And Paris was more than ever Paris in the reign of Charles the Seventh.
Her populace, gay, fickle, brave, had just cast off the yoke of the English, and were now venting their freedom from stern Saxon policing according to their own fashion.

Not the King of France, but the Lord of Misrule held the sceptre in the capital.
It was not long therefore before a band of rufflers swung round a corner arm-in-arm, taking the whole breadth of the narrow causeway with them as they came.

It chanced that their leader espied the four Scots standing in the wide doorway of the house opposite the Hotel de Pornic.
"Hey, game lads," he cried, in that roistering shriek which then passed for dashing hardihood among the youth of Paris, "here be some holy men, pilgrims to the shrine of Saint Denis, I warrant.

I, too, am a clerk of a sort, for Henriet tonsured me on Wednesday sennight.

Let us see if these men of good works carry any of the deceitful vanities of earth about with them in their purses.