 Family Theater presents Dan Dureyay, Robert Alda, and Ona Munson. And with Family Theater brings you Robert Alda and Ona Munson in Robert Louis Stevenson's classic, Lodging for the Night. To introduce the drama, your host and narrator, Dan Dureyay. Thank you, Gene Baker. Tonight Family Theater tells a story by Robert Louis Stevenson called Lodging for the Night. It concerns a man who was a baffling mixture of good and bad. Of the admirable and the infamous. He was a brilliant student and a common thief. He was a great poet whose verses are still loved today. And a rogue who was constantly in trouble with the police. This man was Francois Villon. And our story this evening is about one night in his life, a winter night. For the poor people of 15th century Paris, a night cold beyond belief. In the streets of Paris, wolves joined their howls with the quimpering of dogs. And the whistling of the wind. Within Villon's apartment, a bear attic ironically next to the gallows on Saundanee Road. Two of the Thebish crew, with whom he consorted, were passing time by rolling dice. While the poet himself, paper and quill pen in hand, stared out the window with the macabre shadows dangling from the gallows' ropes. While lords of war dined in state. Villon, close that window before we preach to death. Listen, Montini, the wind rattling the gibbets. It's got them dancing the devil's jig up there on the gallows. Dancing without a floor. Will you close that window? Dance, my gallants, dance. You'll be none the warmer. Then I'll close it myself, Villon. But, Montini, I thought you were fond of dancing. I've had enough of your jokes, Villon. It's no joke, I assure you. One day both of us will cut a caper on the road Saundanee. Some of us may not live that long. Put the knife away before you force me to draw my own. Montini, we'd rather argue with the poet than continue our game, I'm leaving. Oh, you don't, that with my money. Double or quits? Double or quits. The best of firecrows. You can't win tonight, Montini. The blank dog's on your back. While lords of war dined in state. Eating their meat off silver plates. Francois, Francois, we're in trouble. Yes, so we are. I cannot find a rhyme. Francois, you've got to get out of here. No. Oh, the landlord again, eh? Don't worry, Tabari. I'll talk him out of it. No, it's too late. He's gone for the police. Police? Did you have to write a poem to his wife? I thought it might make a reduce the rent has due. Well, it's done now. Perhaps Montini can lend you another... No, not Montini. He's been losing to Theven in all night. Then go to the tavern of the Green bottle. I'll find money somewhere. I'll meet you. But I must finish this ballot. Francois, the landlord is insane with jealousy. This time he... No, I haven't helped us. You've killed him. He was cheating. No one cheats Montini. Magnificent. Double or quits. Quiet, Vignon. Hanging job for every one of us. Hmm. Not a bad haul. We'll divide it equally. Yes. Double for us and quits for Thevenin. Stop that laughing. Get hold of yourself, Francois. I always said he was soft. Well, here's your share, Tabari. Come on, skip. I'll take care of the poet. But I can't leave him here with... This knife says you can. Don't forget, Francois. I'll meet you at the Green bottle. On your way, Tabari. I'll bolt the door after you. Now, Vignon. It's not death or dying that frightens me. Only the look on that face. An empty layer at a blank ceiling. Is that what a man lives for? You're an old woman, Vignon. Only one life is important to a man. His own. Not laughing now, are you? With this knife at your throat. You kill Thevenin. And then slit your own throat. We'll see who cuts a caper on Sandinis. Who is it? Hey, shall we dance? Help me, Vignon. You're clever. Send them away and save me. I'll give you everything. Well, that would be old woman. Vignon, please. I beg you. Use the window, Montini. I made handholds outside for just such an emergency. Landlord, you're disturbing my sleep. I'm dreaming of a new ballad. If you buy my poor dead Thevenin, I leave you my garret. It's not much, I beg you. But it's like heaven in one respect. It's thread-free. Francois Vignon was sought by the police. This time for a crime of which he was innocent. Once again, the poet was fleeing through the streets of Paris. Cold, hungry, penniless. Cautiously, he made his way toward the Green Bottle tavern. To see Tabari, the only underworld friend he trusted, Tabari would get money somehow. But as he started out of an alley way across the street from the Green Bottle, he stopped abruptly and pressed back into the shadows. Two figures stood in front of the tavern, and both spelled danger to Vignon. Montini and the police. That's an odd combination. He's up to something tricky, no doubt of it. I wonder if I dare get closer. How could Vignon always look like a character? Heaven knows I'm no saint myself. Police know that also, Montini hears. But when I saw Vignon stab that fellow over a handful of pennies, I said to myself, I said, Montini, the