in his arms, while he crooned the words of that old nurse's song which has soothed so many generations of French children to sleep, "Do, do, l'enfant do, l'enfant dormira tantôt."
"Well, mammy, your dutiful son has made a song for you to sing yourself to sleep with. I went to church the other day. Oh, on my honour, I did"—this was in reply to a startled look of surprise that flooded the old woman's face—"and a prayer came into my head—a prayer for you to say to our Lady."
The old woman kissed him fondly on the forehead.
"My love bird," she said, and as she spoke a boyish look that had long been absent from Villon's face came back to it for a moment.
"Here it is," he said. "Listen." And he whispered to her the verses he had made, while the old woman crossed herself reverentially.
Empress of Hell, I kneel and plead
You pity, by the holy birth,
The humblest Christian of the Creed;
I cannot write; I cannot read;
I am a woman poor and old,
But in the Church, where I behold
The gates of Paradise, I cry
Woman to woman, make me bold
In thy belief to live and die."
