"Well, let to-morrow tell to-morrow's story. To-night I feel like a happy child in a world of make-believe. To-night we are immortal, you and I, wandering forever in this green garden under those indifferent stars, breathing this rose-scented air, spelling the secret of the world."
"You may say what you please to-morrow," she whispered, but Villon would not have it so.
"Alas, no! To-morrow I shall be mortally sober; to-night I am divinely drunk-drunk with star wine, flower wine, song wine. The stars burn my brain; the roses pierce my flesh; the songs trouble my soul. To-night, if I dared, I would ease my heart."
The girl spoke so faintly that only a lover's ears could hear the words:
"You may say what you please to-night."
Villon caught at his heart as if to keep it in the compass of his breast.
"If I were to die to-morrow, I would tell you this to-night: I love you. These are easy words to say, yet my heart fails as I say them, for their meaning is as full and musical as the Bell of Doom. Men are such fools that they have but one name for a thousand meanings, and beggar the poor love-word to base kitchen usages and work-a-day desires. But I would keep it holy for the flame which it some-