poet's gone mad. You'd better turn him over to the police. Rest easy, Montini. Please, you'll take care of him. Of course. Sweet, lovable Montini. Fitting my neck for his rope. A trifle, sir, a satin. So you want some money, do you lad? Only enough to buy our bakers roll, sir. Well, you shall have it. May the angels bless you. But you shall have to earn it first. That tavern across the street. There's a man inside. Scar on his right cheek. Name of Tabari. Do you have that? Yes, sir. Get him over here to me, without the police spotting him. You'll have earned yourself a nice reward. For the police, huh? Well, this is my business. You just keep that reward warm. What was his name? He'll tell you himself. He's right in there, in the doorway. Tabari. The police has stolen from the cafe. They took him the back way. Nice work, lad. I'll take my reward. In a moment. Let me finish with my friend first. Did you get your hands on any money, Tabari? Not this, sir. What about Montini? He said he would take care of you. He did. He has the police after me for Thevenin's murder. What? Look over there. In front of the tavern. What? Oh, my dirty weasel. We'll have to teach him. If I like now, Tabari, I have a more pressing problem. A place to hide. And for that, I'll need money. But everybody in Paris knows beyond the poet, no public place would be safe. And where, then? Well, some friend, Thevenin, perhaps some girl who loves you. There was one once. Then go to her. That was some time ago. It's dead. Bring it to life, Thevenin, if only for tonight. You give me too much credit. You are the poet, aren't you? Go to her, Francois. Then, perhaps by tomorrow, I'll have some money. Yeah, I cannot wait all night. What of my reward? Well, here it is, my lad, in the form of a priceless couplet by Francois Villeun. A man afraid has no conscience. Take his word, you take nonsense. What? What's all this? Where is my money? Explain things to the lad, will you, Tabari? I'm off to try to bring the dead to life. No, no, you don't. I want my... Go, go, go, Francois. I'll manage him until tomorrow. Until tomorrow, Tabari. Leave! Come that alleyway. Don't worry, Montini, we'll get him. Surround the area. We'll search it house for house. Gallows is hungry tonight, Francois. We had better be most persuasive with M'lady Catherine. M'lady looks lovely asleep. I'd almost forgotten how lovely you were. Catherine de la salle. Catherine, open your eyes. It's Francois. Let me sleep. Let me... Francois. My Francois. Yes, yes, your Francois who needs your help but deserves only your hatred. No Francois, no. I never did. I don't know. No, you know that. Catherine, Catherine, I know I have no right to ask anything from you, but... But I... But you're in trouble. Where else would you come? It's wrong for me to burn you. Tell me. I... I'm wanted for murder. It was not my doing. You must believe me. Oh, my frantic Francois. Always in some scrape. I knew that someday, well, I didn't know how or why to come back to me. But you're half-rozen. Let me get you a robe. In a way, you never left me. Whenever a new poem of yours was printed, I ran out to fetch the first copy. And when I read your ballots, I knew exactly what you were doing and how you were feeling and thinking. You see, you're the one who's been cheated these last two years. I do see. I've always seen. Here, my darling, put this robe around you. Yes, that is better. Oh, Francois, did you really think it was so easy to kill my love? Not easy, but better for you. You sound like my father. My daughter, the noble Catherine de La Celle, was not throw away her life on a scape-race poet. All the same, it's true. Oh, it is not true. Listen to me. Just yesterday, father flew into a rage. He called me obstinate, silly, romantic. And to soothe him, I permitted the announcement of my betrothal to the Prince de Gamantes. So you did relent. For a moment, I was weak. Oh, I thought I'd make another kind of life for the Prince. Until you came back tonight. Now I know that nothing can take you away again. No, Catherine, no. I never should have come here. Francois, it was meant to be this way. I'll hide you here for the night, and then in the morning we'll slip away together. Past the danger, past all... Your father is right. You're a silly, romantic little girl. And a happy one. Wake up, Catherine. You really think I'm here because I needed your help. I came to amuse myself, to pass a vacant hour. Francois, you're lying. Am I? Why do you think I left you two years ago? By the last thing in the world I want is to spend the rest of my life listening to your banalities. Oh, Francois, what you're saying, it can't be true. How gullible you are, my dear. I am no more wanted for murder than St. Oliver. Oh, I hate you. Go away. Go away. Goodbye, Catherine. And thank you for an amusing evening. You give the Prince de Gamantes my condolences. Dear Francois, could you not have chosen a better time to be gullant? Come come, this is hardly the moment for a soliloquy the police are