The Line of Love. Dizain des Mariages

'O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone! 
O Grace of her, that hath no grace for me! 
O Love of her, the bit that guides me on 
To sorrow and to grievous misery! 
O felon Charms, my poor heart's enemy! 
O furtive murderous Pride! O pitiless, great 
Cold Eyes of her! have done with cruelty! 
Have pity upon me ere it be too late!

'Happier for me if elsewhere I had gone 
For pity—ah, far happier for me, 
Since never of her may any grace be won, 
And lest dishonor slay me, I must flee. 
'Haro!' I cry, (and cry how uselessly!) 
'Haro!' I cry to folk of all estate, 
'For I must die unless it chance that she 
Have pity upon me ere it be too late.

'M'amye, that day in whose disastrous sun 
Your beauty's flower must fade and wane and be 
No longer beautiful, draws near,—whereon 
I will nor plead nor mock;—not I, for we 
Shall both be old and vigorless! M'amye, 
Drink deep of love, drink deep, nor hesitate 
Until the spring run dry, but speedily 
Have pity upon me—ere it be too late!

'Lord Love, that all love's lordship hast in fee, 
Lighten, ah, lighten thy displeasure's weight, 
For all true hearts should, of Christ's charity, 
Have pity upon me ere it be too late.'

Then from above a delicate and cool voice was audible. 'You have mistaken the window, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Ysabeau de Montigny dwells in the Rue du Fouarre.'

'Ah, cruel!' sighed Francois. 'Will you never let that kite hang upon the wall?'

'It is all very well to groan like a bellows. Guillemette Moreau did not sup here for nothing. I know of the verses you made her,—and the gloves you gave her at Candlemas, too. Saint Anne!' observed the voice, somewhat sharply; 'she needed gloves. Her hands are so much raw beef. And the head-dress at Easter,—she looks like the steeple of Saint Benoit in it. But every man to his taste, Monsieur de Montcorbier. Good-night, Monsieur de Montcorbier.' But, for all that, the window did not close.

'Catherine—!' he pleaded; and under his breath he expressed uncharitable aspirations as to the future of Guillemette Moreau.

'You have made me very unhappy,' said the voice, with a little sniff.

'It was before I knew you, Catherine. The stars are beautiful, m'amye, and a man may reasonably admire them; but the stars vanish and are forgotten when the sun appears.'

'Ysabeau is not a star,' the voice pointed out; 'she is simply a lank, good-for-nothing, slovenly trollop.'

'Ah, Catherine—!'

'You are still in love with her.'

'Catherine—!'

'Otherwise, you will promise me for the future to avoid her as you would the Black Death.'

'Catherine, her brother is my friend—!'

'Rene de Montigny is, to the knowledge of the entire Rue Saint Jacques, a gambler and a drunkard and, in all likelihood, a thief. But you prefer, it appears, the Montignys to me. An ill cat seeks an ill rat. Very heartily do I wish you joy of them. You will not promise? Good-night, then, Monsieur de Montcorbier.'

'Mother of God! I promise, Catherine.'

From above Mademoiselle de Vaucelles gave a luxurious sigh. 'Dear Francois!' said she.

'You are a tyrant,' he complained. 'Madame Penthesilea was not more cruel. Madame Herodias was less implacable, I think. And I think that neither was so beautiful.'

'I love you,' said Mademoiselle de Vaucelles, promptly.

'But there was never any one so many fathoms deep in love as I. Love bandies me from the postern to the frying-pan, from hot to cold. Ah, Catherine, Catherine, have pity upon my folly! Bid me fetch you Prester John's beard, and I will do it; bid me believe the sky is made of calf-skin, that morning is evening, that a fat sow is a windmill, and I will do it. Only love me a little, dear.'

'My king, my king of lads!' she murmured.

'My queen, my tyrant of unreason! Ah, yes, you are all that is ruthless and abominable, but then what eyes you have! Oh, very pitiless, large, lovely eyes—huge sapphires that in the old days might have ransomed every monarch in Tamerlane's stable! Even in the night I see them, Catherine.'

'Yet Ysabeau's eyes are brown.'

'Then are her eyes the gutter's color. But Catherine's eyes are twin firmaments.'

And about them the acacias rustled lazily, and the air was sweet with the odors of growing things, and the world, drenched in moonlight, slumbered. Without was Paris, but old Jehan's garden-wall cloistered Paradise.

'Has the world, think you, known lovers, long dead now, that were once as happy as we?'

'Love was not known till we discovered it.'

'I am so happy, Francois, that I fear death.'

'We have our day. Let us drink deep of love, not waiting until the spring run dry. Catherine, death comes to all, and yonder in the church-yard the poor dead lie together, huggermugger, and a man may not tell an archbishop from a rag-picker. Yet they have exulted in their youth, and have laughed in the sun with some lass or another lass. We have our day, Catherine.'

'Our day wherein I love you!'

'And wherein I love you precisely seven times as much!'

So they prattled in the moonlight. Their discourse was no more overburdened with wisdom than has been the ordinary communing of lovers since Adam first awakened ribless. Yet they were content, who, were young in the world's recaptured youth.

Fate grinned and went on with her weaving. 

3. 'Et Ysabeau, Qui Dit: Enne!'

Somewhat later Francois came down the deserted street, treading on air. It was a bland summer night, windless, moon-washed, odorous with garden-scents; the moon, nearing its full, was a silver egg set on end— ('Leda-hatched,' he termed it; 'one may look for the advent of Queen Heleine ere dawn'); and the sky he likened to blue velvet studded with the gilt nail-heads of a seraphic upholsterer. Francois was a poet, but a civic poet; then, as