A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT, By Robert Louis Stevenson

It was late in November, 1456.  The snow fell over Paris with rigorous, relentless persistence; sometimes the wind made a sally and scattered it in flying vortices; sometimes there was a lull, and flake after flake descended out of the black night air, silent, circuitous, interminable.  To poor people, looking up under moist eyebrows, it seemed a wonder where it all came from.  Master Francis Villon had propounded an alternative that afternoon, at a tavern window:  was it only pagan Jupiter plucking geese upon Olympus? or were the holy angels moulting?  He was only a poor Master of Arts, he went on; and as the question somewhat touched upon divinity, he durst not venture to conclude.  A silly old priest from Montargis, who was among the company, treated the young rascal to a bottle of wine in honour of the jest and grimaces with which it was accompanied, and swore on his own white beard that he had been just such another irreverent dog when he was Villon’s age.

The air was raw and pointed, but not far below freezing; and the flakes were large, damp, and adhesive.  The whole city was sheeted up.  An army might have marched from end to end and not a footfall given the alarm.  If there were any belated birds in heaven, they saw the island like a large white patch, and the bridges like slim white spars on the black ground of the river.  High up overhead the snow settled among the tracery of the cathedral towers.  Many a niche was drifted full; many a statue wore a long white bonnet on its grotesque or sainted head.  The gargoyles had been transformed into great false noses, drooping toward the point.  The crockets were like upright pillows swollen on one side.  In the intervals of the wind there was a dull sound dripping about the precincts of the church.

The cemetery of St. John had taken its own share of the snow.  All the graves were decently covered; tall white housetops stood around in grave array; worthy burghers were long ago in bed, be-nightcapped like their domiciles; there was no light in all the neighbourhood but a little peep from a lamp that hung swinging in the church choir, and tossed the shadows to and fro in time to its oscillations.  The clock was hard on ten when the patrol went by with halberds and a lantern, beating their hands; and they saw nothing suspicious about the cemetery of St. John.

Yet there was a small house, backed up against the cemetery wall, which was still awake, and awake to evil purpose, in that snoring district.  There was not much to betray it from without; only a stream of warm vapour from the chimney-top, a patch where the snow melted on the roof, and a few half-obliterated footprints at the door.  But within, behind the shuttered windows, Master Francis Villon, the poet, and some of the thievish crew with whom he consorted, were keeping the night alive and passing round the bottle.