still about. Perhaps if I can reach that alleyway without being seen. The story of my life. A continuous succession of perhaps and mishaps. Might be a ballad in that. Or later, Francois, later. Right now you've a neck to save. And by odd coincidence it's your own. A few more steps now, and I'll be... There he is, beyond! The devil! Again the chase began. He was in a cross-private gardens. Down dark, deserted streets and over stone fences. And what its melancholy end would be, the yaw knew well. Unless he found refuge. He was one man. His pursuers many. He could stay ahead of them for a while. But eventually, and then he saw a street-level window slightly ajar. It was a chance. Heaven only knew what was inside, but it was his only chance. There is only one way to go now, Francois. Forward. Into the apartment. Whoever it is that the tenant is rich. With luck perhaps a wealthy widow who would... There I am again. Perhaps. Anyway, it's quite evident that this is a man's apartment. And I'm about to meet the man. There's a light behind that drape. Let your knife be, sir. Do me no harm and I'll do you none. I have more reason. You are the trespasser. Only by necessity. You are alone? I was. I happen to be in some difficulty. Should that concern me? Well, of course. You see, I'm the greatest poet in France. Indeed. No, I'm the greatest poet in all the world. And you, sir? I am the greatest general in... Well, I'm afraid I can only claim France. After what the English did to me it all, eh? I forgive you. Ah, I see you have a fire. May I ask, poet, is it your habit to visit strangers in the middle of the night and through their windows? I am wanted by the police for a murder I did not commit. I haven't a son team in my pocket. Nowhere to hide. I hope you have as good a reason for not being in bed. I leave it to you. These toy soldiers on my desk are no old man's fancy. Within the hour, I must decide whether France is to have war or peace. Is that reason enough? I suppose it is. The king's messenger is coming here for my answer. Here? Oh, come, come. If I were trying to trap you, I would not have told you he was coming. And the police? Do you intend calling them? Let us wait and see. I may try to summon the police and you may try to murder me. That seems fair enough, I'd say. Oh, by the way, I am Angra de la Fécilée Signor de Bristoux and His Majesty's chief of staff. Ah, young man, who may you be? I am called Francois Villon, the poor master of the arts at the University of Paris. I know a little of Latin and a great deal about lockpicking. And by the way, I am very fond of wine. May I? My thanks. Some for you? Ah, thank you. I think I could almost do without the necessities of life if I could have the luxuries. You're a very obsequious servant, my lord. Ah, no servant of mine, my guest for this evening and no more. It's rude for you to stare, my lord. Do you find something odd about me? A brief moment, Villon. I thought perhaps your arrival tonight was a well-timed blessing. That from you I could obtain an idea of the people's feelings about war or peace. Ah, but no. You were not representative of the good people of France. You're mistaken. Not about me, but about yourself. You don't want to know the people's feelings. You were merely glad of a chance to delay making your inevitable decision. How dare you? As to how the people do fear. They're cold and hungry and miserable. And war would worsen a lot. It always has. And now that I've told you, my lord, does it make any difference to you? Oh, to you, Mr. Lockpicker. What the pious is about the people with me? You a thief? Yes, a thief. But in war, you soldiers call it foraging. And you make a virtue of it. That English bow on the wall, for example. All these foreign goblets. Golden, no less. I'm sure you call them trophies. But if they were found on me, they'd be called stolen goods. I took these goblets in the course of battle. Exactly what I meant. The wars are the field of honor. I told you, to a brigand, personally, I don't know. But I'm sure the farmer prefers the thief who silently steals a couple of his mutton chops to the army which arrives blowing gloriously on a trumpet and takes away the whole sheep. I'm sorry for you, young man. I hope you may still repent and change. There are few people more given to repentance than François Villon. As for change, my lord, let someone change my circumstances. A man must continue to eat if it were only that he may continue to repent. Villon, your mouth is full of subtleties and the devil has led you far astray. Now listen to me. The devil is only a very weak spirit before God's truths and his subtleties vanish at a word of true honor like darkness at morning. I learned long ago that a gentleman should live gallantly and lovingly to God and the king and his lady. But you, you are attending to the little ones and have totally forgotten the greats and real ones, like a man doctoring a toothache on judgment day. It is why you are wretched. You have no values, no sense of honor. And