caress; the tenor of her hands was a caress; every supple curve of her alluring body caressed. She seemed to coax him, cat-like, as she whispered:
"Your voice sounds familiar, Monseigneur. Had I ever the honour to serve you?"
Villon drew away from her. He felt suddenly body-sick and soul-sick; sorry for the woman, sorry for himself.
"Who knows?" he answered. The girl laughed and turned aside.
"Who cares? What are you going to do with me?"
"Set you free, my delicate bird of prey. Those wild wings were never meant for clipping and caging. Is there anything I can do to please you?"
On the instant her enticement shifted; all her being was a tremulous entreaty.
"What has come to Master François Villon?"
"Why do you ask?"
"He was with us when we were snared last night. But he did not share our prison and he is not with us now. Does he live?"
Villon hesitated for a moment before speaking.
"He lives. He is banished from Paris, but he lives."
Huguette clasped her hands in gratitude.
