towards a warm fire, a sure and plentiful supper, a clean bed, and a
long, long sleep. Whether Jean Francois moped or made merry, and in
spite of the fact that he enjoyed his roving career and would not have
exchanged it for the throne of an Emperor or the money-bags of Croesus,
there is no doubt that he experienced the burden of an immense fatigue.
He was never quite warm enough; always a little hungry; and never got
as much sleep as he desired. A place where he could sleep his fill
represented the highest joys of Heaven to him; and he looked forward
to Death as a traveller looks forward to a warm inn where (its terrible
threshold once passed), a man can sleep the clock round. Witness the
sonnet which ends (the translation is mine):--

For thou has never turned
A stranger from thy gates or hast denied,
O hospitable Death, a place to rest.

And it is of his death and not of his life or works which I wish to
tell, for it was singular. He died on Christmas Eve, 1432. The winter
that year in the north of France was, as is well known, terrible for its
severe cold. The rich stayed at home, the poor died, and the unfortunate
third estate of gipsies, balladmongers, tinkers, tumblers, and thieves
had no chance of displaying their dexterity. In fact, they starved. Ever
since the 1st of December Jean Francois had been unable to make a silver
penny either by his song or his sleight of hand. Christmas was drawing
near, and he was starving; and this was especially bitter to him, as it
was his custom (for he was not only a lover of good cheer, but a good
Catholic and a strict observer of fasts and feasts) to keep the great
day of Christendom fittingly. This year he had nothing to keep it with.
Luck seemed to be against him; for three days before Christmas he met in
a dark side street of the town the rich and stingy Sieur de Ranquet. He