at the lees of life, poor
rogue; and those fingers which once transcribed improper romances are
now agonisingly stretched upon the rack. We have no sure knowledge, but
we may have a shrewd guess of the conclusion. Tabary, the admirer, would
go the same way as those whom he admired.

The last we hear of is Colin de Gayeux. He was caught in autumn 1460, in
the great Church of St. Leu d'Esserens, which makes so fine a figure in
the pleasant Oise valley between Creil and Beaumont. He was reclaimed by
no less than two bishops; but the Procureur for the Provost held fast by
incorrigible Colin. 1460 was an ill-starred year: for justice was making
a clean sweep of "poor and indigent persons, thieves, cheats, and
lock-pickers," in the neighbourhood of Paris;[11] and Colin de Cayeux,
with many others, was condemned to death and hanged.[12]

VILLON AND THE GALLOWS

Villon was still absent on the Angers expedition when the Prior of Paray
sent such a bombshell among his accomplices; and the dates of his return
and arrest remain undiscoverable. M. Campaux plausibly enough opined for
the autumn of 1457, which would make him closely follow on Montigny, and
the first of those denounced by the Prior to fall into the toils. We may
suppose, at least, that it was not long thereafter; we may suppose him
competed for between lay and clerical Courts; and we may suppose him
alternately pert and impudent, humble and fawning, in his defence. But
at the end of all supposing, we come upon some nuggets of fact. For
first, he was put to the question by water. He who had tossed off so
many cups of White Baigneux or red Beaune, now drank water through linen
folds, until his bowels were flooded and his heart stood still. After so
much raising of the elbow, so much outcry of fictitious thirst, here at
last was enough drinking for a lifetime. Truly, of our pleasant vices,
the gods make whips to scourge us. And secondly he was condemned to be
hanged. A man may have been expecting a catastrophe for years, and yet
find himself unprepared when it arrives. Certainly, Villon found, in
this legitimate issue of his career, a very staggering and grave
consideration. Every beast, as he says, clings bitterly to a whole skin.
If everything is lost, and even honour, life still remains; nay, and it
becomes, like the ewe lamb in Nathan's parable, as dear as all the rest.
"Do you fancy," he asks, in a lively ballad, "that I had not enough
philosophy under my hood