your body； with little things like bottles？ And how do you
expect to get to heaven？ How many angels； do you fancy； can be spared to
carry up a single monk from Picardy？ Or do you think yourself another
Eliasand they'll send the coach for you？〃