, my
very young friend, you have but one life, and when you drop it behind
you see that only the husks of its possibilities are left: crush the
grapes while you may and drink the wine."

"I thought," said La Mothe, "that the rascality of Francois Villon was
dead? Leave it in its grave, if you please. It is decenter buried out
of sight and does not interest me. How am I to gain entrance to
Amboise?"

Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance of carelessness, but
the unctuous complacency was wiped from his face, and the narrow eyes
and mouth showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe's disgusted
contempt.

"How, but as my friend, pupil, and protege," he replied, with evident
enjoyment of the other's discomfiture at the unwelcome association.
Then with incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery passed
from his voice and he went on bitterly, "Do you think I love my life?
Perhaps I do--at times. But not always, no, not always. You see that
fly there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt wine, the
ragout with its spices, the salad with its oil and its vinegar,
everything within reach which tickles its palate: then it rubs its
stupid head with its forelegs and trots back to the wine again.
Presently"--and Villon suited the action to the word--"a great hand
turns an empty tumbler over it and there it is: all the delights of the
world it has lost clear within sight, but out of reach--always out of
reach. That, my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blame
the fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life? Perhaps if
the great hand is merciful it draws the glass to one side, thus, and
still to one side, thus and thus and thus, until, phit! there is a
little red patch and no fly; yes, perhaps. Aye, aye, I have seen life.
But it is better for the fly to laugh as it runs round and round under
the glass than to sulk and cry its heart out for the snows of Yester
Year. God save the King!"

The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end seemed to La Mothe so
irrelevant that he sat in silent bewilderment, but in an instant
comprehension came and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shot
through the disgust.

"Perhaps the hand will lift the glass," he said, "and let the fly back
to its spilt wine and spices?"

Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. "Will that give me back my twenty years?
Bah! the palate is as stale as the spilt wine, and when the good of
life is gone life itself