te beste garde sa pel,'

or, as a greater poet than Francois Villon has said, Skin for skin, all
that a man hath will he give for his life. Whose hide you guard, your
own or another's, I don't know and don't care. Mine was that of bare
life, and there you sit and look disgust at me as if to cling fast to
this good gift of God which comes to a man but once were a sin. And
what are you doing in Amboise? No!" he interrupted himself hastily,
emphasizing the negative with a rapid gesture of both hands, "don't
tell me. If there is one thing more dangerous than knowing too little
it is knowing too much. Tell me, rather, what you want me to do for
you and tell me nothing more."

"Gain me a footing in the Chateau."

"I can open the doors, but the footing you must gain and hold for
yourself. I warn you Amboise is well guarded. Oh! not with pikes,
cross-bows, and such-like useless things in which our beloved King puts
his faith, but by eyes that see and hearts that love, and so Amboise is
a hard nut to crack. But your teeth are strong, and if the good God
had made no peach stones there would be no peaches, and, my faith!
peaches are worth the eating."

He drew a long breath and sat silent, the horn mug, which he had again
filled and emptied, tilted against his thigh. A smile flickered his
loose mouth, and the full bright eyes, turned toward the vacancy of the
empty fireplace, were sparkling with reminiscences.

And who should have reminiscences if not Francois Villon? There was
not such another judge of peaches in all France, no such authority upon
their eating, and few who had broken more teeth over their stones. The
smile broadened into a soft chuckle, laughter deepened into puckers the
many wrinkles of his crow-footed temples, and he wagged his grey head
in the warm appreciation of a happy memory. Dipping a finger-tip into
a pool of spilt wine he wrote on the table reflectively, and as La
Mothe watched his leering face he understood Commines' outspoken
contempt of this old man unashamed of his shamefulness.

"Peaches," he said, scratching his chin with a wet forefinger; "my
faith! yes! I have climbed walls for them, robbed gardens of them,
found them in market baskets--the gutter even. What matters where they
come from so long as the cheek is warm, the bloom fresh, the skin
smooth, and the sweetness full in the mouth. And where are they now?
Aye! aye! 'Where are the snows of Yester Year?' My young friend