Villon, in a remarkably bad ballad, written in a
breath, heartily thanked and fulsomely belauded the
Parliament; the ENVOI, like the proverbial postscript of a
lady's letter, containing the pith of his performance in a
request for three days' delay to settle his affairs and bid
his friends farewell. He was probably not followed out of
Paris, like Antoine Fradin, the popular preacher, another
exile of a few years later, by weeping multitudes; (1) but I
daresay one or two rogues of his acquaintance would keep him
company for a mile or so on the south road, and drink a
bottle with him before they turned. For banished people, in
those days, seem to have set out on their own responsibility,
in their own guard, and at their own expense. It was no joke
to make one's way from Paris to Roussillon alone and
penniless in the fifteenth century. Villon says he left a
rag of his tails on every bush. Indeed, he must have had
many a weary tramp, many a slender meal, and many a to-do
with blustering captains of the Ordonnance. But with one of
his light fingers, we may fancy that he took as good as he
gave; for every rag of his tail, he would manage to indemnify
himself upon the population in the shape of food, or wine, or
ringing money; and his route would be traceable across France
and Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers lamenting over
petty thefts, like the track of a single human locust.
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