may God have mercy on your soul. So you think I have no sense of honor? I'm poor enough, heaven knows. But I don't go about the world making any sense of honor. But I don't go about the world making wars for golden goblets. I don't murder tens of thousands for some piece of land that belongs to others and then parade around as if I had done a great thing for my country. Oh no, no, you'll hear me out, my lord. Yes, at the expense of your sermonizing you'll hear me out. I'm a thief. I would have you know I have a sense of honor of my own better than yours. I don't pray about it as if it were a miracle to have any. Look at your gold goblets and see this knife in my belt. What did I have to do but jerk my elbow and hear you would have been with cold steel in your middle. And there would have been I skipping in the streets with an armful of gold cups. But I scorned the action. There are your goblets as safe as in a church. And there you are with your heart ticking as good as ever. And here am I ready to go out as poor as I came in. And you think I have no sense of honor. You are a rogue vion. A contemptible, useless, black-hearted rogue. You are a... Who's that? Enter. The door is open. Tell me. Are you going to turn me in? Captain Geetery of the Guard, sir, reporting to carry a message to the king. Yes, yes. Tell His Majesty I have divided the night between planning a brilliant campaign with these toy soldiers and contemplating the misery of our ruined country. And that finally we have decided for peace. Yes, my general. That is all. Oh, Captain. My lord. That vagabond over by the fire. Do you know who he is? No, sir. I do not. Well, I'll tell you. His... He's the greatest poet in the world. Well, I'll never mind his name. He's a scoundrel who deserves to be hanged. Now, off with you, Captain. The king is waiting. Yes, sir. I want you to know, vion, it is only because I despise you that I spared your life. Thank you anyway, my lord. But tell me, if I should ask what made you decide for peace... You would better go now. I suppose so. Oh, I doubt it very much, vion. I pray that somehow tonight may have enriched your meager soul. Be encouraged, general. My thanks for the wine. God pity you. So, vion went back into the streets. The cold night was ending. The police hunt slowly dissipating. And for the moment, vion was safe. Safe for more ballads. And for more impudent villainies. Morning found him waiting in a doorway across from the green bottle. His cape still wrapped around him as when he left the general's apartment. Please, sir. Have mercy. A triforce. A someteam. Oh, thank you, sir. Here, lad. Oh, thank you, sir. Oh, it's you. Please! Easy, easy, my boy. I've come back to give you your reward. Here, see what I have inside my cape for you. A handsome goblet. Naturally. You stole it! No, no, no. It's a trophy. Take it honorably on the field of battle. Take it along, lad. It'll bring you a nice price at the pawn shop. And though I doubt it very much, I pray that somehow it will enrich your meager soul. What vion most needed in his desperate search for refuge? In fact, in his very life was not a place of hiding but the security of a home. For all of us, there's no security like the security of a happy home. And what's the chief source of that security? It's prayer. Daily family prayer. Prayer that supplies a foundation for all the relationships within the home that brings peace and love and understanding to the family circle that makes the homes of our day strong against all the forces that threaten to disrupt them. Prayer which welcomes God into the home and acknowledges the dependence of all its members upon him. That is the mortar and the timber and nails that make a house, a home. That is security. Again, we remind you that the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Family Theatre has brought you Robert Alder and Honamundson in Lodging for the Night, with Dan Durrier as your host and editor. Others in our cast were Tyler McVeigh, Charles Russell, Robert Griffin, Ed Holden, Robert Bruce, Jeff Silver and Raymond Burr. This adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson's familiar classic was written by Andrew Michaels, with music composed and conducted by Henry Mancini and was directed for Family Theatre by Jaime Del Valle. These Family Theatre broadcasts are made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program, by the mutual network which has responded to this need and by the hundreds of stars of stage, screen and radio who have so unselfishly given of their time and talent to appear on our Family Theatre stage. To them and to you, our humble thanks. This is Gene Baker expressing the wishes of Family Theatre that the blessings of God may be upon you and your home. And inviting you to join us next week at this time when your Family Theatre will present Lloyd Nolan, Betty Lin and John Howard in another of Stevenson's classics, The Black Arrow. Join us, won't you? This is the world's largest network, the Mutual Broadcasting System.