you do not speak of other wants; you say nothing of honour, of faith to God and other men, of courtesy, of love without reproach.  It may be that I am not very wise,—­and yet I think I am,—­but you seem to me like one who has lost his way and made a great error in life.  You are attending to the little wants, and you have totally forgotten the great and only real ones, like a man who should be doctoring toothache on the judgment day.  For such things as honour and love and faith are not only nobler than food and drink, but indeed I think we desire them more, and suffer more sharply for their absence.  I speak to you as I think you will most easily understand me.  Are you not, while careful to fill your belly, disregarding another appetite in your heart, which spoils the pleasure of your life and keeps you continually wretched?”

Villon was sensibly nettled under all this sermonising.  “You think I have no sense of honour!” he cried.  “I’m poor enough, God knows!  It’s hard to see rich people with their gloves, and you blowing in your hands.  An empty belly is a bitter thing, although you speak so lightly of it.  If you had had as many as I, perhaps you would change your tune.  Anyway, I’m a thief,—­make the most of that,—­but I’m not a devil from hell, God strike me dead!  I would have you to know I’ve an honour of my own, as good as yours, though I don’t prate about it all day long, as if it was a God’s miracle to have any.  It seems quite natural to me; I keep it in its box till it’s wanted.  Why, now, look you here, how long have I been in this room with you?  Did you not tell me you were alone in the house?  Look at your gold plate!  You’re strong, if you like, but you’re old and unarmed, and I have my knife.  What did I want but a jerk of the elbow and here would have been you with the cold steel in your bowels, and there would have been me, linking in the streets, with an armful of golden cups!  Did you suppose I hadn’t wit enough to see that? and I scorned the action.  There are your damned goblets, as safe as in a church; there are you, with your heart ticking as good as new; and here am I, ready to go out again as poor as I came in, with my one white that you threw in my teeth!  And you think I have no sense of honour—­God strike me dead!”

The old man stretched out his right arm.  “I will tell you what you are,” he said.  “You are a rogue, my man, an impudent and black-hearted rogue and vagabond.  I have passed an hour with you.  Oh, believe me, I feel myself disgraced!  And you have eaten and drunk at my table.  But now I am sick at your presence; the day has come, and the night-bird should be off to his roost.  Will you go before, or after?”

“Which you please,” returned the poet, rising.  “I believe you to be strictly honourable.”  He thoughtfully emptied his cup.  “I wish I could add you were intelligent,” he went on, knocking on his head with his knuckles.  “Age! age! the brains stiff and rheumatic.”